“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I actually have a thing for art and—”
“Artists?” she interrupts with a wicked look that goes straight to my dick.
“One artist, certainly.” I cross to her, pull her in close, until her body is flush with mine. She’s wearing high heels tonight, so we fit together a little better than we usually do and I relish the feel of being pressed up against all her best spots. “But, seriously. You’re really good.”
“So are you.” She tilts her head up for a kiss I’m more than happy to indulge her in. “And I love the daisies, in case I forgot to say it. They’re perfect.”
I kiss her again, this time taking my time. I do a leisurely sweep of her mouth with my tongue, pulling her lower lip between my teeth and biting down softly. She moans a little, slides her hands up to my hair and tugs a little.
The heat of it makes my dick go rock hard in an instant and I’m tempted to stay right here for the rest of the night, doing every wicked, wonderful thing to her that I can imagine.
If we didn’t have anything else planned, I’d do it. I’d say to hell with whatever we’re supposed to do and stay here all night, looking at Emerson’s paintings and getting my mouth on as much of her as I possibly can.
But the gala is for Children’s Hospital and my signature can grease the wheels for tens of thousands of dollars in donations. I think the whole thing is ridiculous—people should donate because it’s the right thing to do, not because they get something out of it. But if I’ve learned anything in the last ten years, it’s that people like to have a good time if they’re being separated from their money. And part of that good time is being wined and dined by guys like me, even though there’s only one person I want to wine and dine right now.
Eventually, though, she pulls away. “We should probably go,” she murmurs, voice husky and lips shiny and swollen. “I mean, if we’re going to.”
I sigh heavily even as I let her lead me to the door. “I know, I know.” I watch as she locks up, then, as we’re walking to my car, ask, “Are you mad and just really good at hiding it? Or am I missing something?”
Again, to her credit, she doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I was mad,” she admits. “Then realized the anger was more about me than it was about you. So I decided to give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“I appreciate that,” I answer, because I really do. Still, I have to ask. “Why did you send the stuff back?”
“Why did you buy it for me in the first place?” she counters, brows raised.
Of all the things she could have asked, that was never even on my radar. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what made you go out and spend tens of thousands of dollars on a woman you barely know?”
“First of all, we’ve spent over a dozen hours together during the last three days. That’s more time than three or four normal dates, so I take exception to the whole ‘we barely know each other gambit.’ And secondly, it was only a couple of tens of thousands, so not as much as you made it out to be.” Four, but what’s twenty grand when you’re trying to get a woman’s attention? “And third, I bought that stuff for the same reason I brought you daisies. I’m trying to woo you.”
“ ‘Woo me’?”
I grind my teeth, go all in. “Yes. Woo you.”
“Is that even a thing anymore?”
“Apparently not, since you seem singularly unimpressed.” I open the passenger-side door and wait for her to climb in before closing it and jogging around to my side.
“Were you really trying to woo me?” she asks as I climb in.
“Well, I sure as hell didn’t spend two hours of my life picking that dress out for you because I was trying to make you mad.”
“You picked it out yourself?”
“Of course I did. And the lingerie.” I try not to scowl as I think about all the fantasies I had of her glorious ass in those panties.
“And the Loubis?”
“And the Loubis. I was afraid they were overkill, but Tanner insisted that—”
“Tanner? You talked to Tanner Green about this?”
“He’s my best friend. Of course I did. And he said Loubis were the way to a woman’s heart.” My own speeds up as I realize what I’ve just said. Talk about tipping my hand too early.
But it doesn’t freak Emerson out the way I’m afraid it will. Instead, her eyes go big and her mouth trembles. Then she reaches for me and pulls me into a kiss that fries every single one of my once-functioning brain cells.
“Tanner’s also the one who used the word ‘woo,’ ” I tell her a little hazily when she finally pulls away. “So if you want to kiss me for that, too, I’ll be sure to pass on the message—”
“Don’t push your luck.” She slaps a hand on my chest to keep me from leaning in for another kiss. “And for the record,” she continues. “It wasn’t the Loubis that did you in.”
I try to focus on what she’s saying, but it’s hard considering my blood is roaring in my ears and every instinct I have is screaming at me to take her, to fuck her, right here, right now, in full view of anyone who walks by.
“It wasn’t?” Jesus. Am I drooling? I wipe a surreptitious hand across my mouth, just in case.
“Nope. Tanner was right. I loved them.”
“Then why’d you send them back?” I ask, totally frustrated.
“Because the earrings were too much. Way too much, considering we hadn’t even had our first date.”
“Again, I call bullshit on that. I kissed you the first day we looked at houses. Made you come four times yesterday. And today I’m hoping to get to do that again—and maybe a little more, if you’re amenable. So, bullshit. This is our third date.”
“Oh, yeah? For all you know, I let all the rich football players who want to finger me in the front seat of their cars. Oh, by the way, thanks for setting me up with Shawn. We’re supposed to go look at houses next week.” She makes quotes with her fingers as she says, “look at houses,” and suddenly my blood is roaring for a whole different reason.
“The fuck?”
