Scoring the Billionaire(24)

And the flirting and teasing and fucking with him was … incredible.

No man-no man-had ever touched me, pleasured me, understood what I needed like he did.

My mind recognized all the red flags, but my heart was doing a bang-up  job of ignoring all the fucking evidence. My heart and my goddamn horny  vagina-both of them, mutinous.

And that scared the shit out of me.

I forced my attention out of my head and onto the field, where the guys  played on, mostly oblivious to the ludicrous happenings on the sideline.  My personal treadmill, Cassie's angry cankles, and Georgia's completely  misdirected enthusiasm.

But once my eyes caught sight of Wes, serious and determined and looking  like the sexiest motherfucker I had ever seen, I could do nothing but  ogle him.

His biceps rippled and stretched as he sprinted smoothly toward a player  on the opposite team, the thick muscles in his thighs demanding  attention with each powerful step.

Jesus. Did he really have to be that perfect? It was cold out, for  fuck's sake. I was wrapped in a blanket, and he was in shorts. They all  were. What was wrong with him? What was wrong with all of them? Those  hot, stupid, ridiculously muscled men.

Christ, I needed to go to more sporting events if this was what they were like.

As crazy as it sounded, it made sense that my physical attraction to Wes  was so horrendously out of control. I'd known what kind of man he  was-spotted it from the very first second-and still, under the spell of  his swoony hazel eyes and chiseled jaw, I'd completely abandoned my  six-year run as a smart woman.

Of course, then, I'd gotten to know him, and I'd based my hiatus from  sanity on his serene yet quiet confidence. The way he carried himself  and the way he handled himself in all things, business and personal.

And, well, as it does, all those stupid choices had led to the ultimate stupid move-I had sex with him.

He was an intuitive lover. Always knowing what I needed without me even  having to tell him. Wes had a power that no one else had ever had. He  could take me out of my own head to the point where I would just feel.         

     



 

Feel everything. Every touch like it was a soft caress across my skin  and each touch seeped into my pores until it became a part of me and I  couldn't be anything but in the moment and feeling. Just feeling.

Put simply, it had been off the charts-and still was.

Great … now I'm picturing him naked. This can't be good in public …

As surreptitiously as possible, I glanced down at my chest to make sure I  wasn't visibly showing off my arousal to the world. All clear. If it  weren't for the little bit of padding in this bra, I might as well have  had a giant neon arrow over my head letting everyone know, "This woman  has sex on the brain. Wes-sex brain."

"Kick his fluffing ass, Thatch!" Cassie shouted with both hands cupped  around her mouth. Her feet were propped on the cooler in front of her-an  empty cooler carted there by her husband for just this very purpose-and  her skin flushed red as the bitter wind whipped around it.

"I can't believe you're wearing a tank top right now," I muttered, even  though I knew better than anyone that the hormones of a pregnant woman  were an unpredictable thing.

Confirming that very observation, Cassie's eyes cut to me threateningly.

Eek. "Sorry," I muttered when the power of her stare started to feel  like actual knives. Georgia bugged out her eyes at me from over Cassie's  head, and I decided it was best to metaphorically take a careful step  back.

Turning back to the field and its roguishly handsome inhabitants, I  watched as Thatch ran at full speed toward the opponent's end of the  pitch. He was seriously athletic, they all were, but it didn't seem  natural for a man that size to be so agile.

"Bumrush him, Thatcher! Bumbazzle him!" Georgia screamed in excitement.

As if propped on top of screws, my and Cassie's heads turned to the  right in perfect synchronization. I had to put a hand to my mouth to  stop myself from completely losing it.

"What?" Georgia asked as she surveyed our wildly tickled faces.

"I think you mean bamboozle him," I explained through my amusement. "Or break through the defenses. That would work, too."

"Whatever," she said with a scoff and turned her gaze back to the field.  Thatch had the ball and was dodging defenders left and right. Georgia  surged to her feet and hopped comically from one foot to the other like  she was doing some kind of rugby-rain-dance. "We need our team to score a  fry! Go, Thatch! Go, Thatch! Get the fry! Get the fry!"

