Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(105)

“Easy, Marine.” It’s William, and I’m instantly feeling like shit because I know I’m not supposed to be drinking, and I also know that he can see right through me and knows I have been. His eyes narrow at me, and I can see that he’s not mad per-say, he’s just disappointed.

Jesus, why is it always ten thousand times worse when he people you want to look good for are disappointed instead of just plain angry at you.

“Are you in control?”

No. Yes. Maybe? Grab me a beer and I’ll let you know? I of course don’t say any of those things and just nod like an asshole instead. I’m not trashed or anything, but this man has risked so much and given me a life straight out of a fucking movie script; all on the foundation that I clean up and keep my shit together, and I’m blowing that.

“I’m good, sir.”

He nods slowly; “Good, I know Reagan is excited to meet you.”



P R E S E N T



I awake from the memory momentarily confused by the ceiling that stares blankly back at me until I remember that I’m in the guest bedroom at Reagan’s apartment.

Technically, it was her mother’s place that she kept in the city to get away from it all, Reagan told me last night when we got in. But since she graduated, it’s apparently became Reagan’s de facto home. It might not be a mansion up in Greenwich, but it’s hardly slumming it either. It’s light in here, and airy, and even though we’re in Manhattan, the sounds of the city seem more of a background lull than the typical white noise grating on your ears. There’s a homey warmth to it that I realize quite starkly is something I’ve never known; not in the desert during our deployment, not in hiding after that, and certainly not in my shattered life before. Even with the money I have now, my penthouse is stark and modern and cold; the opposite of this place.

This place has love.

I wince as I roll out of bed, feeling the dull pain in my shoulder and partially regretting my workout last night. Reagan’s building has a pretty lame little gym in the basement, but when I realized there was a boxing bag there, I hit it hard last night when we got back. I wince again recalling that I fell asleep without showering last night; a problem that needs fixing right now.

I groan, thinking about how I’d tried to shower the night before, only to realize when I’d walked down the hallway that the door was shut and the water was on. The dawning realization that only a thin piece of wood and possibly a shower curtain stood between me and a naked Reagan had gotten me so fucking hard that I’d felt my pulse roar in my ears like a fucking jet engine. The mental image of her, the hot water cascading down her perfect body, the steam rising around her, her hands lathering her skin with soap had me gripping the doorframe with an iron grip, wanting nothing more than to break down that door, crush her body to mine and take her right there in the damn shower.

Obviously, my restraint is to be applauded, as I’d instead gone back to my guest room with a raging case of blue balls and a nonstop fantasy of Reagan wearing nothing but some soap bubbles dancing through my head as I’d fallen fitfully asleep.

I’m still thinking about it, and I’m rock hard with my cock straining at my boxer-briefs as I poke my head out of the door and look around. Reagan might be what most people call an early riser, but I’m a Marine; “early” is a subjective term.

I’m used to the five-nozzle automatic steam shower I’ve had installed at my penthouse these days, but there’s an old world nostalgia that hits me when I manually crank on the water in Reagan’s clawfoot tub. The loofa that played a very soapy and very x-rated roll in my dreams of her last night is hanging there on a hook by the shower-head, and a surge of lust hits me again as the scent of her soap and her shampoo hit me. I think of her standing in this very tub last night, her skin pink and wet, her breasts rising and falling as she breathes in the steam, and the water running over her stomach and her hips to trickle down between her legs.

Jesus, get a fucking grip, man.

I’m so hard thinking about Reagan that I’m practically about to rip through my briefs, so I shuck them down my thighs, and that’s when the door barges open.

She’s clearly just stumbled out of bed, and it’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. She’s wearing these thin little white panties that are clinging tightly to every curve of her hips and every crease between her thighs, and this sheer lacy nighty thing that I can see right fucking through.

“I, oh-!” She trips over whatever she’s about to say as I whirl around, and then she’s just staring at my cock. Her mouth is open in this sexy as fuck way, and I can feel my dick actually jump as her tongue barely slides out to briefly wet her lip and then it just feels like time stops. We’re frozen in this moment, barely three feet away from each other and yet neither of us moving or saying a damn thing. And there is so much I want to say that I almost can’t think, but at the same time, I don’t want anything in the world to shatter this moment.