Scoring the Billionaire(11)

In addition to the ball-shriveling cold, there was another discomfort  lurking about thirty yards away. All of the big guys with muscles and  mud stains on their clothes were good camouflage, but I wasn't fooled-I  was approaching a coffee klatch, a gossip hour, a psychoanalysis so  thorough you'd think they all had PhDs.

"Come on, Whitney," Thatch called as my advance finally got his  attention. "We don't have time to wait for your pedicure to dry."

"Thursday is pedicure day," I replied easily while scratching the side  of my face with my middle finger and coming to a stop in the only open  spot in the huddle. "Today was facial day."

Smiles graced the faces of each and every player in the circle,  surprised at my easygoing attitude-except for those of my friends. They  knew me better, had the map to get inside the façade, but I'd never  really needed the defense before. So they knew what I was really  thinking: no big deal.

Now I had secrets-big ones-things I swore up and down I wouldn't feel  despite their prodding. Affection, longing-a general need to be with or  talking to a certain woman at any free moment.

Thatch's eyes narrowed, and Kline's shrewd gaze zeroed in on my eyes.

Fuck. I'd hoped to be able to get my footing on this uneven ground, this newfound territory, before they caught wind of it.

Unfortunately, despite all my efforts, with the taste of Winnie's sweet  pussy still on my tongue, I found it completely impossible to deaden the  excitement from my eyes.

Emotionless, flat Wes had fled the motherfucking building. And Manhattan. And the surrounding four boroughs.         

     



 

Kline elbowed Thatch just as he opened his mouth to speak and jerked his  chin toward the rest of our company. With Tommy, Johnny, Sawyer, and  Jensen looking on, even Thatch wasn't dumb enough to engage in personal  talk about a woman who was friends with his wife.



That's right, wife.



Just a few weeks ago, after a bout of questionably illegal activity,  Thatch had pulled out all the stops, demanded favors from everyone he  knew-including me-and dropped Cassie right into the middle of a wedding  she couldn't escape. Not that she'd tried. The two of them were so happy  it was almost sickening. Almost.

It was also the first time I'd touched Winnie Winslow, her small hand  tight in mine and her heart in her eyes. God, keeping my eyes off of her  and on the wedding had been … challenging. Just short of impossible,  really.

"You're late, but least you're here," Tommy teased. "Thatch is a beast,  but Kline's skills are fading now that he's blissfully chained."

"Your skin looks fabulous," Jensen mocked, and I cranked my middle  finger up like a jack-in-the-box at the same time Kline reacted to his  own dig.

"Fuck you," Kline said playfully, no sting in his tone and a grin  lifting the corners of his mouth. He was never one to get upset, and now  that Georgia occupied his bed morning and night, he was practically  unflappable.

The bastard.

"Hey, I'm married too," Thatch protested irrationally, practically  begging the guys to razz on him about being tied to Crazy Cassie. He fed  on the energy, built on it until the only one left floundering was the  person who'd set him up. Unfortunately for me and entertainment value,  Thatch was too big and the guys were too smart to say anything really  biting.

"Congratulations," Sawyer offered as Johnny plucked out, "Poor woman."

Thatch was speechless, wanting them to poke at him so he could shove back, but at a current loss as to how to make that happen.

"It's okay, big guy," I teased, slapping him on the back roughly. "I'm  sure Cassie will torture you for your newfound status enough for the  rest of us."

"Cassie isn't torture."

Subtle smiles were exchanged before everyone started to back away. The  bomb was primed, the gun was loaded, and the whole damn place was just  ticking away on its little timer.

If we let it, our entire practice could easily be spent here, shooting  the shit and razzing the fuck out of whatever wounded animal found its  way into the circle. It was the nature of men. Torment or be tormented.  One or the other.

I raised my brows as the other guys dispersed, and Kline jogged over to  his bag to look at his phone one more time. Jensen called out from the  pitch about how good Georgia must have looked when she sexted. Kline  threw up a middle finger over his shoulder and kept his head to his  phone.

