Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  “Sophie!”

  She doesn’t hear me over the chaos, noises I so adored earlier but now want to quench with a powerful, godlike yell.

  “SOPH!”

  She pauses at her name, then continues forward. I push through my cooks, my chefs, my people, to get to her, annoyed with the presence of every single body part or dish that clogs the pathway.

  “Sophie, wait!”

  At last, she turns, just before the dining area, and I catch up to her.

  She lifts her chin as I come closer but says nothing. Her eyes are flat in the way that tell me she’s prepared for this goodbye.

  I open my mouth to do what she wants. To tell her she’s right, I’m no good for this, and to go back to leading the life she chooses, one she can control.

  But I don’t.

  Her gasp hits my cheek when I scoop her up, hot and fragrant with mint. It hitches when I push her against the brick wall of the kitchen awning. Her breath stops altogether when I kiss her.

  In front of everyone. Patrons and staff, the remaining oglers and fidgeting bystanders politely gazing the other way.

  Fuck private affairs and public decency.

  I press Sophie’s red-stained mouth onto mine, letting us both share the devil.

  Her lips soften beneath. They part without my coaxing. And she moans with the same amount of suppressed guilt and despair that lives inside of me, spiked with the inability to walk away.

  15

  Sophie

  Ash isn’t kind.

  He’s fierce.

  His mouth explores every part of mine, the heat of him encompassing my soul. Ash is my incubus, and he doesn’t even know it. Tasting parts of me, keeping the most delicious for his own.

  My fear is, eventually, I’ll have nothing else to offer.

  Applause and cat-calls yank me out of his vortex, and Ash pulls away. We both remember where we are, and he drops me to my feet, his chest still very warm and close. It’s tempting to bury my face in it and let him whisk me away from this embarrassment.

  Ash tugs on my hand.

  “Come on,” he says.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Away from here.”

  “But, don’t you have to close down? Isn’t there stuff—”

  “Not more important than this.”

  We depart the same way we came, back to his office. On our way, Ash lashes out instructions to his chefs and Pedro, and I notice Alan giving me the thumbs up on bouncing heels before Ash drags us into the corridor.

  “Ash, what are we doing?”

  “Honestly?” Ash turns to me, his hands gliding from my shoulders down my arms, creating a trail of shivers. “I don’t know. Do you want this?”

  His stare holds such urgency, such passion, that I know if I say yes, I’ll have the best night of my life. Ash will fuck me, this time with no secrets. We can forget our problems and drown in the pleasure of the present.

  It’s tempting. It’s a real possibility…

  That he might have already had with Stephanie.

  “I can’t get you out of my head,” Ash admits. His eyes sear into mine. “And I need to.”

  I have the oddest sense that the dark blue of his irises is the same color as his soul. Shaded, with just enough light to be human. I wonder what he hides behind them and if he’ll ever reveal what makes him the man he is.

  “You think this will bring some kind of closure?” Reflexively, my palm drifts over my stomach. “Ash, this will never…”

  He nods his acknowledgment. “I stay away because I don’t trust myself around you. There’s a respect I owe you. The decency to leave you alone, especially now. But you’re in my thoughts regardless. I still taste you, you know.”

  My lower lip trembles. I can’t look away from him.

  “Keep staring at me like that,” he says softly. “And all decency and respect goes out the window. “

  I can’t. I want to. Like the last time, it’s clear there are no strings here. We’re attracted to each other. We want to have sex.

  And I can’t help but justify … the mistake has already been made. What’s a little more risk?

  My fingers drift across his collarbone and trace dragon fire on his neck. His throat bobs underneath my touch, and his stare lingers. He’s waiting for my barest nod. He’ll ravish my body the instant I hesitate, screw the background noise.

  My lips part.

  Ash takes his chance.

  He lifts me at the same time he covers my mouth with his own. My legs wrap around his torso as he turns and bounds up the stairs with dogged determination. Ash hip-checks his office door and slams it shut with his foot, his lips never leaving mine, his tongue continuing the plunder.

