Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  “Carter!”

  I don’t snatch her arm in time. Her tipsiness must’ve been an act, because she weaves through the crowd and to the other side of the bar like a snake through the weeds, and before I inhale for a second screech of CARTER! she’s at Ash’s side.

  Lip-reading is an under-utilized talent. I wish I had the goods, but I don’t, so all I can do is clutch my beer and study any social tells between them from across the room.

  I’m not so good at those, either.

  Ash nods, a half-smile on his lips, and orders another shot. Carter, very sternly, starts wagging a finger at him. Easton, a leaner, darker version of Ash with no tattoos, pats Ash on the back as in, I got him, girl. Don’t you worry.

  Oh, God. Oh, shit. She’s telling Ash that she’ll bite off his penis if he goes near me.

  See what I mean? Worst wing-woman ever to have winged.

  Ash flashes his teeth, then tips the shot in acquiescence at Carter before swigging it. When the glass smacks against the wood, his eyes lock onto mine. They hold me whole.

  It’s too dark to make out their color, but when a predator stares at you from a corner, irises as black as their intent, hue doesn’t matter.

  Everything, from my toes to the roots holding my hair onto my head, tingles under his watch. I push my glasses further up my nose as a way to curb the bundle of nerves coursing through my body.

  His attention breaks away, back to Carter. My ears pop, my heart takes its place back in my chest, and the room has sound again.

  Carter turns my way, blows a kiss and waves, then leaves the bar. She doesn’t come back to me because she knows I’ll rip out a good chunk of her hair for daring to say to Asher what I think she just said.

  Sighing, I finish my beer and mentally pep-talk myself into going over there and fixing whatever Carter has done. I’m my own woman. I have opinions. And humor. I can brush aside my best friend’s protectiveness with a guffaw and a good joke, pretending I’m not talking to the hottest man ever to have stepped foot on this side of the planet. Be the quirky, cute side-kick that everybody likes.

  I’ve been doing it my whole life.

  My phone sits in my purse, silent, but I know the missed call is there. It’s always there—the reminder of my past, the horror I can’t shake … the one I don’t deserve to forget.

  Thirteen minutes. That’s all it took to change my life for the worse. To end my senior year of high school, force me to another school, another state, and to start college as the new, improved, Sophie Addison, who doesn’t give a damn about boys and has a past full of adventure and men, no nightmares allowed.

  It’s worked pretty well, up until now, when I can feel the bags of lies piling up underneath my eyes. The weight of a changed person is a lot to carry, especially for almost ten years.

  When I look up from the foamy depths of my drink, I find Ash staring at me again, reigniting the swirl in my gut. I gulp.

  He beckons me with a finger, and like Persephone to Hades, I go without thought. Without consequence.

  The elbows and spilling drinks, the shouts and claps, the pounding music, culminate into the pulse inside my body, keeping me alive, propelling me forward.

  It’s like, without Carter, I’ve become untethered, the anchor that kept me on the opposite side of the room releasing, and now I’m nothing but a magnet being drawn to its mate.

  Hold it together, Soph. He sees you as his best buddy’s girlfriend’s friend. Too convoluted to be sexy. He’s only ensuring you’re close by so he can keep a close watch.

  In other words, boring. He sees me as boring.

  Easton turns as I get close, making room for me to sandwich between them.

  “Hey there,” Easton says, his face all angles and pensive thought.

  Of all Locke’s friends, Easton’s the quietest, with bright, copper eyes. I’ve often wondered what he thinks of me, or Carter and Locke’s pairing, or evolution, or the secrets of the universe. He emotes practically nothing.

  “Sophie.”

  The sound of my name from Ash’s throat flattens my shoulders and throws my thoughts. It gives easier access for the goosebumps to spread.

  “Hey,” I say, all cavalier and cool. “Carter left, but I figured I’d hang out here for a while. Give her and Locke some time alone.”

  “You fly back to Florida tomorrow morning, right?” Ash leans an elbow on the bar, his body angled toward mine. This close, I catch the tattooed dragon scales trailing up his arms, the flames, the eyes hidden throughout like hidden souls, all the way up to his neck. This close, his irises are the color of deep night.

