He hadn’t needed to fuck me that night.
The fact he pulled me out of that restaurant with only a wall separating us from my family, then banged two orgasms out of me with nothing but his fingers, was more than enough to shake me up.
“Your face is red,” Regan idly says. “And you’re perspiring.”
“Am not,” I mutter, turning away from her so she can’t see the truth in my eyes.
Dominik Carlson controlled me without any effort at all, and fuck me to high heaven… I loved it.
Damn it.
Regan latches on to my arm. She pulls, forcing me to face her. There’s no teasing or whimsy in her expression.
She’s dead serious. “Seriously, Willow… why won’t you go out with him? By all accounts, he’s a great guy and he’s proven that time and again.”
It’s true. He’s repeatedly stepped in to help members of the team on a personal level. He’s more than proven he’s a genuine man.
“He’s a serial dater,” I say in exasperation, desperate to give her something so she’ll leave me alone. He may have been chasing after me for the last few months, but I’ve seen plenty of articles and photos of him at celebrity events with a different woman on his arm every time.
“So are you,” she points out.
That would be true, so I don’t really begrudge him that.
“I don’t want to be just another notch on his bedpost,” I reply smoothly, folding my arms over my chest.
Regan rolls her eyes. “Again… you have no qualms with racking up your own notches, so try again.”
Damn it. I knew we shouldn’t have had such open sex talks.
Finally, I admit it to her. “He’s dangerous, Regan. As in, someone I could fall for and I just don’t want that.”
“Why not?” she asks, head tilted to the side.
“You know why,” I say pointedly.
Regan studies me, giving a thoughtful nod. Just when I think she might try to dissect my disastrous past love life, she simply says, “Listen, Willow… you’re a smart woman. You know how to handle yourself. If you don’t want it to get serious, then set the boundaries up front so it doesn’t. If you don’t want penis participation, make it optional. Then go and enjoy yourself. Simple as that.”
Could it really be? There’s no stopping my eyebrows from rising incrementally as I consider this.
“You know you want to see him again,” she taunts in a singsong voice, grinning impishly. “So just go have fun. You’re going to be around for the playoffs, and he’ll make a nice diversion. It doesn’t have to get serious if you don’t want it to.”
Regan should be a salesperson, because she’s sold it to me. She used all the right words.
Set boundaries.
Don’t let it get serious.
Have fun.
“I am a smart woman,” I muse, repeating her own words. “I can handle myself. I know how to set boundaries and stick to them.”
“Damn straight you do,” she chirps, raising her arm and letting her fist hover in front of me.
I give a hard nod back—affirmation I’ve got this—and knock my fist against hers in solidarity.
Whipping my phone out, I send Dominik a text.
Pick me up at 7.
CHAPTER 3
Dominik
I’m different than other professional sports teams’ owners in a lot of ways, but probably the most noticeable is in my hands-on approach to their personal welfare. Some call it being a busybody, but I don’t care. I like my guys to be happy and fulfilled because that translates into players with their heads fully in the game.
It’s simply good business, after all.
So it’s not much of a surprise to the team when I walk into the Vengeance training facility to get in a workout. I’ve got an afternoon full of meetings with the front office, so this is more convenient for me, but I also like the opportunity to be among my guys.
After I pick a treadmill, I launch into a steady run. I usually run several times a week, along with strength training, but there was no opportunity this morning given my early interview with ESPN and the shoot for Rolling Stone.
Both of those events went extremely well, and I may have had a little more pep in my step than normal given the fact Willow finally had the grace to text me back and had actually accepted my dinner invitation.
Her response was unexpected, yet perfectly Willow. A handful of words.
Pick me up at 7.
I didn’t respond. Didn’t ask her where I might pick her up because I want to show her that I know exactly where she’ll be. Of course, I know she’s staying with her brother during the playoffs because Tacker told me. His information about Willow has been free-flowing, and I’m forever grateful since her brother won’t give me anything. I guess Tacker is in a gracious mood since he found love with his beautiful therapist, Nora Wayne.
At any rate, I’m looking forward to seeing Willow. I refuse, however, to have any expectations of what may happen. I prefer to go in with the attitude that anything can happen, with endless possibilities.
I’ve learned a lot about Willow despite the limited time we’ve spent together and let’s face it, the time we have spent together has not been wasted on conversation.
But in her refusal to give me the time of day—in denial of her own desires—I’ve gained quite the understanding of who she is.
Willow Monahan is confident.
Smart.
Independent.
Doesn’t follow the norms.
Isn’t easily flattered.
Knows her own value.
Every bit of that is sexy as fuck and sadly, in my thirty-nine years of living, I’ve realized that not a single woman I’ve been with has attracted me with anything other than her looks.
Sure, Willow is a stunning beauty with dark brown hair and exotically tilted, amber-colored eyes. She’s on the small side, barely coming to my shoulders, whereas I normally date women who are statuesque, but she in no way appears breakable. If anything, she seems indestructible, which is probably by virtue of the immense amount of self-confidence she exhibits.
Bottom line… I’m beyond intrigued. I’m not going to waste any opportunity to learn more about her.
As if the god of irony existed, the one man who would probably hate the direction of my thoughts at this moment walks into the gym.
I grin evilly, glancing at the screen on the treadmill. I’m barely over a mile into what I was hoping would be a five-mile run, but some things are worth giving up.
Tapping the button to turn the machine off, I let it decelerate enough before I hop off. Grabbing my towel and water bottle, I follow Dax through the maze of top-of-the-line workout equipment available.
He makes his way over to a squat rack, nodding and fist-bumping teammates along the way. Some look at me in shock as I pass, not realizing their ultimate boss is in their presence.
It’s when Erik sees me while swinging some kettlebells and says, “What’s up, Dominik?” that Dax jolts and turns around to find me just a few paces behind him.
He frowns, shakes his head, turns to the squat rack, and starts to load weight on the barbell.
I smile at Erik, giving a chin lift, and saunter up to Dax.
“So how are you feeling?” I ask, halting beside him. “Got your playoff head on?”