I didn’t remember what the soup tasted like or what the hell I even ordered. Leah sipped her wine and giggled. I didn’t know if it was an act for those who recognized us, or if she was actually having fun.
Only one way to find out.
The live music strummed some soft melody that I figured she liked. I much preferred the bumping R&B at the strip clubs or the bars, but I offered my hand to lead her to the dance floor.
She accepted without checking the surroundings or ensuring anyone saw us.
The music wasn’t bad. She didn’t grind against me, but her body fit perfectly against mine as I wrapped her in a solid embrace. My hand drifted low, against her curves, feeling her heat through the dress.
I hardened before we even began to dance.
It was a goddamned crime that a woman like her didn’t want a fling. Somebody needed to drop her on the bed and give her the night of her life if only so she wouldn’t move stiffly, awkwardly, like she was afraid to get too close.
I knew why she was so resistant. It was the same reason my cock hardened for her.
I whispered in her ear. “Why won’t you admit you’re attracted to me, Kiss?”
Her nails jabbed me through the suit coat. “I’m not attracted to you.”
“Liar.”
“You’re not my type.”
“What? Successful, sexy men aren’t your type?”
“Maybe I like my guys with a little humility?”
The music swayed, and I spun her so I could check out her ass. “Humility’s boring. Especially when you have reason to be confident.”
“Cocky.”
“Nine inches of it, Kiss.” I didn’t let her pull from my arms. “What if I said that you were my type?”
“Is it supposed to be a compliment?”
“Well…yeah.”
Leah smirked. My cock twisted.
And she called me trouble.
Her hands grazed over my chest, as if poking me would shame the hardness away. “You’re attracted to anything walking on two legs.”
I spun her again, this time observing everything from her strapping black heels to the hemline of her skirt. “Your legs are some of the best I’ve ever seen.”
“I should be insulted.”
“But you’re not.”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t, because I was right, and she fucking knew it.
“Kiss, you are an amazingly beautiful woman.” I let my touch drift low, brushing her arms, her waist, and hips as I tugged her closer with the music. She let me. What a tease. “I promised you the full Jack Carson experience. We ate dinner. We’re dancing. Now there’s only one thing left to do.”
“And what’s that?”
“My favorite part of the evening.”
“Dream on, loverboy.”
“Oh, believe me, Kiss. After tonight, that’s all I’ll be dreaming about.”
She would too. The little hitch in her breath gave her away. She wanted to know what it’d be like too. She could find out. I’d drag her from the restaurant, toss her in my car, and deliver her to my bed. I doubted she ever spent a night with her legs in the air and her inhibitions tossed on the floor beside her panties. I’d have her screaming my name and praising my cock before we were done.
And then I’d do it again in the morning.
Just how Jack Carson pleased the women lucky enough to attract him.
Fuck the music. I lifted her chin, staring at her full, parting lips. I only had to convince her.
I took another kiss. Not like the one at the practice facility. This wasn’t some juvenile posturing—overwhelming her just to crack that holier-than-thou façade. This was a kiss meant to promise everything she never planned to experience.
Passion.
Lust.
Excitement.
Raw, carnal fucking.
Her lips tasted sweet like wine. I never kissed a girl with lips as soft as hers. Then again, I hardly ever kissed women. Usually their puffy lips wrapped over my cock.
Just the thought of Leah on her knees, opening her mouth, worshiping me between the silky caress of her lips nearly had me explode.
Fuck.
Who the hell gave this woman such power over me?
And why hadn’t I tried to fuck it out of her before?
Her tongue darted over mine. I pulled her tighter, harder.
Then…a flash.
A quick, intrusive camera flash.
I knew the type. Heard the shutter before. I ripped away from Leah as the jackass with the camera stormed the dance floor.
A waiter and server pulled him back, but not before the asshole grinned at Leah.
“How ‘bout a picture for the Ironfield Almanac, baby? Jack Carson’s newest slut? Were you one of the whores from the accident?”
I saw red. Rage. The kind of aggression I only felt when the game clock ticked the seconds down after the championship game and my opponents celebrated in the end zone off my intercepted pass.
