by Virna DePaul
His chest swelled: sure, he knew he was handsome and he’d had his pick of women, but to hear that from Camille Pollert? That took it to an entirely different level. “You think I’m the hottest guy in the NFL? I knew it! Don’t think I won’t be telling Kyle either; the guy needs to be taken down a peg.”
“Oh my God!” She flicked his forehead; he grinned. “Yeah, I’m attracted to you. But we can’t keep doing this. I’m hoping to be offered a job with the NFL, and I can’t jeopardize that by fraternizing with one of their stars. Beyond that, I have a child, one who already idolizes you. You like to have fun. You pretend to be only about fun. But I know that’s not all there is to you. And while we might intend to keep things casual...”
He stared at her, understanding her concerns about her job, but also marveling that his watergirl saw too much about him that he’d never intended anyone to see. She saw a man who wasn’t just a great football player or a great lover or a great joker. She saw someone who belied that façade he’d perfected over the years, and Jesus Christ, it scared him. Camille had already gotten under his skin enough without her pulling him apart, piece by piece.
He needed to respond to what she’d just said. To agree they should stop seeing each other. But damn if he couldn’t get the words out of his mouth. Looking over her shoulder, he realized with a start that there was a gazebo on her property. Why were they standing in the grass still? He’d been so distracted by playing football with her, kissing her, and talking with her that a bomb could’ve gone off and he wouldn’t have noticed. Taking her hand, he led her to the gazebo, where she sat down next to him. “I care about you, Camille.”
She smiled sadly. “I care about you, too. Maybe too much.”
Snaking his arm around her, he lifted her until she sat on his lap, facing him. Then he kissed her, nipping at her lower lip, wanting her to forget everything but the feeling of being in his arms. He didn’t want her to think about the future, or about responsibilities, or careers, or anything like that. Only this moment, these feelings, this kiss and this night.
“I heard everything you said. I don’t want to interfere with your career or do anything to hurt Emma. And because I have to concentrate on football, I’m not looking for a committed relationship. But God, I want you, Watergirl. More than I ever thought possible,” he growled against her mouth.
She smiled, and if it was possible for a smile to be both genuine and forced, that’s what it was. “I can tell you want me.” She wiggled against him, and he grew even harder underneath her. “Either that, or you have a roll of quarters in your pants.”
“A roll of quarters?” He scoffed. “Now you’re just trying to offend me.”
She giggled, then her expression grew serious. She stared at him, seeming to consider something. Then, just when he thought she was about to pull away, she kissed him, undulating against him. He slicked his tongue against hers. Wet, warmth, sweetness: he was pure sensation, with this gorgeous bundle of a woman in his arms.
“We’ve been honest with one another, and everything we’ve said tells me we shouldn’t be doing this,” she said, but it was halfhearted. She still had her arms wrapped around his neck, and she tipped her head back as he kissed the line of her throat.
“But?” he prompted.
“But I can’t seem to stop wanting you either, Heath.”
“Then don’t ask me to walk away from you. Not yet. We can be discreet yet casual. No strings. No pressure…We just remain mindful of Emma. Make sure she understands we’re just friends.”
“So we get each other out of our systems and then when the time comes, we move on?”
He had two reactions to her statements. Doubt that he could ever get her out of his system. And fear of how he’d react when it was actually time to walk away and move on. But she was staring up at him, and maybe he was just imagining that she was having those same thoughts, but because she was trying so hard to think of a way to give them more time together, time he wanted, he automatically reverted to joking mode. “Darlin’, you give me more time with you, and you’ll be the one coming. Again and again.”
“Until it’s time to move on,” she said quietly.
He hesitated then said, “Until then.”
Chapter 17
Over the next week, they saw each other often. Each time they parted, Heath would remind himself that he had to get used to the feeling of her walking away, because just as they’d agreed, the day would soon come where they’d be parting for good. But then he’d remind himself that the time hadn’t come yet, and he’d become all the more determined to enjoy the time they did have together.
