Dirty Player(36)

It occurred to me that she’d been speaking, but I’d drifted off. I dragged off my eyes off the box I could spy down the hallway and focused on her.

“Patrick was never good enough for you. I know Beaux told you that, and now I’m telling you that. I stayed silent even though I never liked the guy, but you did and you deserved your happy, but Patrick was never going to be it for you. And frankly, I’m glad you’ve now got a large dick sticking it to you so you can realize that there are men out there who are real men and not the pussy guy Patrick is.”

She was right, in a sense. I was tired of defending the guy, talking about him, and even thinking about him.

“Well, it’s done now,” I murmured and took another drink of wine. “Let’s put it behind us.”

“Yes, let’s. Now, let’s talk more about this hunk of a man you have. He is fine…”

She continued speaking and rambling, like she usually did, and I quit listening. The truth was, there was no comparison between Oliver’s six foot four, two-fifty, muscled frame that held a bit of thickness around his sides and Patrick at five-ten and one-eighty. Both were built and in shape for their build, but Oliver was on another level.

A man who had spent years honing his body into a machine was no match, physically, for a man who occasionally ran on the weekends and lifted weights only when the spirit moved him.

While Melissa rattled on, I continued thinking about all the years I’d spent with Patrick, finally letting the truth everyone spoke to me sink into me like it should have long ago.

They were right about Patrick. Patrick had always expected me to bow to him, to go along with what he wanted because he was a McDonnelly.

I had fallen for it. I had craved the security his financial situation could provide someday, not to live a life of luxury, but to know with certainty that I’d never eat a week of bologna and cheese sandwiches again, and even then only eat twice a day.

But had I ever craved his touch the way I already craved Oliver’s? Had I ever responded to him physically so quickly? So deeply? Did I miss him when we were apart, waiting for the minute I could see him again?

If they ever existed, they’d evaporated a long time ago.

Regardless of the passion we could have had in the beginning, it had long since burned out by the time he proposed. I had chalked it up to that’s what happened when you moved in with someone. When you knew them so well after so many years that it was easy to settle into roommates with lackluster sex lives where you knew every move that would come before it happened.

We’d been stale. I hadn’t even been bothered by it.

Already I knew that if that passion with Oliver waned, I’d fight tooth and nail to get it back, hanging onto it with everything I had to keep from losing it again.

“I didn’t love him,” I whispered.

The babbling voice on the other end of the phone went silent. “Jensen Ackles?” Melissa finally asked, confusion thick in her voice. “Because I was talking about—”

“Sorry, I wasn’t listening, and I’ll let you rant about Supernatural later, but I think I just had an epiphany.”

“About Patrick?” Any other friend might have been offended by admitting they’d been talking and you’d totally drifted off. Not Melissa. Of course, her obsession with Supernatural rivaled mine with Sons of Anarchy—something she never understood.

“Yes. I didn’t love him. Or if I did, I stopped a long time ago.”

I didn’t have to see her to know she was rolling her eyes. “Well, duh. I could have told you that.”

I finished my glass of wine in one large swallow. “I love you. You know that, right, Pissy Missy?”

She snorted. “Sure, hooker. I know that.”



***



My palms went clammy as soon as I saw Oliver’s name flash on my phone.

I was tipsy, having drunk more wine after Melissa and I hung up. Then more wine while I watched Raleigh cream Miami. For two guys who had seemed to think the game was going to be close, they had played a game that the sports announcers were declaring “prophetic of the rest of their Super Bowl-bound season.”

I’d been so excited that I’d finished the bottle of wine while I cheered for every completed pass, every touchdown, every dodged sack and tackle.

Now, I was about to have a heart attack. If it was possible, the butt plug on my nightstand had grown throughout the day.

It wasn’t even just a phone call that made me nervous. It was the small white video camera inside a green circle.

FaceTime? Oh God.

My stomach sank to my gut as I hit the Answer button. When we connected and I saw his eyes crinkle behind those sexy as hell eyeglass frames when he smiled, I swallowed past the lump in my throat.