The bastard insulted Leah.
She shouted as I lunged for him, but I wasn’t aiming for his neck. That was the only reason he survived.
I grabbed the camera and spiked it onto the dance floor. The lenses shattered, but the equipment didn’t smash until I drove my foot into it. The photographer swore. I took Leah’s arm and hauled her away as the man broke down in ragged profanity.
“What the hell are you doing?” She hissed.
“Getting you out of here.” I nodded to the maître d'. He’d know where to send the bill for dinner. “No one talks to you like that.”
And no one would again.
Even if it was a fake relationship. Even if we were pretending.
Leah Williams was a goddamned lady who deserved better than a label of a slut.
She deserved better than me.
Chapter Five - Leah
Jack was pissed.
More than pissed. Furious. The kind of rage that made my job as his publicist exceedingly difficult.
Usually his worst scandals were sexual in nature. Occasionally he had a minor issue on the field. Fortunately, he had only one physical altercation since signing with the Rivets, and even that was settled quickly and quietly.
Lucky for anyone who crossed him.
Jack was a huge, imposing, utterly dominating beast of pure animalistic strength. Had he wanted to hurt that tabloid journalist, Jack would have reduced that bastard to a pile of broken bones.
It was the sort of problem the league expected, and exactly the type of crisis he hired me to handle.
Unfortunately, his reaction to the journalist would get us both fired. I waited for the call that’d summon us to the police station.
My heart thudded in my chest. That was good. I thought I left it at dinner, puddling on the ground at Jack’s feet while he delivered the single greatest kiss of my life. Jack slammed his car door. The Porsche was too expensive to mistreat, but we were damn lucky he kept the vehicle on the road and under one hundred miles an hour as we launched from the restaurant.
“What are you doing?” I reached for his arm, but I didn’t have the courage to touch him. “Jack, please calm down.”
Rage strained his voice. “I’m getting you out of there.”
“Why?”
“So that cocksucker can’t harass you anymore.”
I couldn’t take a deep breath, and Jack stared at the road only to jerk the wheel and pass the other motorists. Apparently, normal traffic laws no longer applied to a man who single-handedly led the city to their first championship game in twenty-five years.
I had no idea what to say. “I’m fine, Jack.”
“What he said wasn’t.”
“You broke his camera.”
“He’s lucky that’s all I broke.”
He jammed the car in a higher gear and headed for the highway. I thought he would settle down, but every agonizing mile only pumped him more. I knew he had a temper, but he white-knuckle gripped the wheel. Was he really that upset on my behalf?
I didn’t ask where we were going. He drove me out of the city and took the exit for Teagan Heights.
This was a section of town where I didn’t belong. There, the houses were worth millions, and the men inside worth ten times that.
Jack took me to his house.
The mansion wasn’t the gaudy palace I expected, but it was gated, huge, and wrapped with a pool, hot tub, and evergreen trees to offer privacy. He pulled into a ten car garage. Only four of the bays were filled. A Mercedes, one motorcycle he was restoring, a totaled classic car, and an old Toyota. Jack stormed past it, but I pointed. He didn’t look.
“My dad’s old car.”
He waited for me at the door to the house. I remembered his file. “Your dad passed away?”
“Day of the league draft.” He toughened, intentionally, hiding the pain. “He didn’t live to see the Rivets take me. Come in.”
Jack’s extravagant living room was too classy for both of us. The parlor was a fancy, untouched slice of what a millionaire was supposed to like, complete with chandeliers and paisley patterns. He showed me the kitchen and dining room with a wave of his hand, but he steered clear of the sitting room that had probably gone unused since he purchased the home.
His den was downstairs, and it was a true man cave. He installed a wet bar and leather seats, a fireplace and every game system imaginable for the wall sized TV. It was dim, cozy, and served as an award room. He didn’t hang trophies and accolades, but jerseys and photographs. I lingered near the newspaper articles from his high school and the letters from old teachers and friends who congratulated him on everything from his college bowl games to getting drafted by the one of the most prestigious teams in the league.