One evening, he drove all the way to her house to surprise her and make a special request since Emma was at her father’s.
“I’ve been fantasizing about it ever since the night we talked in your gazebo,” he clarified, wagging his eyebrows. She blushed, obviously understanding his request immediately.
At first she was nervous of being seen by a nosey neighbor, but he kept kissing her to keep her distracted. He tongued the side of her neck, taking in that unbearably sweet taste of her, before moving to her collarbone. How was she so pretty everywhere? He kissed and nipped and bit, leaving little marks all over her shoulders and neck. He didn’t care one whit that she’d probably have to wear turtlenecks in the Georgia heat for a few weeks. He wanted to mark her. Claim her. Tell the world she was his and he wasn’t going to share.
She was just as busy, though, stroking his short hair. She wiggled and moaned and arched against him. She couldn’t be quiet, and he smirked. As long as she wasn’t talking about the future, he was fine if she made as much noise as she wanted. And thankfully, they were far enough away from any of the surrounding houses that she could moan without anything but the fireflies hearing her.
“God, Heath,” she groaned when he sucked her breast through her t-shirt. She murmured nonsense as he sucked her right nipple into his mouth before moving to the left. She kept shimmying like a dancer, and he was so hard he was afraid he’d lose it in his jeans before long.
Tipping her backwards onto the bench, Heath stripped her of her jeans, hooking his thumbs underneath the elastic of her panties and throwing those away too. He couldn’t see her in detail, but he could smell her: the heat of her sex, her arousal. Parting her folds, he found her soaking already. It was his turn to groan.
“I can’t wait any longer.” Thank God he’d packed a condom in his wallet, otherwise he’d probably die if he couldn’t get inside of her. He ripped open the foil with more force than was probably necessary, rolling the latex down onto this cock. He stared at her parted legs, pale in the dim light from surrounding street lamps. He wished he could see her completely right now.
But seeing her didn’t even matter when he hooked her legs over his arms and thrust inside of her. Her back arched off of the bench, and he caught her cry with a hard kiss. His pace was relentless, but Camille didn’t hold back, either. She moved with him, chasing her own release, and he didn’t think he could last one second longer. But he kept up the pace, his cock filling her over and over again. Stars filled his vision, and he reached down to rub her swollen clit. That did it: she arched against him and then she was coming, her sheath contracting around him, her entire body shaking with release. He kissed her—lips and teeth and tongue, sounds of groans and swearing and bodies slapping together filling the gazebo.
And then he was coming too, so hard he was sure he would never survive it. He felt his balls contract and he was filling her, his orgasm going on and on and on. God, he’d never had sex as good as he’d had with Camille, and maybe later he’d wonder why that was. But not right now.
When they came down from their high, he kissed her shoulder. He kissed her ear. He murmured things underneath his breath that she couldn’t hear. And then she kissed him and said his name in that low voice of hers, and he knew he’d never get free of his watergirl.
Camille had to marvel at the woman she’d become. Having sex in her gazebo
, of all things! Afterward, Heath had left to head home and pack, then drove to the airport to catch a red-eye flight to Houston for a game. The next day, she was sitting at home missing him, wondering if he missed her, wanting him to think about her even when he was miles and miles away. She knew things were temporary between them, but she was determined to enjoy their time together, even when they couldn’t be together.
Suddenly an idea flashed in her mind, and she picked up the phone to call Sheila. “Hey you. Do you have time to help me with something?”
A couple of hours later, she led Sheila to her dining room table, where her camera and tripod lay. Holding them up, she said, “Let’s go and take some photos.”
They went upstairs to Camille’s bedroom, where they turned on music and began rifling through her lingerie drawer to dress up Camille. Sheila went through her jewelry, finding strands of pearls and earrings, and even a feathered fan from Halloween from years ago. She also threw the pirate hat Camille had been wearing earlier into the mix.
