And it is.
He starts to move, his thrust hard and long and filling me so completely, I’m not sure where he ends and I begin. Each time he moves, it’s pure ecstasy, and I feel myself climbing higher and higher. My body starts to tighten as he swivels his hips, touching that magical place deep inside of me. The result is like an explosion, and I cry out as blinding white lights fill my vision. I can feel his fingers grip my ass as he thrusts harder, chasing his own release. When he finally let’s go, it triggers a second orgasm I didn’t even know was brewing.
I’m pretty sure the result causes me to blackout a little.
Suddenly, we’re moving. Tate lays me down on the guest bed and curls up around me. My body feels completely boneless and weightless as sleep threatens to pull me under. I feel him shift against me, his softening erection slipping from my body. He places a kiss against my shoulder and pulls a blanket over my body. “You’re going?” I whisper, my eyes cracking open to take him in.
He’s gloriously naked and gives me a small smile. “I figured since Alex will be home any time, it’s probably best if I’m not in here.”
The mention of my brother is like a cold shower. I start to move, but he crawls on the bed and kisses me soundly on the lips. “This is your room,” I reply when I’m breathless once more.
Tate grins and pushes my hair over my shoulder. “I’ll take the couch. Sleep.”
My eyes close as he runs his hand down my arm. His touch is so soothing and helps lull me toward sleep. His hand moves, gliding over every inch of exposed skin. For someone with rough, calloused hands, his touch is pure magic.
I feel the bed shift and hear the squeak as the door starts to close. “Goodnight, Sweetness.” It’s the last thing I remember before the blackness finally pulls me under.
Chapter One
Tate
Present Day
“That’s perfect, Tate. Give me more of that smile,” Reggie says, his camera shutter clicking in fast succession.
I’m shooting for a sports drink today, both television and print ads. My agent worked out a sweet two-year deal with the company, and all I have to do is be seen during practice and after the game drinking the product. Since training camp doesn’t start for another month, they figured now is the perfect time to shoot a handful of ads for their fall and winter campaigns.
“Yeah, more of that smirk. Cocky. You’ve got women lined up for miles waiting to spend just a little time with the infamous Tate Steele,” Reggie shouts, not taking a break from pressing the shutter button.
I give him what he wants, but inside, I’m rolling my eyes and groaning. But I know this is what’s expected of me. It’s the image I’ve spent a decade perfecting. From the moment I stepped onto the field at Notre Dame, I’ve been this guy. Arrogant, sure, but I can back that shit up. Both on the field and off.
We move through the shoot with two more outfit changes before I’m finally shirtless, wearing cleats and football pants. The makeup artist adds a little touch of dirt-like makeup to my face and chest, and I’m pretty sure she got off when she rubbed the cream across my abs. When she finally finishes, I throw her a smirk and wink and watch as she practically orgasms without me touching her.
Reggie puts me in front of a brick wall, and his assistant hands me a football. She giggles as she steps out of the frame, and I’m pretty sure I could have her against the wall in my dressing room if I asked. Hell, I probably wouldn’t even need to take her to the private room. The way all these women are virtually drooling on themselves and fighting to get close to me, I could probably have them all in one big fucked-up orgy. Hell, Reggie would probably shoot the whole thing and tell me how great I did at the end.
As we move through the different poses and looks, I spy Todd, the man in charge of PR for my agent, standing in the back of the room. He’s on the phone, like always, but keeps one eye on me. He’s wearing a suit, even on a Friday afternoon, and looks like he’s ready to crawl through the phone and strangle whoever’s on the other end.
I’ve been a client of Professional Athlete Sports Management since the league came sniffing around my senior year of college. My agent, Richard Porter, signed me right before I entered the draft six years ago. We have a good working relationship and I trust him explicitly. Todd joined the team about two years ago, and I’ll admit, he’s had his hands full. His job is to fix any of the bullshit I find myself in, some of it seems like on a regular basis.
The moment the shoot is over, I make my way toward him. He clicks off his phone and smiles. “Tate, good job up there,” he says, shaking my hand.
“Thanks, Todd. What brings you here today?” I ask, taking the towel offered to me by one of the guys who manages the lighting. I nod my head in appreciation and start to wipe off the dirt-like shit spread all over my chest.
“Well, we had another woman come forward, claiming she’s carrying your love child,” Todd states like he’s reading a newspaper article.
I snort and shake my head. “Another one?”
“Third one this year,” he confirms.
“Do I know her?” I ask, wondering where these women come from.
Todd raises an eyebrow and gives me a pointed look. “Do you ever really know any of them, Tate?”
His implication grates on my nerves.
“It’s bullshit,” I tell him, pissed to have yet another damn paternity suit to deal with.
These women are all the same. They reach out, claiming to be carrying my spawn, and threatening to go public with the details of how I refuse to take care of my child. A few of the pregnancy claims worried me, I’ll admit, but most of the claims I know are bogus. Women I’ve never met. Crazy fangirls who think I’ll fall in love with them.
The ones who did make it to my bed would usually just go for the payout for the details of our night together. Most tabloids in the country will pay big money for those specifics, even if they’re not entirely accurate. It’s not like they come and get my side of the story.
This new one is just another in a long list of fake accusations against me. Like the ones from earlier this year, I know it’s pure bullshit. It can’t be true, because I haven’t been with anyone in nine months.
Not since Ashtyn.
Just thinking of the woman I left back in South Bend nearly a year ago has my blood traveling southbound. Long, thick brown hair and rich, dark eyes, topped with a hard-on-inducing smile that still wakes me up in the dead of night. The sexy librarian could very well have been the best thing to happen to me and my greatest mistake, all in one.
I push Ashtyn out of my mind and focus on the man in front of me. “Take care of it, Todd. Make it go away,” I tell him, frustrated, yet I’m not sure if it’s because of the pregnancy shit or because the woman I still dream about has popped into my head yet again.
“I will,” he confirms, pulling out his phone and typing out a message. “Are you sure you’ve never met her?” he asks, flipping the screen in front of my face and showing me the picture of a stacked blonde in a string bikini. Her boobs are as fake as the collagen-filled lips on her face, and I’m pretty sure she’s had some work done on her eyes too. Oh, don’t get me wrong, she’s hot, and maybe when I was a rookie in the league, I would definitely have fucked her, but now I can’t even seem to sport some wood when I look at her photo.