  “Yeah,” I reply. Such an awesome response.

  “And you’ve been staying in their tiny apartment, with a one-and-a-half-year-old, for a week?”

  “Uh-huh. They have a couch.” God. I need another drink.

  Ash smiles, and up close the wattage nearly kills me. How are women not flocking around these two?

  “Next time,” he says, his attention cutting to the heart of me, “You should stay at my place. You’d at least have room to walk.” Ash adds, with devilish precision, “or maybe not.”

  Easton emits a warning growl, which Ash and I ignore. I can’t keep my eyes off him.

  “Your place?” I say. “I’d have room to run marathons.”

  Ash’s lips quirk, whatever heavy heat laying between us lightening with my joke. “Damn straight. Drink?”

  “Sure.”

  Breathe, I think to myself. I’m all for witty repartee, but Ash holds me in a bind unlike any other dude I’ve flirted with in a bar. I know why.

  Because what he says, he means, and no best friend’s girlfriend, no warning, will heed him.

  If I want him, he’s mine.

  I cover up my terror by pushing my glasses up my nose.

  “What’s your poison?” Ash asks.

  You. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

  He raises a single brow. “Going after the hard stuff?”

  Oh, yes. “You think I can’t take it?”

  He laughs, and it’s a wonderful, low, pleasurable sound. I’m happy no other women are around. I don’t care about the sideways glances they’re giving me, the muttering into the ears of their friends.

  “Darling, you can take it,” he says as he lifts a finger to the bartender. “I’m only wondering how you’ll handle it.”

  I summon my inner-vixen, the one who dominates at flirting and isn’t afraid of hot guys and even hotter attention. I smile. “Wait and see.”

  Easton groans, but he won’t say a word about this. If anything, his silence is golden. Just ask his friends.

  My secrets, however, are creatures entirely different from these men. Things not even Carter knows. Ghosts I won’t share with anyone. One of them, I’m hiding right now. And pray, no matter where the night takes me, I don’t let it come to light.

  Asher sets down a shot glass brimming with golden liquid.

  “I don’t drink draft beer,” he says as explanation. As if I hadn’t catalogued everything he’d been doing and drinking all frickin’ night.

  With Ash’s undivided focus spotlighting my soul, I’m almost sure he’ll read my weaknesses. But I throw my blonde hair back, fingers tangling lightly in the curls, and flick him a smile before downing the liquor.

  His answering grin is slow and wicked.

  “To your last night in NYC,” he says before finishing his own.

  I’m trying to cover up my secret, but the heat between my legs won’t let me. The damp, sparkling need pools at the center and threatens to drown me if I don’t finally let it loose.

  I glance at Ash and lick my lips. He notices and trails an inked finger with Greek lettering down my arm.

  If I want him, he’s mine.

  Except, I’m not sure if he’ll want me. Not the real Sophie Addison, anyway. So, I continue to pretend, and lean into his heart-palpitating touch.

  What Ash doesn’t know—will never, ever realize—is that I’m a virg
in.

  A boring, awkward, lying virgin.

  And I’m tired of playing pretend.

  2

  Ash

  Nerds are cute.

  I’ve bedded a few—more than a few. Librarians, scholars, trust fund chicks with PhD’s, hackers, gamers … really, the net on smart chicks is wide. And something a lot of guys underestimate.

  Not me.

  I like my women geniuses, because not only can you get into some seriously stimulating pillow talk, they know exactly how to pleasure my cock.

  Did they study it in a textbook? Maybe. Take a class on it? Doesn’t matter, because I give them an A++.

  My takeaway is this: When you’re in a bar, looking to score, don’t focus on big tits, or fake hair, or bright red lips. Go for the quiet ones, engage in conversation. See past the mirages, because I promise you, a brain in the head equals great in bed.

  Cue to right now, with little Sophie Addison hanging tight beside me, pretending that, even though her curly blonde head barely reaches past my nipples, she can play with the big boys, shot by shot.

  It’s time to cut her off, because while I love my ladies smart, I don’t take advantage of drunk women.