  I moan, so entrenched in passion, I don’t want to open my eyes.

  My back hits the futon and his hands cup my hips, squeezing, traveling until they reach my ass, and stroking.

  I’ve never wanted my pants ripped off so badly.

  I assist in the unbuttoning, the stripping. We’re frantic as we take as little time as possible to remove any fabric between us. Ash stands and peels off his shirt, then pants, and in the soft office glow, I practically salivate as he steps out of his briefs.

  “Ash,” I whisper.

  I freeze in unclipping my bra.

  He’s pure art form. I didn’t see it last time, because it was so dark, and I was fairly drunk. His torso is completely covered in reds, greens, blacks, purples. No piece of porcelain skin shows through. He has one nipple pierced, and I vaguely remember twisting it with my fingers, pinching and pulling as I writhed beneath him, and his groans for more.

  Ash’s arms are the same shade as his torso, screaming colors and gorgeous, creature-filled eyes, tails, and claws.

  He’s a beast who demands other beasts be etched on his skin.

  Of all that is sinful…

  Ash is the man you don’t bring home to your mother. So much ink would make any parental unit scream and quake at their daughter’s utter rebellion. Until they find out he’s a billionaire. A lauded chef. An independent success story with a penthouse in Manhattan’s on-trend Chelsea neighborhood.

  Maybe that’s why he does it. I’m convinced he loves the irony.

  “Bombshell,” he utters through clenched teeth. He’s so hard and ready, he shakes. “You’ve gotta keep moving. I need my hands on your tits. Now.”

  I’m instantly wet at the demand.

  Bra slung off, I toss it—somewhere—and like a predator enjoying the kill of its prey, Ash’s body lithely covers mine, his tongue stroking my jaw, biting my chin. Hands devouring as cleverly as his mouth.

  I tip my head back, moaning for him to keep going, don’t stop, keep stroking and sensing and obliterate my conscience.

  He does.

  My thighs part without any command. His fingers dance and find. I buck before his fingers are all the way in, wanting them deeper, wanting him to fill me.

  “Not good enough, huh?” he says into my ear, chuckling.

  “I want you,” I whisper, my eyes screwed shut, my voice muttering things I never thought I’d say. “I want you inside me, right now. All of you.”

  “My wish is your command,” he says, holding my lips to his one more time, his tongue gliding promises.

  Ash pushes away only for the amount of time it takes to reach down, find a condom in the small tabletop drawer, and slide it on.

  Awed, I remain silent. The man thinks of everything, the small details, all the damned time. Being pregnant doesn’t mean we can lose all protection.

  I grab him before he lands back on top of me, nails digging into his biceps for more.

  He laughs under his breath, but his muscles quake with need. “Quite a demanding little creature, aren’t you?”

  “Now that I have you, you’re entirely mine,” I say, secretly amazed at my horniness.

  Shadows crest over his eyes. “You don’t have to demand twice.”

  In one brazen move, he’s inside me,
a single thrust pouring pleasure into my body. Ash bends to keep kissing, to mark with his teeth every spot he can reach, and I receive his brand gladly.

  One of his hands goes to the futon’s arm above my head so he can lift up and thrust harder, the pounding enunciated by each crash of the furniture into the wall.

  He’s grunting, the beast is mine, and I find the animal within myself to meet his pounds, to be his one, and the bestial part of me wants him to come first.

  I tighten my legs around his torso, clenching my muscles where his dick penetrates, and his groans gain melody.

  “Dear… fuck, Soph … don’t do that. Not if you want me—”

  “You first,” I say through gasps, holding onto him as hard as I can, since holy fuck, he’s bringing me to the edge.

  I want to win this round.

  “I … fuck…” His curses are visceral, and I smile, even though inside, I’m alight with sparks and sound.

  The back of my head hits the armrest, and we ride, hip to hip, savage in our need, until his muscles ripple under his ink, and he says, “Jesus, Sophie—”

  “Ash. Ash!” I cry and feel every part of my orgasm. It fills every space I have.

