Chapter Four, Part One
The sound of woodland creatures started quietly, but Angie had another three minutes until her alarm switched from Bambi mode to New York City traffic jam mode, compete with blaring horns and a lot of yelling from pissed-off drivers. She cuddled back into her warm pillow for another few minutes of shuteye, but something kept tickling her nose. Then that thing snored—loud, like a freight train with a four-pack-a-day habit.
Her eyes snapped open and she came face to lightly hairy chest with Colt Butler.
Panic cut off her air as she tried to clear the sleep from her brain and remember how in the hell this had happened.
Work. Ball bunnies. Duffel bag. Jersey. Bed. No sex.
The air she’d been holding whooshed out tinged with the tiniest bit of regret. Not that she’d be paying attention to that. She was caught up on events but that didn’t make this any better. She was snuggled up to Colt as close as possible, with her leg nestled up to what was most definitely an impressive amount of morning wood. She remembers a lot about his sunrise hard-on in Vegas and all the things he could do with it, the salty taste of it and how much he liked it when she’d reached down and squeezed his balls while the head of his cock hit the back of her throat.
The jersey he’d given her to wear was hiked up to her waist. His right arm held her close and he’d anchored his fingers in the waistband of her lace panties at her hip. Another few inches over and down and his fingers would be twisted in her tight, dark curls that were no doubt wet from that mental movie of their twelve hours in his Vegas hotel room. That movie was playing on a constant loop thanks to her horny ID that was wide awake, while the logical part of her brain had hit snooze.
Trying to channel the stealthy ninja she’d never be, Angie slid his large hand away from her waist and laid it down on the cool sheet. Colt stopped snoring. She held her breath, her heart going a mile a minute. All she wanted was to get out of this bed before he woke up because she wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be able to hear all the reasons why not when her body was screaming hell yes.
His breathing started again, low and steady. Not daring to let out the air trapped in her lungs, she lifted the leg draped over him and inched it away. Even though her heart was in her throat, she couldn’t rush this. If he woke up, the gig was up and he’d know exactly how they’d spent the wee hours of the morning. Only a little bit farther and she’d be free.
His left hand shot out and he curled his fingers around her ankle. “You’re not trying to sneak out on me again like you did in Vegas, are you?”
She let out a yelp and jerked her leg out of his grasp, escaping his fingers but not the electric frisson of awareness left behind by his touch. “How long have you been awake?”
He turned to face her, propping his head up on one hand. “You say that like I could sleep with you hanging on me like that.” Eyelids lowered to half-mast, he gave her a heated but leisurely once over.
Angie clutched the sheet closer to her chest as if it could offer protection from the intensity of his perusal. Desire, as smooth as warm honey, poured through her, making her breasts heavy with want and her center damp with need. One move. One look. One word. Judging by the way he looked at her, that’s all it would take and he’d rip the sheet from her, along with his jersey and her panties. The idea of it made her core clench and pushed her right up to the point of no return.
But she wasn’t going over. Her friends’ experiences had taught her how this story would end and she didn’t like her wine watered down with tears.
“So the snoring was for show, huh?” She scooted over to the edge of the bed, annoyed with herself for missing his touch.
Disappointment darkened the blue of his eyes, but only for a second. “I don’t snore.”
“Sure you don’t.” Making her move before she changed her mind, she flipped off the covers and stood up beside the bed. The hem of his jersey brushed against her thighs—a poor substitute for the feel of him underneath her when she’d woken up. “I call dibs on the bathroom.”
She grabbed today’s outfit she’d laid out before her unexpected guest arrived last night and scurried into the bathroom, ignoring his low laugh as he watched her from the comfort of their warm bed.
Forty-five minutes later she emerged from the bathroom showered, dressed and back in her right frame of mind.
“It’s all yours,” she said.
“Got it.” Sitting on the bed in only his boxer briefs, he never looked away from the TV screen, but even from across the small room she could see the vein pulsing in his temple.
Two men on the screen were discussing the Thunder’s top prospects in the draft, but at the bottom of the screen in bold letters was the question: Who should start at linebacker: LeRoi Harper or Colt “45” Butler? Tweet your vote to @ThunderNation.
Damn. There was a downside to having everyone in the world—or at least the Miami area—watching your every move and wanting their say about it. Work evaluations were rarely fun in private; in public, they had to be mortifying. Chewing the inside of her cheek, Angie walked over to the bed, racking her brain for something to say to Colt to lessen the pressure he obviously felt.
“It’s just a dumb poll.” She squeezed his shoulder. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
Colt shook off her hand and stood up, his face a dark mask of anger and frustration. “Only my livelihood.”
Without another word, he marched across the room to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a loud thunk.
If you missed earlier chapters, you can find it here!
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