Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(277)

I nod slowly.

He grins; “So, it seems you’re my half-sister.”

The floor just sort of drops out then; strangely familiar looking eyes. The dizziness starts to take me then as he roars at someone down the hall to open the door. And then he’s got me, holding me upright and wrapping those arms around me; “I got you, kid; I got you,” He’s saying quietly; “And I’m getting you out of here.”

I’m looking down at my feet to avoid the stares of the deputies and the sheriffs and the other people in the station as we move through it, but he leans close to my ear; “Head up, kid. You didn’t do anything wrong, so show ‘em all that you’re made of something stronger than them.”

I’m still floating, still sleepwalking through this waking daydream turn of events when we step outside, and it’s then that I look up and see him, standing next to a black car.

Holy shit.

He’s all dark eyes and dark brooding silence, with tattoos running the length of the arms folded over his strong-looking chest. And as soon as our eyes meet, I know I’m more lost than I’ve ever been.

“Peyton, this is my broth-” He shakes his head; “This is Bryce.”

It doesn’t happen right away, but I think we both knew the writing on the wall the first time our eyes met coming out of that police station in Texas. And it’s perfect, because broken sees broken, and somehow we both see a fix there. It starts innocently enough, and then grows far more serious; too serious. It’s a whirlwind of two shattered storms crashing together, and it’s passion and love, and something even deeper than that.

…Until I find- well, until I find out that it’s all bullshit

And then it’s over.



P R E S E N T



I shake my head as I step out of the shower and grab a towel from the back of the door, trying to clear thoughts like that out of my head.

I frown at my reflection in the hotel bathroom mirror; still completely un-fogged given the cold-water shower I've just taken to try and fight the heat of the day and grime of traveling. I need to not think of things like that; I need to not think of him, in any capacity.

But of course, not thinking of Bryce Connors is like not thinking about the splinter under your skin, or the cut on the inside of your mouth that you just can't stop playing with. I'm angry that he's followed me here inside my head like this. I'm pissed that, even here on the other side of the world at the hotel on the edge of the spice district of Istanbul, I can't even take a shower to try and clear my head without him invading my thoughts and creeping into the darkest parts of my desires and my fantasies.

I toss the towel aside as I stretch out face-down across the bed by the window and let out a sigh; Goddammit. Ten-thousand miles between here and the hallway of the hospital back in New York and I still can't stop thinking about the way he pressed against me. All the shame and the guilt and the forbidden heat of that moment comes rushing back; the traitorous feelings of want and desire when I should be worried about the safety and whereabouts of my only family.

Damn him. Damn the way his eyes blazed like that, in the way they always do that sets a match to something inside of me. Damn the way our bodies pressed together like that, the heat of the forbidden and the nevermore roaring like a barely contained eruption.

Damn the way I felt alive - actually alive - for the first time with him.

The way I clung to him like a raft in a storm. The way the screaming rains and gail-force winds of the tempest that was the two of us still rings in my ears a year later.

I bite my lip and close my eyes as I think of that first stolen and forbidden kiss. The kiss that seared itself across my lips deeper and hotter than any cigarette burn ever did, and immortalized itself into my life stronger than any tattoo ink ever could. That first kiss that ignited and burned into something fierce and something wild. The kiss that quickly moved to more kisses, and more than kisses.

I feel the spark somewhere deep inside of me as my nipples stiffen at the memory, and shiver as they graze across the silken sheets beneath my body. The familiar heat blooms between my legs, making me bite my lips and move almost unconsciously against the sheets as I let the temptation of the forbidden fantasy creep into my mind.

I hate that he does this to me; hate that he makes me feel this way, with the instant effect he has on me.

Still.

It's never gone away, either. For a full fucking year, every single time he manages to get through my defense or every time I stumble and let the memory of him or us into my head, I feel like this.

I moan softly as fingers trail traitorously over skin, feeling my body tremble beneath them.

Saying I hate it is the biggest lie of my life.