The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

3. Come and Get Me

3

COME AND GET ME

Gunnar

Inside the club, I stay alert for a glimpse of my watcher. He was tall and trim and dripping with elegance. Dark hair, smoldering eyes. Tailored shirt, custom-fitted slacks that hugged his legs, and the exact right amount of stubble.

That was all I saw from the dance floor in the dark. What are the chances of running into the same guy at a club five nights later and recognizing him? No idea, but I’m taking them.

This ache inside me is getting more insistent.

As the music thumps and the drinks flow, I move to the beat, swaying and grinding with my friends on the dance floor. My eyes drift around the club, and?—

There.

Right there.

My pulse surges. Possibilities spin wildly in my head.

He’s above, like before, his elbows resting casually on the balcony, his eyes surveying the place.

Land on me, hottie. Land on fucking me.

I will him to check me out because I look damn good tonight. I chose this tight black shirt that shows off my arms and reveals the nooks and crannies of my chest muscles.

His dark eyes laser in on me, and for one hot minute, it feels as if he’s thinking about the shirt too—how it would be his civic responsibility to rip it off me.

Yes, please.

I wink at him—in case he needs the encouragement—then lick my lips. Yeah, I might not know the ins and outs of the bedroom, but I can flirt my ass off. This is when it helps to be a cocky fucker, and I put that innate talent to work for me.

Like I’d summoned him, he peels away from the railing and heads to the stairs.

Oh, yes. The Gunnar charm is working overtime.

I keep moving, my body grooving to the beat of the music.

A minute later, the man comes up behind me, his voice soft and sultry in my ear beneath the driving dance beat. “In the mood to dance?”

My fantasies just get better and better. I’m a sucker for a British accent.

“If you’ve got the moves,” I say to the man now that he’s right where I want him.

“Well, I guess we’ll find out,” he says, all rasp.

I spin around to face him, and holy fuck. He is too hot, too gorgeous, too smoldering. But I am willing to take on his too much. Those lush lips, those carved cheekbones, and those brown eyes that have deep, dirty deeds within them.

“Hello, Handsome Devil,” I say. I’m getting a just shy of dangerous vibe from him.

The man laughs. “Yes, I do have a little bit of the devil in me.” Our thighs touch, and we move together. A spark sizzles down my spine.

Play it cool, Gunnar . Don’t let him know you came here for him.

The Brit steps closer. A whisper of space flirts between our bodies as he moves his hips in a motion that says he knows what to do with his body in bed. Yes, he’s exactly what I want. The kind of man who can show me things, who can handle all this pent-up desire.

“I hope it’s not just a little devil,” I tease.

He spins me around, sets his hands on my biceps, yanks me against his crotch. Hello, hard-on. “Perhaps it’s a rather large devil,” he whispers, all commanding and powerful.

Oh, yes, I like that. Maybe this is why I waited. Once I knew I was attracted to men, I didn’t jump in bed with anyone right away. Hell, as a pro ballplayer, it’s not like I have a ton of free time to date. And I want the right man, someone who can make me forget the world. That’s a tall order, and it would be a rare man who could fill it.

“I like a lot of the devil,” I say, grinding against the ridge of his erection, savoring the feel of him already aroused.

“Then that’s what you should have.” He runs his nose along my neck, inhaling me. I shudder under his touch—his clear need for possession. “I think I saw you the other night,” he whispers in my ear as he pushes against my ass again, giving me an idea of what he might do to me.

“I think you did too,” I say, a little breathy. The preview lights up all my senses.

“Kept hoping I might run into you again, if I’m being honest,” he adds.

“And why would you be anything but honest?” I ask, sliding my hands along the fabric of the slacks covering his muscular thighs. “Especially when it comes to desire.”

“Then tell me something that’s true right now,” he says, and lust pulses through me as well as an intense longing to taste those lips.

I turn to look into his eyes, then say, “Not gonna lie – I want to feel your lips against mine right the fuck now.”

“Then far be it from me to deny you.” He threads his hands through my hair, keeps our gazes locked, and slowly, deliciously, inches closer until his lips cover mine and his taste floods my senses.

His hands rope through my hair and his mouth crushes mine. His lips are incredible. Pillowy and lush. Commanding and intense. He sweeps them over mine, sucking on my bottom lip, tugging it between his teeth, making me groan.

Thank God the music is blaring. The sounds I’m making are dangerously loud and dirty as he takes my mouth in a punishing kind of kiss. This is a new type of kissing.

The man radiates possession.

Ownership.

Want.

Is that what I’ve been looking for?

I spend so much of my days running hard, fielding on high alert, clobbering fastballs. Lift harder, run farther, do better—my world consists of pinpoint moments of precision, speed, and intensity.