  Ash’s body jerks before he stills, falling on top of me, but maintaining enough weight as not to break a thing.

  I relax with the kind of suppleness only gifted after a truly epic orgasm—something I’m now figuring out.

  Neither of us move for a time. I don’t know how long, but it doesn’t matter, because neither of us want to. Ash’s face is buried near my neck, and his breaths are fire against my skin.

  After a few more moments, he lifts his head to regard me. Indecipherable emotion shades his stare.

  After sex is meant to be a man’s weakest hour. Isn’t that what they say? Why, then, can I not read a single conflict within him?

  His lips press against mine, surprising in their tenderness.

  When he pulls back, I try to say, “That was…”

  Even better than my first time. You make me feel like I have experience, though I have none. You turn me into a woman every time your finger beckons.

  I say none of it.

  Ash lays his forehead against mine. “I’m in such fucking trouble.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask softly.

  “I was meant to be satisfied with you after this.” Ash moves so he’s no longer inside of me. “Instead, all I want to do is stay here.”

  But you can’t.

  I don’t say that, either, since I’m well aware of the unspoken truth.

  We lie together a while longer, and I try to memorize the warmth of his skin against my naked body, how I feel comforted and less alone.

  Tracing the patterns on his forearm, I make it through an entire dragon’s tail before I succumb to slumber.

  16

  Ash

  I pretend like I’m waiting for Sophie to be in a deep sleep before I move, so I don’t wake her. My brain knows it’s a stupid excuse, since I’m enjoying the feel of her under me, her natural softness and her sweet fragrance, and I’m reluctant to leave.

  I thought, stupid fucking me, that one more time with her, another no-strings night, would get her out of my system for good. It’s my own fault, really, that I’m lying here, butt-naked, not wanting to stand.

  Standing means I have to get dressed. Walking means putting more distance between us. Closing the door is assurance that once a lock is clicked shut, it can never be reopened.

  Grunting under my breath, I lift off, stiffer than I thought I’d be, but to my surprise, I gave it my all with her. I put delicacy aside and was the exact opposite of a gentleman. I probably left bruises on her, between her thighs definitely. And as I’m carefully extricating myself, I notice red indents of bite marks on Sophie’s shoulder.

  I’m not leaving her entirely, I assure myself as I sling on my pants and undershirt. I’ll be downstairs, supervising the closing, if Sophie needs anything.

  Like always, I’ll be in the shadows, ensuring she’s taken care of. Walking into the light—like I dumbly did just now—only means I’ll hurt her.

  I can’t be the man she wants me to be. The father.

  The thought sickens my soul, and I throw on my chef’s jacket and leave it undone as I gently place a blanket on this woman’s gorgeous, flawless form, and cover her with a type of warmth I could never give.

  When I shut the door softly behind me, I lay a palm on the wood in a silent apology before taking the stairs and re-donning my asshole chef attitude.

  “Jackasses!” I shout as I burst through the corridor and into the kitchen, where my chefs are enjoying an end-of-shift beer. Every single one of the fuckers freeze at my appearance. “Drink up, because all your asses are doing a deep clean of this establishment before you’re allowed to leave.”

  If any one of them wants to make a comment about the girl I kissed under the awning, the one I took by the hand and led upstairs, my expression tells them they’ll be a corpse if they do. And the rest of them will clean up the blood.

  “Yessir,” my sous chef, Mason, says.

  And one by one, they all put down their beers and follow suit.

  By 2 AM, Apron is as spotless as its brand-new namesake, and I do a final wipe of the counters.

  My phone dings, and I grab it from the food prep counter right as it lights up.

  It’s from Sophie.