  “Easy does it,” I say to her, and cover her final shot glass with my palm.

  “I’m not done by far.” She slaps the back of my hand, then tries to push it off her drink, but really, it’s like a mosquito battling a hornet.

  “I think it’s time to call it,” I say. “Easton’s left, and now it’s just me and you, and I can’t promise to behave.”

  “Did you swear to Carter you would?”

  I give her a half-smile. “Maybe, but I’m not a man of my word.”

  “Good, because I’m a woman who makes her own choices.”

  “I support that.” I signal to the bartender that I want to pay my tab. “We’ll have a nightcap at my place.”

  Surprisingly, Sophie rubs her lips together. “Um.”

  “No?” I hold up my black card for the bartender but tilt my head at Sophie. “Well, like you said, you’re allowed to make your own choices. I’ll drop you off at Locke’s.”

  “That’s not what I want.”

  After a moment, the bartender slides over my card and the bill to sign. “Okay.”

  “I mean, I want to go to your place.”

  “And I want you naked. So, we both win.” I flash her another smile as I scrawl my signature, pleased to see a blush creeping just underneath the rims of her glasses.

  “You’re a cocky guy, aren’t you?”

  “Cocky, confident, same thing.” I hold out my hand. “C’mon, I’ll get us out of here.”

  She takes my hand, small and delicate in my grip, like if I squeeze too hard, I’ll break her.

  I pull her gently along, the people in front of us parting like two waves as we head to the exit. The bar’s packed, even at two AM, and since bars in the city don’t close until five, there’s still plenty of time for them to get their drinks and hook-ups on.

  My car’s idling when we step outside, the part-time chauffeur waiting to open the passenger side. It’s my favorite ride—a jet black customized 1966 Pontiac GTO, one of the most popular muscle cars in U.S. history, with a beefed-up engine and exhaust, chrome wheels, you name it. And in my more sober moments, I take it upstate and really let ‘er rip into the asphalt.

  Sophie gasps once she realizes where we’re headed amidst all the yellow taxis and hired Camrys clogging up the curb.

  “Shit, I forgot how rich you are.”

  Used to the exclamation, I bring her close to my side and say, “Told you you should’ve stayed at my place for the week.”

  “I didn’t know there was an open invite.”

  “Always, bombshell.”

  Sophie doesn’t flutter and melt at the endearment like I thought she would. Instead, she gives me a strangely sad smile, but brightens when Charlie, the chauffeur, opens the rear passenger door for her.

  “Hello, miss,” he says, then to me, “Mr. Whittaker.”

  “Charlie,” I say, and stride around the back of the vehicle until I reach the other side, then slip in beside Sophie.

  Sophie’s quiet during the drive to my place, to the extent that I’m pretty sure all we’ll be doing when we arrive is pecking each other on the cheek before turning off the light, when I feel it.

  Light little finger caresses on my thigh, so delicate as to barely be seen, but the touch spears through my jeans like hot, horny daggers. My cock stirs.

  I clasp her wrist, halting her before she gets to my goods—and I do believe that’s where she’s headed.

  “You’re sure about this?” I mutter to her, low enough that Charlie can’t hear, even though he’s duty-bound to be selectively deaf.

  Her eyes—chocolate in daylight, a delectable dark cocoa in the shadows—alight with an inner determination. “I want it to be you.”

  Whatever that means. I’m too mesmerized by her sexy innocence. “Your glasses. They’re not to come off. I want them on you the entire time.”

  Her breath picks up. “Good. Then let me go.”

  I release her wrist, allowing her free range. She doesn’t disappoint. Sophie taps her way over my pocket, playing idly with the chain I have hanging from my belt loop and attaching my wallet, and knows exactly what she’s doing. She stretches out the ache, ensuring I’m painfully hard, before she even gets to my zipper.

  Two can play, sweet girl.

  I sweep under her arm until I feel her skirt and she lets out a tiny hiss, and I can’t wait to have that mouth on me. Until then, I satiate myself by drawing back the black fabric, grazing the softness of her thigh, and finding gold.

