My eyes narrow, and I fight against my inability to lie. “With hiswords.”
That’s mostly true. Words like,You like being spanked?andTake my cock like you love it.I shift in my seat as my pussy flutters. Damn, that was hot, and I did love it.
“Words that make your face all red?”
I swallow the thickness in my throat, arguing, “You know I don’t like confrontation.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?”
Standing, I toss the pillow onto the couch and head for my room. “I’m getting some rest.”As if that’s going to be possible.“The lead-up to this show has me exhausted. I think I’m getting a headache.”
Or something.
My friend’s lips twist, and she rises, walking over to me. “I’m sorry, Mellow. I know being a hard-ass doesn’t come naturally for you.”
“I try to be very fair.” My voice is a low pout.
“You are, now get some rest. We’ll see what happens this week. Maybe K-Brad will realize we all do better when he gives you something you can use.”
“Maybe.” I know what I could use tonight, and he has it.
But he doesn’t give me anything. A whole day passes. The ratings on my guest spot on Chet’s show aren’t bad. They’re not as wild as the ratings on the Miami game, and TMI doesn’t pull anything for their featured article.
To be fair, the game coincided with an over-the-topdomestic dispute between a major reality-show couple that conquered all the ratings. I hope.
Another day passes, and not a peep. Walking around our duplex, I chew my finger wondering if he’s angry enough to end it between us.
Would he do that?He seemed to like our clandestine hookups as much as I did, and they all followed some of my harshest critiques.
Lindsey leaves to see a movie with friends, but I stay back. There’s no way I could sit still long enough to watch a movie tonight. I’m way too antsy.
Looking up at the clock, it’s early evening. I know where he lives…
Snatching my track jacket off the hook, I dash out into the twilight, headed to the streetcar that goes all the way to Canal, right to the entrance to the French Quarter.
All the way, I stare at my phone, wondering if it would be easier just to text him. Only, I don’t text him. That’s our arrangement. I told him I wouldn’t talk to him before games.
But the next game is almost a week away.
I chew on the side of my thumb again, and my fingernail is a wreck. Mom would be so disappointed I restarted that old habit.
The bell rings, and we’re finally at the last stop before this car turns around and heads back Uptown. I hop off and walk with purpose along Royal Street until I get to Nicholls. I’m still several blocks away. His apartment is in the Marigny, but I avoid the touristy streets that have all the traffic.
I’m only a little breathless as I stand at the front entrance to the large, historic apartment building. I press all the buttons, like it’s some old-school detective movie, and one of his less-cautious neighbors buzzes the front gate open.
I still don’t know what I’m going to say to him. Am I goingto yell at him fornotshowing up after the game and fucking my brains out? Am I going to accuse him of only wanting me when I’m mean to him? My chest sinks at the thought.Does he?
I don’t have time to drive myself any crazier. Clearly, I’ve lost all semblance of professional distance or standards. I’m burning down that bridge, jumping on the ashes, and scattering them to the wind.
The elevator dings, and I step out in front of his door, breathing fast. I question everything about what I’m doing right now, how I sneaked into his building, how he might not even be home, and looking down, I realize under my jacket, I’m dressed in leggings and a ratty old tee.
I didn’t even bother to brush my hair or put on a little lipstick. Good lord, am I that horny?
Yes. The answer is yes.
Furrowing my brow, I lift my hand and bang hard on the door. It’s a solid, forceful knock, and the sound of footsteps thud quickly from the other side. I take a step back as the door flies open so fast, my hair swooshes.
“What?” Knox’s voice is strained.