Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(183)

“Uh, what are you doing?”

He tosses his shirt aside; “Uh, swimming, darlin. It’s a pool, that’s what you do in them.”

“Cute.”

“Oh, you’re coming in too, you know.”

I raise an eyebrow at him as he starts to unbuckle his belt; “Yeah I don’t think so.”

“Nope, you have to,” He shrugs nonchalantly, which is hard to pull off when his face looks like the cat that just caught the canary; “Post-victory tradition; jump in the damn pool.”

“I don’t have a suit.” It’s a lame excuse, since he clearly didn’t bring one either.

“Neither do I.” He’s stripping his jeans off, and I’m blushing but not really trying to look away as he stands there in tight, grey boxer-briefs that cling to every inch of him; and I do mean every inch. It’s almost not even fair. I mean the guy’s a billionaire already; does he have to look like some kind of Greek warrior too? He tosses his pants onto a lounge chair and looks at me expectantly, standing there with that incredible body, with his insanely ripped abs and those twin grooves of his hips leading down…

Ooooo-kay. Yeah, I am definitely not getting in a pool with Logan Dempsey looking like that.

“Archer, you’ve got about 10 seconds to start stripping before I toss you in just like that.”

We lock eyes, and I know he’s crazy enough to be serious. He’s also not going to get this one over on me, and so instead I just shrug and start unbuttoning my shorts. He smirks, looking pleased with himself.

“You didn’t think I would, huh?”

“No, not really actually.”

“Shows what you know then.” I’m hoping my voice comes off as flippant and confident instead of the bundle of nerves I feel like inside. I’m pushing all the thoughts out of my head though of how crazy it is that I’m pulling my t-shirt up over my head and letting him see me in my black bra and panties. I’m actually relieved for a second that I actually managed to wear a matching pair, though I’m kind of wishing I wasn’t wearing a damn thong.

Whatever, I think; It’s not like he hasn’t seen it all before.

Yeah, not really a comforting thought, actually.

But a minute later, we’re both standing in chest-high water clinking glasses, and I’m doing my damnedest not think about the fact that I’m barely a foot away from a practically naked Logan Dempsey in just my underwear.





15





Logan




Ok, there’s playing with fire, and then there’s just sticking your whole fuckin hand in the flames.

Late-night underwear pool-hopping with Quinn Archer is so, so much the latter.

I’m kind of going out of my mind here, and I know I’m pushing this whole “innocent flirtation” thing way too far. I’m dancing on that edge; I’m testing myself here, and I also think I’m about to lose. Why the hell is she up here? Why did I bring her, and why on Earth did she even say yes? She’s a smart woman, obviously, but I’d have thought she was smart enough to see right through my bullshit and just flat-out turn me down on this. I mean the whole point was to push her buttons until she backed down and I’d just drive her home; the plan never actually went further than that. Certainly not to the point where I’m standing two feet away from her in a pool when she’s just wearing that fucking black lacy bra and thong panties hugging all her curves in all the right places.

Luckily, the water surface is enough to maybe conceal the fact that my rock-hard erection is threatening to tear a hole in my briefs.

Damn, this is like the mistake I just can’t let go of. If I was a smarter man - maybe if I were Bryce or something - I’d walk away right now. Erection be damned, I’d step out of this pool, call a driver for Quinn, and then leave. I’d find somewhere else to live that wasn’t ten feet up from where she sleeps, find a new team member for the outreach program, and just severe ties.

Of course, looking at her now with just the tips of her dark auburn hair getting wet in the pool, the tops of her breasts glistening with drops of water in the low light, and that unintentionally coy smile, I know that none of that is happening. Not in a million fucking years.

So instead, we sit on this submerged bench seat against the side of the pool in the shallow end, sipping scotch and just staring out over the neon forest of Manhattan.

“It’s pretty up here.” She takes a small sip of her drink, and I’m not even able to look away from the perfectly unintentionally sexy way her lips linger on the edge of the glass as she swallows.

“I like coming up here.”

“After fights?”