Chapter 8 Andy
Chapter 8
Andy
Harlow has been in the bathroom so long I almost feel the need to knock on the door for proof of life.
What the hell is she doing in there? Shaving?
I glance around.
Her room is definitely not the penthouse suite—that’s for damn sure—smaller than mine by a lot. Like, I have an office in my suite about the size of this room, so I guess technically it’s actually more of an apartment?
I’m not embarrassed by the fact.
My ears twitch when I hear the faucet go on.
Then off.
The distinctive clink of glass against stone countertop.
Perfume, perhaps?
Some rustling.
Bored, I plop down on her bed, mindful not to make myself too comfortable until she comes back to claim her spot—it’s the least I can do, considering it’s her room, small as it may be.
The bathroom door opens, and she clicks off its light.
She rounds the corner, lifting her arms to proclaim “Well. Here I am.”
Here she is indeed.
To say that Harlow is different than any other female I’ve ever met would be an understatement—if you don’t count my mother and cousins, of course. I might be from Ohio, but since I was drafted straight out of college into the NFL, it’s been years since I’ve encountered anyone this down to earth.
No plastic on this woman.
No Botox.
No cosmetic surgeries, at least none I can see.
Not that it would matter if she did. Just stating the fact that I tend to spend my time surrounded by beautiful women who will not show their face in public unless it’s caked with makeup.
And Harlow isn’t like that.
Fresh face.
Clean skin.
She’s glowing.
Or red from embarrassment? Hard to tell.
“I feel like we’re about to have an old-school pajama party, and I’m kind of excited,” she declares, throwing her arms up and laughing. “Thanks for waiting for me to wash my face.”
I remove my cap, tossing it casually to the bedside table, and run my hand through my hair, finger combing it. The sides are shaved, but the top is a thick, wavy mess that my mother is constantly begging me to cut off and make tidy.
Harlow’s eyes get wide at the sight of me with no hat on.
“What?” Why is she looking at me that way?
She tips her head back and laughs.
I frown. “I don’t get it—what’s so funny?”
“Nothing’s funny,” she says. “It’s just—thank God you have hair.”
That makes no sense.
“What do you mean, thank God you have hair ?” I’m still frowning. “Why wouldn’t I have hair?”
“I’ve only ever seen you with a hat on. I thought maybe you were bald. No offense.”
Bald.
I blink at her. “Are you being serious? You thought I was bald ?”
She shrugs. “I wasn’t sure, in all honesty.”
I flop back on the mattress, talking up at the ceiling. If I needed any more proof that Harlow has no idea about my true identity, this is it.
“Oh my God, Harlow, you’re killing me.”
“What!” She laughs again, sidling up to the bed, hip bumping the mattress, looking down at me. “My friends had me convinced you might be hatfishing me. That’s a thing now, you know.”
No. I didn’t know.
“Hatfishing?” My face scrunches up as if I’ve swallowed a lemon. “I have no idea what the hell that is. Is that an online-dating thing?”
She nods. “Simply put, it’s when a guy wears a hat so you have no way of knowing whether he’s bald or not.”
“Um. This is what women think about when they see a man with a hat on a dating app?”
“Sure, on dating apps. And I might have mentioned your ball cap to my friends.”
“Wait.” My brows raise into my hairline. “You’ve mentioned me to your friends?”
Nice.
Harlow rolls her pretty eyes toward the ceiling. “Yes, of course I told them about you. I’m in a strange city and met some random dude in Central Park—obviously I’m going to tell my friends about it.”
“What exactly did you tell them about me?” I’m invested now, here for the details.
“I told them about the note you delivered to my room. We discussed whether or not I should meet you in the lobby since you could be a killer. They bitched at me for giving you my room number because you’re not supposed to give your number to strangers.”
“You’re not?” This is news to me. “How are you supposed to meet people these days?”
“Not in hotel lobbies, apparently.” She shrugs, taking her place on the bed next to me, scooting to the center, leaning against the headboard, and letting her hand rest inches from my thigh. “You also meet people on dating apps.”