“I want to do something sexy, but not raunchy,” Camille was saying, inspiration running through her. “Kind of like Moulin Rouge, you know?”
“Sure. You know I’m always down for sexy photoshoots.” Pulling out a black corset with white lace, Sheila raised her eyebrows. “Where did this come from, Miss-I-Only-Ever-Wear-Button-Up-Sweaters?”
Camille laughed. “I got that as a gag gift a few years ago, but I’ve never worn it.” She bit her lip. “Is it too much?”
“Nooooo, this is perfect! Try it on, try it on! And leave your hair down. Oh, where’s your red lipstick?”
Camille donned the corset with barely there panties, her hair down and curled about her shoulders with the pirate hat tipped over her brow. She put on red lipstick but left the rest of her makeup subdued, except for a little mascara. After she’d put on the pearl necklace, Sheila began telling her to pose, snapping photo after photo. Camille usually hated being in front of the camera—and doing a sexy photoshoot like this?—but something inside of her had loosened and been set free by Heath.
She wanted to have some fun and not think too hard about what she was doing.
She and Sheila laughed like teenage girls as Camille flounced about her room, doing sexy and silly poses. She lay on the bed, she leaned against the headboard, and she even peeked out from the lacy curtains hanging from her window. She didn’t even care if all of the photos ended up looking ridiculous: she was having fun and she felt sexier than she had in a long time.
And it was all because of Heath and the feelings he inspired in her.
Chapter 18
It was a brutally hot day in Houston, and Heath wanted to blame the heat on why he was so distracted during their game against the Jaguars, but he knew he was lying to himself. It wasn’t the heat, or the sweat streaming down his face, and it sure as hell wasn’t because this was an away game. It was because he couldn’t get enough of Camille; yet at the same time, he couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that someday soon he was going to have to watch her walk away from him.
She was like a drug, like booze: one hit hadn’t been enough. He wanted more and more and more until he drowned in her. It was embarrassing, he thought, how much he wanted her.
Last night in the gazebo, she’d looked at him like he was the greatest man on the planet. She’d moaned and whispered his name, her body undulating against him. She’d been wet for him before he’d even touched her. God, she was amazing. Her creamy skin. Her curves. Camille was the perfect handful for him. All natural, that’s what she was, and he loved it. No fake breasts or a fake butt for Camille: it was all her.
And he had to admit that he loved talking with Emma, too. She was a great kid—smart and sassy like her mom—and he found himself wanting to hang out with her more. Heath had never cared one way or the other about kids, but Emma was different. Probably because she was Camille’s, he thought. Anything of Camille’s instantly intrigued him.
Standing on the sidelines as the coaches argued with the ref about some call, Heath barely registered what was happening around him. He knew the Bootleggers were down by 10 points, but for some reason, he didn’t have it in him to care.
By the third quarter, the Bootleggers were down by 17, and the team was agitated. Heath winced when Kyle received the brunt of Coach’s temper.
“How about you do your job out there, Young, and stop fumbling the ball like some virgin in the backseat of his mom’s car?”
Heath could see Kyle’s jaw clench.
“Sorry, Coach,” Kyle finally ground out. “I’ll do better this next quarter.”
“You better fucking do better! I pay you enough to ‘do better,’ don’t I? Now get out there and play like a damn professional.”
But it wasn’t Kyle who fucked up this next quarter: it was Heath himself. He was running his route when the ball was intercepted by a Jaguar cornerback. Realizing he’d mistakenly run the wrong pattern, he scrambled and went after the defender. Too late, he missed the Jaguar player’s sudden cut to the left and ended up crashing into one of his own teammates, bringing him down into a heap of tangled limbs.
The shrill whistle of the ref sounded, and Heath scrambled off of Alec who lay on the grass, his face contorted in pain. Leaning down, Heath took off his helmet.
“Hey, buddy, you okay? What hurts?”
Alec grimaced. “My ankle. Can you tell, is it broken?”
