Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(137)
I swing wildly, feeling fatigued to the point of sloppiness as I swing through air where his face used to be. He’s grinning at me, looking like he’s barely out of breath as he skips away before ducking back in to land another hit against my jaw.
“You wanna yield?” He’s taunting me, and we both know it. We also both know these little bouts of ours only end when I can’t physically lift my arm anymore or when I hit the ground too many times.
“Getting tired, old man?” I grin at him, knowing this gets right under his skin; “I mean thirty’s creeping up there buddy, I can let you go take a breather if you wan-” I see fucking stars as his glove catches me right above the left eye, and then the world is spinning as I land on my back on the floor of the ring.
Bryce taps the bell, shaking his head as I turn to shake my head at him; “Nope, fuck off Hudson, I’m calling it.”
“Aww c’mon man! I had him!”
Logan snorts as he bends down to give me a hand up; “Oh, definitely, Hud. Closest one yet.”
“Dick.”
He grins at me; “Hey, someday you might even land a punch on me, which’ll be the surprise of the century.”
I’m swatting at him with my glove when Bryce swears under his breath; “I got one better for you.”
I glance over at him, hunched over his laptop screen with his jaw hanging open and furrow my brow; “What?” He’s slowly shaking his head, his eyes skimming whatever he’s reading. “Dude, what?”
Bryce raises his head to look at us with a crooked grin on his face; “Reagan Archer just announced her candidacy for New York State Senate.”
Well, huh.
P R E S E N T
“Where the fuck are we going?”
I grit my teeth and try to stop myself from saying anything; from telling her she’s being a brat, from telling her I’m sick of this bullshit - hell, from telling her all the shit I’m dying to tell her if I could only figure out how.
“Hudson!” She’s yelling now; “You can’t just fucking kidnap me you know. Aren’t you Mr. ‘Low-Profile’? I’m pretty sure kidnapping Legislative candidates gets you high-profile faster than you can-”
“Will you shut up?” I finally bark at her, my hands gripping the wheel tight as we screech around a corner, narrowly missing some idiot hipster out riding a fixie bicycle in the fucking snow.
“We’re going to my place.”
She frowns; “Why, you’ve never taken me to your place bef-”
“Because it’s safe there, that’s why.” I turn and stare at her, our eyes meeting with a sort of burning spark that keeps me looking at her for far longer than I should considering I’m driving a damn car. I tear my gaze away and accelerate around a taxi.
“Is it?” She says quietly, and when I turn back this time, her look is hungrier; more naked.
I turn back to the road, and without warning I slide my hand up high on her thigh. I can hear her breath catch, and feel the thrum of her pulse hot under her skin.
“Don’t you dare think you’re going to-”
Her words end in a gasp as I slide my hand right up under her dress to the heated and damp fabric of her panties and I grin; “Ahh, yeah, you don’t want me at all, right?”
She bites her lip and shakes her; “Mm-mm, nope; not at all.”
I gun the engine, letting the horses fucking rip under the hood as I stroke my finger up over her panties; tracing her sex through the wet material and relishing in the quiet moan she valiantly tries but ultimately fails to swallow. We’re speeding through streets now, the engine roaring as I dodge cars and blow through lights. My finger slides beneath the side of her panties and strokes her lips, and she rocks her hips towards me.
“Still sure you don’t want me?”
“Definitely,” she gasps, her breathing comes ragged as I stroke my finger through her wetness and roll my thumb over her clit. She drops her head back and willing spreads her legs wider, and I know I’ve got her close as I roar around another corner.
“Oh, well that’s good then, because we’re here.”
I screech the car to a purr in front of my building and withdraw my fingers from her panties. She whirls to stare at me, and the look she gives me as her jaw drops is pure, undiluted frustration, and I love it.
“Better cover up, Senator,” I say with a shit-eating grin as I nod towards the approaching valet. Reagan scrambles to pull her skirt back down, shooting daggers at me as I chuckle and step out of the car. I toss the keys to Richard, the valet, outside my building and usher the fuming Reagan through the front door. The brusqueness is to minimize the exposure to possible photographers who might see where she’s headed, but also because I’ve got this insane need to be alone with her as quickly as fucking possible. I hurry us across the glossy marble floor of my lobby and yank her into one of the ultra-modern glass and metal elevators. Reagan’s skirt is riding high on her thigh, and as the doors close, she starts to smooth the material down.