“Hey, you. Good game tonight.” I cringed as my voice cracked.

Oliver’s smile disappeared as he noticed. “You okay?”

“I’m good. I promise. Maybe had a bit too much to drink tonight, excited to see you. You played great.”

His eyes softened. His smile was a bit tremulous, as if he wasn’t used to the praise. It was that vulnerability that made my heart skip a beat. “Thank you. Everything about the game was good, like we’re figuring out our shit on the field.”

“It looked like it.” There was an awkward pause and heat crept up my neck to my cheeks.

“You’re nervous,” he said, adjusting in his seat. He leaned back, and that was when I noticed he wasn’t wearing a shirt. All I saw on the small screen in my hand was tanned and firm muscles, slight bruises blooming on his ribcage, but I knew enough not to ask. Bruises and injuries were part of the game. “Would you care to tell me why?”

I blinked harshly and forced myself to look him in the eye. He smirked and ran his tongue along his teeth. Slowly.

Teasingly.

God. He knew why I was nervous and he was loving it.

“I found your present,” I admitted, my voice thick.

His lips twitched. “And you’re not going to say thank you?”

My voice went soft. “I’m a bit too afraid for that quite yet.”

“You will.” He nodded confidently. “When I’m inside you, with your ass full of the plug, you’ll be thankful for it.”

“You sound so sure.” My body was already responding to the idea, to his words and his confidence. Warmth hit my inner thighs, making everything tingle.

He crossed his arms over his chest, excitement flashing in his eyes all while seeming so unconcerned at my nerves. “Tell me what you first thought when you saw it. And while you’re doing that, take off your shirt. I woke up hard this morning, wishing I could put my mouth on your tits.”

“God, Oliver.” I was already practically panting. My breath quickened from nerves mixed with desire. I still listened. I took off my shirt and my bra, sitting in my bed in only a simple white cotton thong. Without being told, I adjusted my position on the bed and propped up my phone so I could talk to him without holding it.

Something told me I would need my hands soon anyway.

“When you saw the plug?” he asked, his hands disappearing below my line of sight. I knew what he was doing as he shifted his hips, pushed down, and then the muscles in one of his arms began to bunch and flex while he began working himself.

God, I wanted to see it. See him stroke himself.

“I liked it,” I admitted, breathless now. “We talked about it but then you didn’t mention it again. I’ve been curious.”

“Scared?”

I nodded, then blinked as he continued working himself. “I want to see you,” I blurted.

He barked out a quick laugh but pushed back from the desk. Shit. He was naked. Completely, except for those glasses I wanted him wearing sometime when he was on top of me. They made him seem less like a god and more like a man. A completely edible man. His hard dick stood straight up while he wrapped his hand around it. His thighs were spread wide, unashamedly.

Always so confident.

I dragged my gaze off him masturbating and blinked quickly. “I’ve never done this. Or that,” I admitted, thinking of the plug and him taking that part of me. “It makes me nervous. Scares me. But I want it, too.”

“You’ll fucking love it. God, do you see how hard I am for you? So damn hard for you all the time. And all you have to do is listen to what I say. Can you do that, Shan?”

I nodded, dropped my gaze back to his dick. Wetness dampened my thong.

“Take off your underwear, then. As sexy as you are covered, I want to see you.”

I shifted again, listening to his rich voice, the way his hazel eyes had gone as dark as the forest. Every muscle in his face was tight and his abs bunched and rolled while he worked himself. He was just as turned on as me.

When I was naked, I fought for my confidence and planted my feet on the bed, knees up and legs spread wide so he could see all of me. I was completely exposed to him.

The look in his eyes told me he liked it. “Good. Now run a thumb over your nipple, tease yourself while I watch you.”

I listened without hesitation. My nipples were already as hard as diamonds anyway. Each brush of my thumb sent sparks of pleasure straight to my sex. Without being told, my other hand drifted down my stomach until I was rubbing two of my fingers over my clit.

“Oh, God,” I gasped, arching into my hand. My eyes grew heavy, but I forced myself to keep them on Oliver.