Before Heath could reply, the medic came down and took over. Heath, though, stayed by Alec’s side, hoping against hope that his ankle wasn’t broken. God, he was an asshole. He’d been so preoccupied by thoughts of Camille that he’d run the wrong pattern and injured his friend.
The medic probed Alec’s ankle, and then shook his head. “Doesn’t seem like it’s broken, but let’s see if we can get you up, okay?”
Heath instantly went to Alec’s other side, and he and the medic helped him walk to the sidelines. The medic declared that the ankle was just twisted, and Alec had gotten the wind knocked out of him. He was out for the next three games, though, and Heath felt guilt swamp him. If he’d been paying attention, this wouldn’t have happened. Why hadn’t he been the one injured for being a dumbass? He should’ve had a twisted ankle, but instead it was Alec, who didn’t deserve to be on the sidelines.
The Bootleggers lost spectacularly and everyone could feel Coach’s anger radiating from the side of the field. The older man looked fit to be tied, his face purpled and his nostrils wide, like a pit bull waiting to attack. It was one thing to lose, but it was another to lose like this: it was as if they hadn’t even put up a fight. And after Alec got sidelined, the team seemed to have lost any bit of steam they may have had left.
“So what happened out there?” a reporter asked, shoving his microphone in Heath’s face. “That was quite a tackle, with you and LeBrun.”
Heath gritted his teeth, but forced out, “Just a stupid accident. I’m glad LeBrun’s ankle isn’t broken, and he’ll get back into the game in no time.”
“It seemed like you were distracted, though. Do you think you could’ve prevented LeBrun’s injury?”
Of course I could’ve! Heath wanted to shout. Anger filled him and he had to restrain himself from saying something he’d regret. So instead, he muttered a “no comment” and stalked away.
In the locker room afterward, he showered and tried to calm himself. Just as he was feeling slightly better, Coach found him and took him aside. Still pissed, the veins in his forehead stood out.
“The fuck was that out there, Dawson?” he demanded. “You have some kind of stroke, or are you just a moron?”
Heath knew Coach could be brutal when he was angry, but he hadn’t seen him this bad in a while. And unfortunately for both, Coach’s anger only stoked his further.
“I messed up. I know I did. Not sure what you want me to say.”
“What I want you to say? What the fuck! I want you to say that you’ll get your fucking head out of your ass and do what you’re supposed to d
o. You realize we lost by over 20 points out there? We’re a laughingstock. And now our best tight end is out of the game because of you.”
Heath didn’t even know what to say. What could he do? Apologize? Plead for mercy? But something stubborn—and maybe even stupid—refused to beg. And there was nothing he could do anyway right now, besides let Coach calm down.
“I fucked up,” he finally replied. “It won’t happen again.”
Coach scoffed, stepping aside for a second. He took a deep breath. He then wiped a hand down his face, and Heath could see some of the anger leave him.
“I don't know what’s been going on with you lately, Dawson, but I can take a pretty good guess. And if you don’t get it together, you’re gonna get your ass transferred like Perkins if you’re not careful. And for what? A woman?” Coach’s voice was almost…kind now, if he could ever manage to sound kind.
But how the hell could he possibly know that Heath had been distracted by Camille today? “A woman, sir?”
That’s when Coach lifted his hand and Heath saw the newspaper that he hadn’t spotted before. “I don’t care who you decide to make your next booty call, but you can’t throw away everything for a chick,” Coach said in no uncertain terms. “I feel like this is déjà vu all over again. I told Perkins the same damn thing, and look what happened to him. Does nobody listen to me anymore?”
He handed the newspaper to Heath. Heath took one look at the photo on the page and scowled. It was of him and Camille, his arm around her, her hair mussed, both of them still smiling due to their naughty dressing room activities.
Who had leaked a photo of him and Camille to the press? Not that it should matter. So what if he wanted to hang out with her? How was that a crime? She was an independent contractor, not even an employee of the NFL.
