Banking Her (A Billionaire Bad Boys Novella)(37)

I scoffed. “Hello? How do you think? I fluffing told him.”

“Now it all makes sense.” He chuckled softly and shook his head in amusement. “Everyone behind the desk was trying to stare at my dick, you know, inconspicuously, but I just figured I had some VPL going.” I raised my eyebrows and he explained. “Visible Penis Line. I saw it on one of your book blogs.”

He pressed a smacking kiss to my lips and gave my ass a good, hard smack. “I should have known the stares were more intense than normal.”

“Thanks to my evil ways,” I declared with a laugh.

“Exactly.” He shook his head and laughed again. “God, I love you.”

I gazed into his smirking brown eyes and knew with absolute certainty he wasn’t alone. I fell deeper under his spell a little more each day. “Is it time for makeup sex now?”

“No, honey, it’s time for marathon sex.”

He flipped me onto my back and lifted my shirt up and over my head. His fingers were sliding into my panties, and he had sucked a hardened nipple into his hot mouth before I could offer a response.

I moaned when his thumb joined the party and started rubbing smooth circles around my clit.

“Yeah, definitely marathon sex,” he agreed with his earlier comment. “I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk tomorrow.”

“What about the game?” I asked, but in all honesty, I gave fluff all about that game. At that point, the only balls I was in the mood for were Thatch’s.

“I’ll fucking carry you,” was the last thing he said before he tore off my panties, spread my thighs, pulled his perfect cock out of his jeans and buried himself to the hilt.

“Thatch, yes,” I whimpered and lifted my arms so I could grip the headboard with my fingers.

“That’s right, honey. Hold on tight. We’re going for gold in Phoenix tonight.”

I couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up and out of my chest, but Thatch stopped it for me with a carefully placed rotation of his hips.

“Oh, holy hell,” I moaned as the head of his dick put pressure on the perfect spot inside of me.

“You’re everything,” he whispered in my ear as I tightened my thighs around his waist. One kiss, two, he touched his lips to my neck before licking a line from my collarbone to my jaw. “Watching you these last few weeks, Cass,” he went on, his voice so genuine it was nearly tortured, “I could not have imagined a better version of you.”

My eyes closed and my head lolled back. An opportunist, Thatch used the space to lick his way down my chest until his lips met my breast.

His hips worked faster and deeper, seeking every inch of connection he could get, and I welcomed it. Warmth and love danced in his eyes as he lifted them to meet mine, and I fell right down their well.

Into comfort and safety—and right into my orgasm.

It took me by surprise, so sudden, so powerful, but Thatch didn’t look surprised at all; he looked like he’d been waiting.

Waiting for me and this moment and everything we were and would ever be.

“You’re everything too,” I told him softly as he groaned through the height of his climax.

And he was—everything I’d never been smart enough to hope for.





Winnie stood at the side of the field in casual clothes—or so she would describe them.

To me, there was nothing casual about the way her jeans framed and lifted her ass or the sight of all that perfect, creamy skin revealed by the sleeveless cut of her tank top.

It was hot as balls here, even in October, and I didn’t blame her for dressing down a little. There was no reason to come to the last walk-through practice in femme-fatale battle gear, but I’d thought she was only dangerous in those skirts and crisp business shirts. In her daily gear, she was like something out of my teenage wet dreams—the ones that used to make me actually come in my sheets.



Yep. I’m admitting to that. Any man who doesn’t is a liar.



Quinn Bailey stepped back, shuffling out of the pocket with ease and lobbing a light pass over the heads of waiting defenders at the center of the field. Bransky was late to the crossover, behind the pass, and would have been demolished during a game-day scenario of this play, so the sound of the whistle from Coach Bennett’s lips was no surprise.

“Bransky!” he yelled. “Get your ass back here and run it again!”

I would have laughed if it hadn’t been for the expression on Bransky’s face that made it look like Bennett had just told him his favorite grandmother died. He was still young, right out of college, and his fucking people-pleasing attitude was one in a million. The kid seriously didn’t know the meaning of quit, and he was going to go places because of it. Not just in the NFL, but in life. The sad truth was, so few people worked that hard anymore.