“I’m just saying. If house hunting is actually dating…”
“Okay. You’ve made your point.” I haul her out of her seat and into my lap. “Shawn is my best wide receiver but I will break every one of his fucking fingers if he puts them anywhere near you.”
She just laughs. “So, not a date, then?”
“With Shawn? Not even close.” And then I’m laughing, too, even as I lower my mouth to hers. This woman—this fucking woman with her big blue eyes and even bigger mouth—is going to be the death of me.
The fact that she might also be my salvation in the middle of the hell that is my life right now…well, that’s somewhere I’m pretty sure she’s not ready to go yet. But it’s a long night and, for the first time in a long time, I’m feeling optimistic.
Chapter 19
Emerson
Maybe I should have kept the dress.
It’s the first thought that runs through my head as Hunter leads me up the red carpeted stairs and into the gala. Reporters and photographers are everywhere, so many flashes going off that I’m half-blinded before we even reach the door. In fact, I probably would have fallen if Hunter hadn’t kept his arm securely around my waist the whole time.
Which is not something I’m going to think about. Just like I’m not going to think about the fact that the pictures will be tabloid fodder the world over by morning. That’s what you get when you go to a very public event with one of the world’s most famous men.
Why the hell I didn’t think about that before returning his YSL dress, I don’t know. Not being as dressed up as the other women at the gala is one thing. Embarrassing the man I’m growing to care about—and now it seems like he’s growing to care about me, too—in front of the whole world is quite another.
But it’s too late for regrets, so I hold my head high and let Hunter lead me through the throngs of paparazzi to the door. And then, when we’r
e over the threshold and out of sight, I pull his head down for a kiss that is half thank-you, half apology and all heat.
He goes all in, and I’m the one who finally pulls away first. As I do, I become conscious of the cheers behind us and I turn—just in time to realize that we might be in the building, but quite a few paps still have a clear view of us.
“Oh, shit.” I stare up at Hunter with wide eyes, but he just uses the arm around my waist to pull me flush against his chest. And then he dips me backward for another kiss.
The crowd outside goes wild, and there’s a few hoots and hollers from in here, as well.
“And that is what we, in professional sports, like to call the money shot,” he tells me when he finally lifts his head. His grin is wicked and sexy and just a little bit wild.
“That’s going to be everywhere tomorrow morning.”
His smile turns wolfish. “It damn well better be.”
Before I can ask him what he means, Tanner Green sidles up to me. A little thrill goes through me, but I shoot it down. He might be my favorite left tackle, ever, but no one here needs to know that.
“So you’re the reason I got my ass kicked three times on the field today.” He takes my hand in his and raises it to his lips. “I have to say, now that I’m finally meeting you, I can see why loverboy over there had his head in the clouds.”
“Head in the clouds?” I ask, turning to Hunter with my eyebrows raised.
“Lies, I tell you. All lies,” he says, reaching for the hand that Tanner is still holding.
But Tanner whisks me away. “Sorry, man,” he calls over his shoulder. “The dance floor is calling.”
And then the crowd is parting like the Red Sea as Tanner moves me toward the ballroom—and the dance floor. Not that I blame them. I think Hunter is huge, but Tanner’s got three inches and almost a hundred pounds on him. The man is a giant.
I glance behind me at Hunter one last time, and can’t help laughing at the frustrated look on his face. But then Tanner is whirling me onto the dance floor. Turns out, he’s as light on his feet on the dance floor as he is on the football field.
“So, tell me,” he says as he spins me out and then pulls me back in. “What kind of woman turns down a pair of Christian Louboutins? Does my man have no taste in ladies shoes or something?”
“For the record, it wasn’t the Louboutins that I objected to. I’m not stupid, after all. It was the diamond and sapphire earrings.”
He whistles. “That’s my boy. When he makes up his mind that he wants something, he goes for it, Mach speed. The only problem is it takes the rest of us a little time to catch up with him.”
It’s the perfect description of Hunter, a man who bought a twenty-four-million-dollar house after seeing it once. A man who, after meeting me once, decided he was going to move heaven and earth—and my boss—to make sure we met again.
“That’s how he ended up sacked during that Viking game, huh?”
“Exactly. He just took off—” He pauses. “Wait, you’re a fan? Not just of Hunter, but the game?”
“I’m a huge fan. Lightning football is my life. And I’ve got to say, I totally thought that sack was his fault. I know the press came down hard on you, but it was obvious he’d changed the play and was doing whatever the hell he wanted to do.”
“Exactly!” Tanner’s grin is huge as he swings me around like a rag doll. “Finally, someone who sees through Golden Boy’s charm to the evil heart lurking beneath.”
“Oh, believe me, I see the evil. Did he tell you how we first met?”
“He didn’t.” Tanner leans in. “But I am all ears.”
“And all left feet,” Hunter says as he cuts in, whirling me away. “What’s a guy got to do to impress a girl around here?”
I bat my eyes outrageously. “Let her dance with his very impressive best friend, obviously.”
“You know, I could leave you here. Let Tanner take you home.”
“Oh, does he need a house, too?”
He growls, actually growls, and it’s so funny and endearing and hot that I can’t help pressing myself against him and whispering, “If you let Tanner take me home, then you’ll miss out on what I’ve got under this dress.”