I settle in, too, content and comfortable with her pressed against me.
“Are you on any dating apps?” Inquiring minds want to know.
“I have been in the past. Being from a small town in Wisconsin where everyone knows everyone, the dating pool is basically the same guys I went to high school with. So it gets frustrating, and there’s a lot of app burnout—which is why I decided to create my own version of a dating app. Currently, though, I’m not on any.”
Harlow seems like a great fucking catch. A nice person.
Attractive, funny. Goes with the flow.
Not to mention beautiful.
“So,” she starts in, asking me questions without hesitating. “What’s something about you that not many people know?”
“Ah—so we’re going to jump straight to getting to know each other better?”
“Only if you want.” She giggles. “No pressure.”
I hum while I think about my answer. “Something not many people know is that ...” I pause. “There was a point when I was younger that I wanted to be a gymnast, but my parents wouldn’t let me. I used to do cartwheels and routines in the backyard and dance around the grass—it drove my dad nuts.”
Her brows go up. “Why did it drive him nuts?”
“Because he didn’t understand it. And I made one of those ribbons on a stick because I wanted to do floor routines.” I laugh at the memory of my younger self prancing around our yard in my Superman T-shirt and matching shorts while pretending to be an Olympic gymnast.
“I’d pay to see you waving around a ribbon and dancing.” Harlow gets more comfortable on the bed, stretching out her legs, wiggling her cute toes.
“Maybe if I get drunk enough, I’ll show you.”
“Deal.” She nods with a grin. “What are your hobbies?”
“Hobbies.” I readjust myself against the headboard, glad she asked about hobbies. It’s the perfect time to feel her out. “I like to throw the ball around.”
“What ball? Baseball?” Her finger slowly makes small circles on the bedding, inches from my leg. I watch for several seconds before answering.
“Football.”
“Ugh.” Harlow groans loudly. “You’re not one of those guys who sits home every damn weekend glued to their TV watching the games, are you?”
“No. I can promise you I do not sit home every weekend and watch the games on my TV.”
“And what about cuddling?” She teases. “Do you do that on the weekends?”
I nod. “Oh, I’m a pro at that. Top-tier cuddler, right here.”
She angles her body so she’s facing me, and we’re not far apart, she and I, the intimacy getting heavier. “So, what’s your plan for tomorrow?”
“My plan is ...” My words trail off. “Uh. My plan. I have someone coming to pick me up early in the morning—then I should be back home around ten.”
Like, super early. Up before the birds and all that shit.
“Where is home again?”
“Currently Seattle, but I’m actually going to see my parents—they’re still in Ohio. It’s been a minute and I need ...” I pause. “It’ll be nice to see them.”
“I’m sure it will.” Harlow sighs. “I see my dad all the time; he’s so far up my ass it’s crazy .”
“What do you mean by up your ass?” I laugh.
“I might have mentioned it to you already—he’s single, but he makes my love life his priority. Honestly, he’s still young enough that he should be out there finding someone for himself.”
“Kind of like The Golden Bachelor ?”
“Uh.” She groans, still tracing a finger perilously close to my leg. “I wish my dad was like that guy, he’s more like ... a bull in the glass-plates aisle at a department store. Loud and always knocking things over. He loves attention.” Harlow removes her hand from the comforter and snuggles down farther on the bed.
“So what movie should we watch?” Her big, pretty eyes regard me curiously.
“Movie? I was thinking first we could flip through and catch one of the games.” I give her a glance to test her. “On SportsCenter.”
Her contorted face does not disappoint.
“Not a fan?”
“Eh. There are a million other things I would rather be watching than sports—sorry if you’re into it but ...” She makes a snoring sound. “Snoozefest!”
“Snoozefest? You think sports are a snoozefest?” I twist my body so I can get a better look at her face.
“Some sports—not all of them, obviously.”
“Obviously.” I agree with a nod. “Which ones do you hate watching?”
“Baseball—so boring. Tennis. How anyone gets into that is beyond me.” Harlow pauses, thinking.