"Okay, but it's the good kind," Thatch admitted, bringing my attention  back to him. "Like a little spank with a riding crop or a flogger."

I smiled at the memory of slapping Winnie's pussy and ass and the fucking delightful way she reacted to both.

Thatch didn't know how to interpret it, and unknowingly granted me an  innocence of which I wasn't even remotely worthy. "Are your ears  burning? Was that too scary for you?"

I just laughed and turned away, taking my position and stretching my  hamstrings as the scrimmage got underway. He has no fucking clue.

A lot of guys shared all the stories of their sexcapades, but I'd never  been one to give more than a couple cursory details-and it'd never been  like it was with Winnie. So he really didn't have any idea. About my  proclivity or past or present.

Even the things he thought he knew were just that-thoughts.

Part of that was because even I didn't have any hard and fast rules or  expectations-I liked what I liked in the moment and went with whatever  made my companion the wettest. The difference now was that what got  Winnie drenched, concurrently got me hard-like two halves of a sexually  deviant whole, everything that made her tick made me tock, and when I  came the hardest I'd ever come, she came harder.

We were a match in a way I hadn't been expecting.         

     



 

And, evidently, unforeseen circumstances were the theme of the day. Like  a goddamn iron fist, with speed and an arch created by a powerful kick  by Tommy, the ball hit me right square in the nuts.

Pain erupted like a million firecrackers exploding in my pants, and I closed my eyes against the onslaught.

Thatch yelled, "Oh, shit!" from across the pitch, but the tremor of  laughter in his voice made me take out a mental sticky note and write an  IOU in the junk-punch department.

"Okay," I breathed out as I crumpled, hands to junk and knees buckling  before the stabbing knife of pain consumed me to the point that I  couldn't fake it anymore. "Fuck." I huffed as I dropped my knees and  forehead to the ground and prayed to the Goddess of Mercy to grant me  some.

I guess I won't be using my nuts within the next twenty-four hours, I  thought sardonically. Distracted by Winnie, not paying any attention to  the game, I'd been thinking with nothing but my dick, and now he was  going to pay the goddamn price.

My mental pen and paper were busy as I wrote another note to ask Winnie  if she'd be willing to kiss it better-and then added an addendum to make  sure I could get it up first, in a jerk-off session test, to make sure I  didn't goddamn embarrass myself.

"Come on, man," Kline called from above me. His voice was reassuring but fucking annoying all the same. "Get up."

"You get up, cocksucker," I insulted him nonsensically.

"What?" Thatch asked. "You pussying out? One little tap to the junk and you're done for the day?"

"Go fuck yourself," I told him around a moan as I writhed on the ground  like a fucking child with appendicitis. "I'm a grown man with nothing to  prove. I'm not looking to out-fucking-rugby anybody, so today, yes, I'm  done." I'd already burned all the calories necessary for the day in  much more pleasurable activities.

Thatch laughed and turned to the team waiting on the field. "Whitney's got her period. Time to call it, boys."

I heard a few groans, a couple of jabs, but mostly, everyone seemed  thankful. None of us were striving for the Olympics at this point, and  we'd all been at work all day. There were drinks and sex to be had, and  no one minded when they weren't the excuse. "Just give me a reason!"  their eyes screamed. My battered and bruised nuts answered.  Decision-final.

Slowly, I climbed to my feet and walked toward the bleachers gingerly,  wincing with each step and thanking Jesus I'd had Winnie so many times  today in my office.

Thank fuck she wasn't willing to take no for an answer.

As the crowd thinned and everyone moved out of earshot, Thatch's eager bob became a bounce.

"Can I talk now?" Thatch asked Kline like a little boy asking his father for permission.

With an incline of his chin and sweep of his arm, Kline granted it regally.

"You fucked her. More than once."

I sat silent as they stared at me.

"Well?" Thatch prompted after several seconds of waiting to no avail.

"Well, what?" I asked innocently. "You made a statement. I didn't hear a question."

Thatch looked to Kline with a smile, and Kline leaned into the bleachers and settled a hip. "When's the wedding?"