  * * *

  Hey, you seemed really busy so I didn’t say goodbye. I’m also a wimp and want to text this instead of saying it to your face. I spoke with Carter and Astor, and it turns out, Astor spends most of her time at Ben’s now. She’s offered her apartment for me to stay in until I find a flight back to Florida. I think that would be better for us. You and me, I mean. What we’re doing, it’s not going to lead to anything good. And I have someone else to think about, now. Thank you for all you’ve done. Really, thank you. But I think it’s time for me to step away and respect your wishes. Respect myself. For my own good, I don’t want to see you anymore. But I love my friends and can’t leave them yet. So, any time I come back to NYC, I’ll stay with them. I hope you can understand. Bye Ash.

  * * *

  I fall against the stainless-steel counter, rubbing the back of my neck.

  “Ah, bombshell,” I say, ignoring the ache in my heart. “I understand completely.”

  Part II

  17

  Sophie

  4 Months Later

  I steady my suitcase on its wheels and gaze around Astor’s apartment.

  Despite spending a few months back in Gainesville, and then a few weeks with my parents (finally telling them the news), Astor’s home is exactly how I left it.

  Spotless, stainless, scratchless and gray.

  The only difference is, my belly is a whole lot bigger since the last time I walked across her slate-colored hardwood floors. I’ve no doubt I’ll be waddling on top of them soon.

  I have no complaints. Astor has top-of-the-line appliances and one of the most comfortable beds I’ve ever had the pleasure of diving into. Whenever I text that I want to come back to New York, she readily gives me access to her apartment and extends her stay with Ben.

  I’m balancing my purse on her kitchen countertop when my phone rings with that awful, familiar number that I let go straight to voicemail. I focus on getting myself settled, instead, for my last visit in New York City before … before…

  Birth.

  Hard to believe it’s come up so quickly, yet here I am, almost thirty weeks pregnant, due with child in approximately thirteen weeks. I tense every time I think about it, but I’ve done everything I can in preparation. I’ve chosen my hospital, done the Maternity Ward tour, seen the nursery where the newborns are carted around in clear plastic cases. I’ve taken birthing classes, mostly with Carter in Park Slope, and first-time parent tutorials. I’ve pored over YouTube instructional videos on how to change a diaper and how to save a life of a newborn that’s choking (let’s hope it never comes t
o that). I’ve also taken CPR classes, for both adults and children.

  I’m such a freaking over-achiever.

  A terrified one.

  The single parent route doesn’t make it easier, but talking with Carter has helped. Avoiding Ash has assisted even more. When I’m in Manhattan, I make it clear to Carter and Astor I don’t want to see him. Sleeping with Ash that final time broke my heart. Running into him would only spread those fissures further behind my ribs and into my lungs, giving better access to my soul.

  I didn’t know it at the time. All I wanted was sex. To lick his body and take some of his pleasure for my own. But as soon as it was over, reality crashed down the way it usually does after a selfish act.

  I only have myself to blame. Ash doesn’t want to be a part of this baby’s life. He may want to fuck me, but that doesn’t mean love. I have such an inexperienced sex life I almost mistook one for the other, and nearly cost my future.

  Ash can’t be changed. Giving him great sex won’t make him want to stay in my life—in this baby’s life. My lime is now the size of a cantaloupe, and I’d better be growing up along with it.

  To his credit, Ash hasn’t contacted me. He’s respected my wishes and hasn’t chased me down, delivered me smoothies, or been anywhere within my presence when I’m in Manhattan. He must know when I visit, since our friend circle is the same, but there’s no sneakiness, no chance encounters, nothing.

  I don’t feel sad, per se. Though I have trouble defining the strange hollowness inside me every time I think about it.

  “You’ve arrived!”

  I turn to the front door I inadvertently left open (pregnancy brain). Carter bounds toward me, arms spread wide. She screeches to a halt once her attention travels down. “Oh my God! Look at you! You’ve doubled in size since I last saw you!”

  “Seriously, how is it possible that in three weeks, I feel like I’ve gone from running a marathon every time I need to get up and grab something, to carrying a gallon of water while running a marathon every time I need to get up and grab something,” I say, accepting her hug.