And just when I think football is safe and she’s not going to throw it under the bus, she lets out a loud yawn.
“... and the worst of the worst is football.” Another feigned yawn. “Bunch of meatheads running around. That game has the dumbest rules.”
I don’t think my brows could be any farther up into my hairline, but they try, pushed up so far on my face I’m shocked she hasn’t noticed my surprise at her blatant disdain for my literal job.
I clutch my chest as if I were in pain. “It’s the most beloved sport of all time.”
She shakes her head to disagree with me. “ Beloved is a stretch.”
“What do you dislike about it?”
“Beside that it’s boring? Kind of confusing.” She shrugs. “I don’t know, probably that it’s repetitive. And dangerous. And those guys get paid stupid amounts of money to do what? Toss a ball around.”
Toss a ball around.
My ass cheeks pucker, balls shriveling up inside my body.
To turn this ship around, I take a few beats before pointing the remote at the television, shifting my gaze from Harlow to the wall.
“Um. They have pay-per-view here, so I figured we could find something we both want to watch. How do you feel about action movies?”
She scrunches up her nose.
“Horror?”
Harlow sticks out her tongue.
Tough crowd.
“Okay. What about a romantic comedy?”
I wish she’d pick something and stop being so finicky, but whatever—this was my stupid idea. I should have suggested we hit the theater and go to an actual movie, but this is New York, and there’s nothing simple about getting to an actual movie theater.
We have everything we need here, except a movie to watch.
“Oh!” she gasps. “Go back.”
I go back, scrolling to the left, going in reverse slowly.
“That one.”
That one, she says.
“A football movie?”
The irony is not lost on me. She thinks football is boring but wants to watch a movie about it? Uh, okay.
“I love an underdog story! The ones where the guy doesn’t get drafted into the NFL, and then he’s, like, thirty and never gives up, even though no one believes in him, and he tries out for the team, and he makes it against all odds.”
Oh Jesus. “That’s only happened to, like, three people.”
“I know, but I love stories like that! Oh my God, have you seen Rudy ? I cry every single time, even though I’ve seen it, like, twelve times.”
I snort. “So much of that story is dramatized and not based on fact.”
Harlow stares blankly, and it’s obvious I’ve killed her buzz. “If you don’t want to watch Overlooked , pick something else.”
I don’t actually want to watch the life story of a dude I actually know in real life —and there’s no way I’m going to confess that I was at the movie premiere. I also cannot tell Harlow that I played a few games against the guy or that he’s been to my house when I was playing for Arizona and had a barbecue at my place when his team, the Gators, was in town.
Doubt Harlow would believe me, though; she has skepticism written all over her.
“Let’s watch The Spy Who Dumped Me —that blond actress cracks me the fuck up,” I suggest instead, hoping that mollifies her.
I readjust myself, giving the pillows behind me a fluff, propping them up to get more comfortable. Over the course of the time we’ve spent together, I continue to revel in the fact that she still has no idea who I am.
None.
It’s pretty unfuckingbelievable.
I’m still shook by it.
It’s a refreshing departure from the familiar, a break from my routine—the fans who stalk me and hunt me down, invading my privacy. This feels like a scene lifted from a romantic comedy.
One she has no idea she’s a part of.
I thought the weight of keeping this secret would be a burden, but it’s turned out to be a delightful game. Our laughter in the room, our banter—it’s all genuine, and underneath it all, there’s the thrill of the unknown. I have no idea what’s going to happen with us because I came into it with zero expectations.
I came down to her room with zero expectations.
It certainly wasn’t to have sex.
Although, let’s be real ... it would be an awesome bonus.
The last twenty-four hours have been a chance to be someone entirely new for a change, to embrace the unexpected and relish in the spontaneity of the moment.
Fucking awesome is what it is.
I’m the charming stranger.
I’m unburdened by the baggage of the world I’ve been trapped in since getting drafted. The people, the women, the money-grubbers. My agent.
My family.
I had no idea how liberating it would feel to be a mystery, to exist in this temporary bubble of uncertainty.