  “Ash …” she whispers and sends a panicked glance to Charlie.

  I smile. Dance my finger-curls farther until I push aside her underwear. She writhes under my touch, unable to maintain her attention on Charlie and her pleasure at the same time. Her eyes roll to the car’s roof when my knuckle slips in.

  “Christ,” I whisper. “You’re so fucking wet.”

  She mewls, a high musical note muffled in her throat, but she grabs my forearm, pushing me deeper.

  “You want more,” I say, focused entirely on her face, the backlit city passing over her lenses in neon blurs.

  “God. Yes.”

  I lean back like this is all in a day’s work, breaking my gaze from her blush-fueled expression before I explode right in this vehicle. I stare benignly out my side of the car’s window, but my fingers work their magic furiously.

  “Mm,” she whimpers beside me. “Mm.”

  She’s cupped her hands over mine, adding to the rub, pushing my dips and glides further. She’d glue me to her pussy if she could … and I don’t mind at all.

  In fact—

  “Charlie, you taking the fastest route?”

  “Of course, sir.” Charlie doesn’t glance at the rearview mirror.

  “Good.”

  I slip another finger in.

  Tight. She’s so goddamned tight. I can’t handle being on the other side of this car much longer. I want to throw her on top of me, snap her panties in two, and ram into her while digging my fingers—still coated with her—into the back of her neck, hearing each and every note in her cries of pleasure.

  I take stock of the streets blocks we pass while driving on 9th Avenue. In a few blocks, we’ll be on mine.

  “Guess what, bombshell?” I murmur. “Soon my mouth is going to replace my hand.”

  Sophie moans. Maybe she can hear me, maybe not, but when she bucks and twists, clinging to my wrist like it’s a lifeline as she comes, I think this is the start of an excellent night.

  Charlie slows the car at the same time Sophie’s orgasm abates. With her eyes half-lidded, she turns to me, and I offer a wicked grin as I take my hand back and lick each of my fingers, one at a time. One of my all-time favorite recipes to savor.

  Those lids fly wide.

  “I’m not done with you yet,” I say, and it
comes out as a possessive, promising growl.

  Charlie opens Sophie’s side door, and with gangly, trembling legs, she pushes herself out to stand, holding onto the car’s roof for balance.

  I peel out on the other side, my cock straining against my pants. How the simple act of fingering a girl in a car has made me so rock hard, I’m not sure. I’ve done it too many times to count.

  But not with her.

  Not with Sophie and those too-large glasses hiding those wide, chocolate eyes. A girl who mainly wears plaid shirts over tank tops and ripped jeans, yet has a silky, hairless pussy underneath.

  Carter protects her friendships, but every now and then, she lets slip how cavalier Sophie is with her men, preferring one-night stands to relationships. Sophie doesn’t get her heart broken, because she doesn’t hang around long enough for someone to hold a hammer.

  Exactly my type, which is why she and I will make for some fabulous sex before parting ways, no hard feelings.

  “This way,” I say to her, all calm and gentleman-like as I cup her elbow.

  I’m gratified to feel her lean on me for balance.

  I punch in the code to the converted loft, surrounded by redbrick and wrought iron. There’s no doorman or neighbors, simply a cement-lined lobby through the glass-paneled entrance, and a single flight of stairs leading up to my apartment.

  I have the whole floor. I have the whole building.

  The cement muffles our steps, but Sophie climbs them easily with her Keds. Unlike the usual high-heeled women I have to help toddle upstairs, Sophie chooses the comfort of sneakers with her tight skirts.

  When I unlock my apartment door, Sophie presses close to my side, every contour of her breast fitting into my arm, we’re assailed with old cooking smells.

  I cut a glance to her as we enter, unsure how she’ll feel about fucking with the scent of stale garlic as our backdrop, but that’s my life as I know it, and if she doesn’t like it, I’ll fuck her on the roof.

  She lets go of my arm and sniffs delicately. “Hmm. It smells … like fettuccini alfredo?”

  I make an approving sound in my throat. “I’m trying out a few recipes for the restaurant I’m opening in a few weeks.”