At night, I imagine letting go. Right now I am not in charge, and I think I like it.

He breaks the kiss, runs his lips along my jaw, travels to my ear. “You taste so fucking good. Like I’ve been fantasizing about.”

This guy has been dreaming of me? I’m vibrating with want. I’m wound up with need. “Tell me what you pictured,” I say, opening the door for him to share his wishes.

With a hot groan, he nibbles on my earlobe, biting it. “You under me... on your knees... bent over the kitchen counter. Would you like that?”

Lust charges through me as I pull back and stare into those brown eyes, dark pools of shimmering lust. This man has my number already. “So fucking much.”

He jerks me closer so we grind together. “I want to toss you on my bed. Get my hands all over you. Make you forget the day,” he says, painting a seductive scene.

Do I want that? It’s both terrifying and thrilling.

But fuck fear. “Why don’t you start that tonight?” I ask, urging him on.

But a blur of red silk and black hair interrupts—a woman puts her hand on his arm. Worry paints her eyes, and it’s such a contrast to these flirty, dirty feelings that I pause my dance with this handsome stranger of mine.

“Rafe,” she says, her tone wobbly and her face pinched with anxiety. She speaks into his ear, and I catch the word emergency .

Rafe answers her, concern in his eyes. “Of course, Theresa. We’ll take my car.” Then he turns back to me, saying, “I’ve got to take her home. Her father had a fall.”

I wave toward the exit. “Of course. Go.”

He reaches out and runs a thumb along my jaw. “I’ll be here this weekend. Saturday night. If you want to see me, show up.”

If? I’m dying to see Rafe anytime. What a perfect name. He’s so damn commanding, he must be a Rafe.

But before I can say I’d be here tomorrow if you told me to , he brushes a kiss on my cheek then weaves through the crowd with the woman.

I watch him go, admiring the shape of his ass, the strength of his back, the wave of his hair. Then I’m standing on the dance floor, utterly aroused.

I’m hot and restless, more than I’ve ever been before. I examine this kernel of lust inside me. There’s something about Rafe that sparks not only my desire for men but a new, wicked hunger in me. Something I haven’t explored.

Something I desperately want to experience.

As I take a Lyft home—alone—I check the calendar on my phone. I have a night game on Saturday. Fuck.

But as I replay the evening’s highlights, I have a growing suspicion who my sexy Brit might be and where I’ve seen his name before. Perhaps I even know the name intimately.

When I get home and shed my shirt and jeans, I flip over the band of my tight boxer briefs, running my thumb along the designer label.

Rafe Rodman.

I turn to the mirror, studying my reflection and the way I look in these midnight-blue briefs, which hug my cock and make my ass look high and tight. Are Rafe of the club and Rafe the designer of my boxer briefs the same man? Is he the billionaire Brit who made a mint on Wall Street before turning to his passion—making men’s clothes even sexier? And now he rakes in the dough peddling the kind of underwear I want to rip off for the right guy.

For my British mystery man.

A minute later, Google gives me the answer.

Yep, that’s my man.

Rafe Rodman, eat your heart out. This guy knows how to play ball, and I intend to throw him a pitch he can’t lay off.

The next morning, I get out of the shower, wrap a towel around my waist, and head to the bedroom to consider my choices. I lay out the options on my king-size bed, a vast array of temptations.

I consider the briefs with the cute cartoon hearts. Nah, I don’t feel cutesy today, though I do like the cheek.

My gaze drifts to the next pair, bright pink and sporting a flamingo down the front.

I laugh. I dig an animal print, but flamingos are too pretty.

I pick up a purple pair. How about a dragon?

But that’s the team I play third base for. So maybe that’s a little too on the nose. I want something that could tell a man what was on my mind and in my libido. Something to reel him in before the weekend.

Even if I’m wildly inexperienced in bed, I know how to play games. Flirting is my second-best skill after playing baseball.

I grab a pair of fire-engine-red boxer briefs, pull them on, then check out my reflection in the mirror.

“Damn.” I whistle. I make these look fine .

I park myself in a leather chair, lean back, and spread my legs, all relaxed and casual and fuckable.

Then, I snap a pic.

On Instagram, I add a sticker over the outline of my dick. It’s a rooster on my cock.

I pause. Am I pursuing that sexy-ass man on social media? Rafe Rodman is all man, all experience, and all hot. What would he say if he knew I’d never been with a guy? Would he want a virgin?

Deep breath. In, out. Another one.

I look at the image. My finger hovers over it. There’s only one way to find out.

Screw these nerves. I post the pic, tagging him and adding a throwdown: “How about a new design, Rafe? Here you go.”

Come and get me, Rafe Rodman.