I can’t believe she fucking trusts me, honestly.
For now, I’m a character in this rom-com, free to explore the uncharted territory of unpredictability, and Harlow never has to find out! Now I regret giving her my actual name—I could have called myself something else, like Biff or Clarke or Jackson.
“You’re adorable, do you know that?”
Harlow flutters her lashes. She’s not wearing any makeup—no mascara, no foundation, no lipstick. She’s just fresh skin and freckles and pouty pink lips.
“I try.”
Adorable my ass. Sexy as hell is more like it.
Don’t think about sex, Andy. You told her you were here to watch a movie, not stick your dick in her. But she’s close and smells like ... like ... something good, and now I don’t think I can sit here and act like a normal human being. Not with my pheromones raging.
The rise and fall of her breath seem to sync with the rhythm of my racing heart. I mentally trace the outline of her profile in the dim light, captivated by the delicate curve of her lips.
“What’s the look on your face?” she asks breathlessly.
“What look?”
She cocks her head, pulling away slightly. “ That look.”
“I didn’t know I had a look,” I tease. It’s been a while since I’ve been this confused—normally I’m a cocky SOB, but tonight I’m back in high school, that insecure boy unsure how to behave with a pretty girl.
I make a face, scrunching up my nose and sticking out my tongue. “This face?”
This is like a playful game of chess, and I’m caught in the suspense of deciding my next move; this bed just became the stage for our little back-and-forth, the script written in the language of shared smiles.
What the hell am I even talking about?
I’m a goddamn idiot.
As Harlow lies there, I feel her eyes follow the contours of my face, roaming from my eyes to my nose to my neck. Chest.
And up again.
Should I seize the moment? I feel like an insecure teenager, one that needs a flashing green “ Go !” sign because I don’t know what her look means. Is that a “Come hither?” or a “Don’t bother?”
I’m seriously losing my touch.
My mom told me to stop letting my dick do the deciding, and I’m pretty sure that isn’t the case here, but he’s twitching a little, so maybe he is in charge.
“You’re still making that face,” Harlow says, her voice low.
“Am I? I hadn’t realized.”
“You are. And, honestly, you look constipated.” Harlow pauses. “Do you need to use the bathroom, because I can crank the volume on the TV?”
Oh my God, she did not just say that.
“No, I don’t have to take a shit, but thanks for mentioning it.” I laugh.
She laughs.
It’s all a bit embarrassing actually, but the situation somehow has me feeling like a normal dude. Is this what men deal with when they’re getting to know someone? What it’s like on an actual first date, not one that’s set up by a PR team for publicity?
Is it possible that she’s thinking the same thing I am about wanting to get closer? She sure looks as if she wants me to kiss her—I don’t think it’s the lighting playing tricks on me.
I move closer to her.
“This has been the best day ever,” I whisper, voice filled with wonder.
“Agreed.”
My lips finally touch hers, and she goes silent, soft mouth melting into mine the same way she’s melting back into her pillow, hands coming up to stroke the back of my head. Neck.
It takes her no time at all to trail those pink nails lightly over the skin of my neck, then rake through my hair.
Our mouths open. Tongues flirt before meeting in the middle. She tastes like toothpaste and must have brushed her teeth in the bathroom before she came out, the same way I did before I came down to her room from the penthouse.
It’s fucking delicious.
My cock tingles, but he’ll have to chill for a minute while I get a grip on my hormones.
Damn. What’s this thing she’s doing with her tongue?
Holy shit.
Harlow sucks on my tongue, then my bottom lip, doing something I can’t explain because no woman has done it to me before and now it’s gotten me harder.
Down boy.
Get some self-control, dude.
I have amazing self-control. I have to play football at the level I play at. This kiss should be no big deal. I’ve had my mouth on plenty of faces, lips, and bodies.
But this kiss? This kiss is ...
Fire.