His eyes darken to forest green. “Oh, yeah? Maybe you should give me a preview.”
“Maybe you should get me a drink, and I’ll consider it.”
“One drink, coming up.” He moves us off the dance floor, then pulls me into his side as we weave through the sudden crowds. His hand is on my hip and I can feel the warmth of his fingers through my dress.
It turns me on. Or rather, he turns me on. And while it’s great fun to be here, dancing with Tanner Green and watching the other Lightning mingle with the crowd, suddenly I want to be anywhere else. Namely, anywhere else that we can be alone.
A rush of heat moves through me at the thought, makes my nipples peak and my breath hitch. Hunter must feel it, because suddenly he’s looking down at me, eyes dark and dangerous.
“We could have that drink in a room upstairs,” he tells me, voice low and raspy.
“We could, but then you’d just have to come back down and sign autographs, so…”
He curses under his breath. “I’ll get you that drink, and then we’ll see just how fast I can sign.”
The crowd grows thicker as we move toward the bar, and at first I think it’s because the place is filling up. But then I realize, it’s only this crowded around us—people are putting themselves directly in our path just for the chance to smile at Hunter or to try and catch his eye. He doesn’t see them, except as obstacles to get around, but still. I can’t help wondering what that might be like. When people look at him, do they see him? Or do they just see Hunter Browning, quarterback extraordinaire and sexiest man alive?
For the first time his behavior from the first time we met really, truly makes sense. I mean, I knew at the time that it was a product of his fame. But I thought he was just a jerk. I didn’t realize it was a form of self-protection. Because everyone wants something from him.
What is that like? I wonder as he orders me a glass of pinot noir. What does it do to a person? No wonder he wanted me to show him houses—even Kerry was so caught up in who he was and what his bank account could do for her that she forgot the most basic thing. That he’s human, just like the rest of us.
I know it’s stupid, but the knowledge makes me hurt for him. It makes me want to wrap him up in my arms and promise him that I see him. That I recognize who he is, not just who I want him to be.
Maybe that’s why, when he moves to hand me my wine, instead of taking it I wrap my arms around his waist, bury my face against his shoulder and hold on for all I’m worth.
His response is immediate. He wraps his arms around me, drinks and all, and holds me so completely, yet so gently, that it has tears springing to my eyes, even though I don’t know why.
Then he’s bending his head, whispering, “You good?” against my ear so no one else can see.
“I’m better than good,” I whisper back. “So go sign those damn autographs and then take me home. I need you inside me.”
His eyes go wide and for long seconds, he just stares at me. Then he tosses back his drink and makes a beeline for the charitable contribution corner, his hand firmly gripping mine.
Chapter 20
We make it back to my place by ten-thirty, which has to be a record of some sort. And while Hunter tried to be subtle as he eased me toward the door at the gala, it didn’t work—at least not judging from the knowing looks on his friends’ and teammates’ faces.
I should probably be embarrassed, and maybe some other time I would be. But right now, all I can think about is getting Hunter upstairs to my apartment and having my wicked, wicked way with him.
But that’s not quite how it goes down, as he takes my keys from me and opens my door.
“Show me your favorite painting,” he whispers to me as I flick on a light.
“What? Now?” I look a
t him like he’s crazy.
“Now,” he says.
Normally I’d be flattered he wants to see my art, but right now all I can think about is how much I’d rather have his hands on my body than my canvas.
“So, just to be clear,” I say as I cross to the far wall, where so many of my finished pieces are. “You don’t want to get laid?”
“Oh, I’m going to get laid,” he tells me with a wicked glint in his eyes. “Probably more than once. But your art is as beautiful as you are. I want to see it.”
“You’re weird, I’ve told you that, right?”
“You have. And you’re impatient.” His hand slips under the back of my skirt to snag the thin lace band of my thong. He pulls it taut, then lets it go and I gasp at the sharp crack of pain as it snaps against my skin. “Now go get it for me.”
“You don’t really think I’m going to just do what you tell me to, do you?”
He snaps the band again—a little lower than before—and this time my breath breaks as heat snakes through me. “I think you’re going to do exactly that,” he says with a smirk. “That is, if you want me to finish what I started.”
I want to tell him to go to hell, that I’ll finish myself off. But that’s not what I want—not when Hunter is all hot and hard and beautiful right here in my apartment.
So, grudgingly I do what he asks—what he orders—and pick up a watercolor I did about six months ago when I was visiting my mom in San Francisco. She and husband number five live in a high-rise in the city—one with a great view as my latest stepfather made his fortune investing in several tech start-ups that have gone huge—and when I looked out their family room window one night, I was transfixed by the lights down below. White, red, pink, lavender, yellow, blue, green—the lights coming up from the city were as unique and colorful as the city itself.
I stayed up all that night—and the next and the next—trying to capture what I saw. Sketch after sketch, discarded canvas after discarded canvas, in the end, this painting was as close as I could get.
I hold it up for Hunter to see and his eyes widen as he stares at it. “How do you get it to glow like that?” he asks, moving closer to get a better look.