Cassie and I looked at each other behind Georgia's back, and when the  dam finally broke, Cassie sounded like a wounded animal being attacked  by a hyena, her hysteria was so powerful-which, in turn, made me laugh  harder. She held her rounded belly with both hands as it shook violently  up and down, and I watched through wet eyes, wiping vigorously at the  tears streaming down my cheeks.

Georgia was undeterred by our humor-induced meltdown, but Thatch looked  over just as he crossed the try line, the sound of Cassie's laugh like a  primal call into the wild for her mate.

"Wooohoooooooooo!" Georgia clapped and screamed. "We just got the fry! Woooohoooooooo!"

"Try!" I exclaimed through choking breaths. "They got a try, Georgia. Not a fry."

She turned toward me and tilted her head to the side in confusion.

Cassie struggled to speak through her wheezing. "We're not at  McDonald's, Wheorgie. No one's ordering Happy Meals. We're at a rugby  game. French fries do not come on the side."

"It's called a try? When they score the goal?"

I grinned. "It's just a try, honey. Not a goal or a fry. A try."

"You suck at sports, G," Cassie added. "I mean, are you trying to suck this bad at sports? I'm honestly starting to wonder."

"I do not suck at sports!"

Yeah. She really did. Her sports knowledge was so bad it couldn't even be scored.

Cassie nodded, sweeping a hand out toward the field. "Um … yeah … you do."

One stubborn hand went straight to Georgia's hip. The real attitude had  arrived. "I work for the Mavericks, you know. I work for them, and I  know a lot about football."         

     



 

I nodded thoughtfully and pursed my lips before asking, "What's the quarterback's name?"

"Quinn."

"What's his last name?" Cassie pushed.

She stared Cassie down for a second, and it was obvious she was racking  her brain for the answer. Her mouth formed silent words, but they were  easily read.

QB Pie … Q … B … Quinn … B … Quinn …

Her eyes lit up. "Bailey! Ha-ha! His name is Quinn Bailey! Suck on that, cupcake!"

Cassie smirked. "That's so cute, Wheorgie. That you call the quarterback of a professional football team, QB Pie."

Georgia's jaw dropped, and then her nose scrunched up in frustration  when she realized she had laid her cards right on the table without  saying a single word.

"You are literally the most adorable human being I've ever met," Cass added with a wink.

"She's right," I agreed. "You're fucking adorable."

"Goddammit," Georgia muttered. "I will know sports someday. I will."

I reached around Cassie and patted Georgia's shoulder. "I have full faith in you."

Cassie coughed to hide her words. "Gnome, you don't." And then she coughed again. "I gnome I don't."

Georgia shoved her, and I laughed.

"I hope you shit yourself when you deliver the baby," Georgia mumbled, but she said it loud enough for us to hear.

"Excuse me?" Cassie asked and squinted both her eyes in irritation.

"I said," Georgia enunciated dramatically, "I hope you shit yourself when you deliver the baby."

"That's ridiculous," Cassie scoffed. "No one does that."

Oh, Jesus. Here we go.

Georgia's smile was full-megawatt, I motherfucking told you so.

Cassie's head swung back and forth like a flag in the wind, and then she paused-the calm before the storm.

"WHAT!" she screamed as she jumped to her feet, and the people sitting  in the bleachers in front of us turned to look. "I'M GOING TO SHIT  MYSELF WHEN I HAVE THIS BABY?"

I honestly thought time had stopped in that moment.

Just stopped.

And the entire universe was focused on the three of us.

Cassie held her hand above her eyes to shield the sun, and she stared  out onto the field in search of her husband. "THATCHER!" Her voice was a  fucking bellow, possessed by the evilest of spirits. "YO! SUPERCOCK!"

Thatch, noting the severity of the situation, stopped midrun and turned to look at his crazy wife.

"Cass? Honey? I'm kind of in the middle of something here," he yelled back to her.

"THATCHER! DID YOU KNOW THAT I'M GOING-"

I hopped to my feet and slapped my hand across her mouth before she  could take this situation from ridiculous to downright insane.

"It's fine!" I called out to Thatcher. "She's just having a moment!"