Has me forgetting all the deal-breakers that have killed past relationships, such as being intimate without a nondisclosure agreement. Banging Harlow without one would be one of the dumbest moves you’ve ever made, Trent has lectured in the past, but let’s be real—I’m probably going to do it by the end of the night.
I know in the back of my brain I have nothing to worry about with her. She won’t sell me out to the media. She won’t cash in on whatever this is between us.
Harlow’s hand is suddenly in the center of my chest, and she gives me a gentle nudge backward, silently commanding me to shift myself so I’m also lying on my pillow. I love it when a woman takes charge—so few of them do—so I gladly let her guide me to my back.
When she hovers over me, her mass of brown hair hangs in soft waves, begging me to touch it. I let my fingers run through, rubbing it with my thumb and index finger; it feels like silk.
She’s not heavy but asks, “Am I crushing you?”
Hardly. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say Sweetheart, grown men can’t crush me running at me full speed in padding. You weigh barely a fraction of what they do.
Instead, I say, “Even if you were, I wouldn’t tell you.”
Her mouth opens.
Closes.
She grins, bending down to kiss me again. Harlow is smug, as if she were a cat stealing the cream, but I’m here to tell her she doesn’t have to steal anything because I’ll give it to her. Hers for the taking.
Anything she wants.
If she’s shy, she doesn’t let on, brazenly kissing the side of my neck, giving it a sniff as she explores. My stubble—I haven’t shaved in three days, so it’s good and prickly—must be scratching up her face, but she doesn’t seem to give a shit.
“Your kisses are literally making my toes curl.” She lets out a sigh, pressing her boobs against my chest. “Best kisses ever.”
I chuckle, tracing lazy circles on her bare arm. “How impressed are you right now?”
“Very. I’d say your kisses are medal worthy.” Her eyes close, and she bites down on her lower lip. “Maybe you should get a trophy made.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a commemorative plaque.”
We both burst into laughter, the sound filling the quiet room.
“Why can I totally see you doing that and hanging it in your living room? I mean—you have a living room, right?”
She’s such a brat.
“I have a living room, don’t you worry.”
I go in for another earthquaking kiss, hands shaking when I cup her cheek in my palm, my nerves working overtime to keep me humble.
God, everything about Harlow is a fucking turn-on.
Our mouths connect again, only this time, I don’t stop at kissing her. I move my hand up her shirt so I can cup her breast. It’s heavy in my palm, and I squeeze, thumb beginning a leisurely stroll over her hardening nipple. I roll it, and she mews softly, putty in my hands.
“See what happens when you wake the beast?” I whisper into her ear, nipping at her lobe and giving it a gentle suck.
“Did you just refer to yourself as a beast? Ah, that’s cute.”
Cute?
“I’ll give you cute.”
Harlow readjusts herself so she’s flat on her back, and I move until I’m hovering above her, staring down into her eyes.
I want to eat her up.
Lick her body.
Suck on it.
Kiss her everywhere.
Every. Where.
I lean forward and reach for the light switch, flipping it off so the only light in the room is the television, before returning to her mouth, my body like a heat-seeking missile. Our kisses are hot, any inhibitions we may have had—any hesitations about fucking—seem to have evaporated.
I’m not gonna lie, having my hands on Harlow’s boobs is seriously awesome. And, yeah, I’ve had my hands on other women’s boobs before—many, many boobs in fact—but for some reason, these feel incredible. Is it because I suspect they’re real?
I’m no doctor but have it on good authority that a majority of the tits I’ve had my hands on in the past five years have been artificially enhanced with surgery. That’s my diagnosis.
I play with Harlow’s tits in the dark as if they’re my new toys, and eventually Harlow chuckles, her amusement somehow making my dick harder.
“What are you doing? I feel like you’re giving me a breast exam. Haven’t you ever felt a girl up before?” she asks with a laugh.
“Obviously I have,” I admit. “You’ve got some really great boobs.” I dish out the compliment easily because it’s true and delight in her sigh of utter contentment.
“I feel so flattered.” She moans, head tilting back. “No one has told me that.”
“Oh, come on, you know you have great tits.”
