He takes a few practice swings as I set my purple ball on a tee. “How was your day?”
For a second, I wonder if he’s trying to knock me off my golf game with small talk. So he can choose the fantasy. But the question comes out honestly. Curiously.
“It was excellent. I went to a sex-toy afternoon tea,” I say, faux primly.
He blinks. “I’m going to need to hear all about that,” he says.
“Well, let me just play this hole, and then I’ll tell you all about the latest in the world of pleasure,” I say.
“I think you’re trying to break me, Ellie Snow,” he says.
I give him a coy shrug. “Of course I am, Gabe,” I say, then nibble on the corner of my glossy lips.
My eyes drift down to his slacks, where a ridge tents the fabric.
Yup.
My strategy is working.
Then I tap the ball and send it…right into the windmill. Damn. I stomp my foot in frustration. “I’m terrible at golf,” I whine.
He laughs and takes his turn. He knocks in the red ball in two putts. This tracks. Football players often love their golf.
I finish in six swings.
As we walk to the next hole, he says, “So, the tea. Tell me more about it.”
“For real?”
He gives me a look like he couldn’t possibly be asking any other way. “Yes, for real. I want to hear about it.”
This is surprisingly nice. Talking about my day, that is. Dexter never wanted to know.
“My friend Veronica started a sex-toy subscription box,” I say. Then I catch him up to speed with Date Night for One. “And she has clients all over the country now. She’s done so well.”
“She’s an entrepreneur. That’s fantastic,” Gabe says. I’m so happy that he sees that—and that he said it. How many guys would have gone for the easy joke about her peddling sex toys?
“She is,” I agree. “After some complications at her last job, she had to reinvent herself, but it turned into something that makes her happy.”
“We should all aspire to find some happiness in what we do. From what you were telling me last night about your show, it sounds like you feel that way about your job too?”
“I do,” I say as we round a bend in the course toward the next hole. “I’m guessing it’s the same for you?”
“Absolutely. Every goddam game I play. It’s such a rush.” But he doesn’t say more about football, instead turning the talk back to me. “I know you miss your friends.”
My heart squeezes. “So much. But I’ve already made a brand-new friend in LA,” I say, then I tell him about Rachel as we take turns on the course. “What about you? You’ve been traded a bunch of times. You were in Miami, in Las Vegas, in Seattle. Was it hard to go to so many teams?”
Then I wince. Is that a sore spot?
“I guess nobody wants to keep me,” he says, with an exaggerated frown.
I bump my shoulder against his firm arm, relieved he took it lightly. “Please. I think it’s because everybody in the league wants you,” I say, upbeat. I hope he sees it that way too. “I’m no football expert, but I think it shows you’re versatile and can fit into any team. And that you can handle anything thrown at you.”
He winks. “Pun intended.” Then his expression turns thoughtful for a beat. “I don’t mind that I’m not a Pioneer or a Wolf for life,” he says, naming the Vegas and Seattle mascots as examples. “They’ve all been good trades. I can’t really complain. Especially since Miami was good to me.”
I glance at his hand. I know he won a ring playing for Miami, but this is the first he’s brought it up.
“Why don’t you wear your ring? That would be fun to show off. Lord knows I’d be flashing it at everyone if I had one.”
He shrugs like he hasn’t given the topic much thought. “Jewelry’s not my thing. But nobody can ever take it away from me,” he says, then he lines up and taps the ball straight under a tyrannosaurus rex.
I whistle. “You are damn good at this,” I say.
He stops to press a possessive kiss to my lips. “A lot of years in the NFL, sweetheart. I’ve played a lot of golf,” he says.
“Cocky,” I tease.
He squeezes my ass. “And you like it.”
I like just about everything about him. And I need to just enjoy his company and this beautiful LA evening, and let next week be next week. But I don’t want to linger on that thought. Or what liking him might mean after this week of fun and games ends.
A few holes later, I’m at the tee of another hole, peering down the grassy hill, sizing up whether I can send the purple ball over or around a tiny bridge, when warm breath floats past my ear. “Let me help you, sweetheart,” he rasps out.
Before I can protest, Gabe lines his big body behind mine, his chest pressing against my back, his pelvis against my ass. Then his hands come down around mine on the club. “Did I ask for help?”
“No, but I’m doing it anyway,” he says, then brushes his lips along my neck. Tingles slide over my skin.
“Why is that?” I murmur as pleasure zips over me.
“I thought that would be obvious,” he says in a dirty rasp. “I want you to break first, Ellie.”
His words make me ache. But I try hard to stay in the moment and in the game. “Why do you want me to give in, Gabe?”
He nips on my earlobe. “Because I’ve been staring at you in that skirt for far too long,” he says, then tugs me tighter against him.
Moaning in my ear.
Are there other people nearby? Don’t know, don’t care right now. I rub against his erection. “Maybe I want to break you down,” I whisper.
Gabe slides a hand down the front of my skirt to the hem, playing with the fabric. “Sweetheart, I know you want to be broken. You want to be stretched across my lap, lifting that skirt for me, showing me that sweet ass.”
So much.
My breath hitches. But I try to keep playing our game. I try to break him, to goad him into giving in. “And what makes you think that?”
“Because I’ve been working on a certain fantasy this whole game,” he says in a low, smoky voice that makes me shiver.
“You have?” I ask.
He kisses down my neck again, telling me his fantasy.
And I call it quits on the golf game. “Let’s go now. You win.”
Let the bedroom games begin.
14
CAUGHT IN THE ACT
Ellie
I’m curled up on my couch, my hair in pigtails, a white shirt tied right under my breasts, a short plaid skirt showing off most of my legs.
Gigi’s sitting by my side as I scroll aimlessly on a tablet, paying no heed to what’s on the screen.
I’m only interested in what—or, more accurately, who’s—coming through the door any second. When I hear the sound of the lock opening, my thighs clench. I don’t look up from the couch. Giddy with anticipation, I stay focused squarely on the screen as the door swings open. Gigi lifts her head and tilts it. But she doesn’t break character either. Nor do I when I finally look up, gasp theatrically, and say, “Oh no! Mr. Clements is home early from the PTA meeting.”