“You don’t even know what they look like yet!”
It’s true, without the lights on, it’s not that easy to see.
“I don’t have to know what they look like, I can feel them with my expert hands. And these feel like they look like the perfect pair of tits.” I push up the hem of her T-shirt, hoping to reveal what’s underneath. Soft, smooth skin and a round pair of breasts I seriously wish I could lay my eyes on.
Instead I’ll have to take my hands’ words for it.
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” comes her breathy little moan.
I lean over to take one in my mouth, first licking her nipple. Then sucking on it.
“Finally,” Harlow breathes.
God, it’s been an age.
Actually, it’s been a few months—I haven’t counted down to the day since our split. I was in a committed relationship with plenty of sex involved—I was not deprived. But the relationship was toxic, and it was with someone my mother hated.
Whatever, that’s not the point.
The point is: it’s been months and months (and counting), and I’m going to seize the opportunity to lie in bed with this pretty, funny woman, even for a short time, as long as she’ll let me, preferably naked.
“God, your hands feel amazing.” Her hands are back in my hair. “Don’t stop touching me.”
Don’t stop touching me . . .
My dick strains in my pants, desperate to break free of his prison, my body filled with adrenaline.
To me, sex isn’t just sex; it’s an adrenaline boost and a stress reliever and a way to get the lead out, know what I mean? It’s one more way for our bodies to feel good. And I want Harlow to feel good too.
My mind goes to protection. We haven’t taken our clothes off, but if we suddenly end up—oh, I don’t know, butt-ass naked—shouldn’t we have a fucking plan?
A condom?
Lucky me, I grabbed one on my way out the suite door, because I’m a planner like that and cannot trust a near stranger with my physical well-being—or risk the chance that Harlow would find herself pregnant.
Condom, condom, I rack my brain. Wallet, next to my room key ... wallet, next to my room key ... wallet, next to my room key.
Breathing out a sigh, I manage to get Harlow’s shirt over her head, then go to my knees so I can remove mine, tossing them both to the hotel-room floor, where they land in a heap.
Softly, I murmur, “Trust me?”
Her response is a quiet affirmation, a whispered consent that hangs in the air.
I feel her nod against the pillow before dragging down the waistband of her sleep shorts—or whatever those gym shorts are, if you can call them that—the threadbare fabric easing down her hips.
They join our T-shirts somewhere on the floor.
I’m one of those guys who gets off on going down on a woman— I know, I know, can you believe it? It’s true.
I’m a giver.
In the world where men are considered selfish in bed and refuse to get down between a woman’s legs, I am a man who prides himself on, well, getting down between a woman’s legs. I could do that shit all day long. I ease down her body, kissing along the way, wanting to get right to it, the idea literally making my mouth water.
Her breath hitches in anticipation; the motion of spreading her has her already gripping the bedsheets.
She smells good everywhere, and I’m ready to lap her up.
Honestly? I’ve kind of wanted to all day long. Our sightseeing gave me barely enough to whet my appetite for her, this simple midwestern girl so very much like me it’s ridiculous, despite my fame.
That we do not have in common.
Not even a little.
She has no idea who’s going downtown on her right now. My dirty secret warms my belly at the same time it hardens my dick.
Back to the task.
Tasting her.
I use my hands to spread her thighs wider, my large palms caressing her bare inner thighs before my thumbs stroke over her folds, one of them going around and around in circles on that nub in the center.
Above me, Harlow lets out yet another moan. A loud moan, one of pleasure, that spurs me on. One that the people in the next room can probably hear.
So hot.
I give her a lick to see how she reacts, and Harlow does not disappoint, her fingers plowing into my hair, nails scratching my scalp gently.
Grr.
The minx likes everything I’m doing to her.
A whole fucking lot.
She’s getting off as much as I am, and in about five minutes—or sooner, if I’m doing my job right—she’ll be coming all over my tongue. My face.
I suck.
Suck some more.
“Oh shit ...” She moans. “Oh God.”
I feel like one—a goddamn god.
Yup, that’s me.