Chapter Twelve
TWELVE
HAILEY’S DAILY RULE FOR SUCCESS:
If you’re not an expert at something, admit it and be humble enough to learn.
Music plays over the sounds of laughter and good-natured banter in Warren’s man cave. I’m sitting at his poker table with six athletes, as promised. I’m losing miserably, but I’m having a great time.
More than anything, I’m happy to see Warren again. I’d hoped that a few days apart would help diminish my attraction to him. But apparently there’s some truth to the saying absence makes the heart grow fonder.
At least on my end.
It’s been hard to read him this evening. He’s casual and confident and winning, so naturally he’s in a great mood. His connection with his buddies is obvious and that speaks volumes to who he is—a lot of professional athletes have trouble staying connected once careers end. But he’s keeping a slight distance from me, and his gaze—when it does drift my way—is void of any real intensity.
Had I imagined the connection between us last week?
The last game ends after midnight and everyone gets ready to leave, but Warren sends me a look.
I’m up. Time for my pitch!
I clear my throat and stand. “Hey, before you all leave, I was wondering if I could have just a few minutes of your time.”
The players look slightly uneasy—they obviously know what’s coming—but Warren says, “Dudes, you took all her money, it’s the least you can do.”
I send him a grateful smile and he winks at me.
That wink has gone from irritating to cute to completely catching me off guard, and I almost sag in relief at the briefest hint that I hadn’t imagined our connection. Not that anything can come of it.
I force a more professional demeanor as I smile around the table. “Who’d like to go first? Maybe we can head into the spare room?” Five minutes with each of them is all I need to glimpse into their individual futures and formulate a pitch that resonates...
Uninterested expressions stare back at me.
A phone chimes and Alan—a kicker for the San Francisco Dolphins—stands. “The wife. Gotta split. Sorry, Hailey. Great to meet you though.”
“Oh, um...”
With a fist bump to Warren, he’s gone.
Shit. Lost one already.
I glance at Warren and he sends me a look that says “this is as good as it gets.”
I repress a sigh as I sit back down. Team pitch it is, then. But how the hell am I going to touch their lifelines this way?
I’d wanted to start getting clients on my own merit and hard work, now’s my chance to try.
I clear my throat and start my spiel. “As all of you know, I am a life coach and I’m building my roster of sports clients.”
“Who do you coach already?” Jeremy asks.
Should have expected that one. No one wants to be the first to jump on an empty bandwagon. “Well...no one, but I have feelers out there.”
Lack of interest all around. I’m crashing and burning. This is the first time I’ve had to rely on anything but my gift.
Think, Hailey, think! How do I impress these guys? After research, I know more about football and the leagues, but my mind is going blank in this pressure cooker of a moment. I’ve never had to think on my feet like this before.
My phone vibrates, tucked under my leg on my chair, and I ignore it.
Then Warren kicks me under the table. I shoot him a look and he sends a nod toward the phone. I glance down at it and discreetly open the text from him that reads: Jeremy wants to make a move to Dallas.
My eyes widen. He’s tipping me off?
I glance back up and direct my attention to Jeremy. “Hey, Jeremy, are you happy with San Diego?”
He shrugs and nods—not going to give me anything—but I sense it’s a lie.
“But could you be happier somewhere else? Maybe a dream team you’ve aspired to?”
He looks at me like, “How’d you know?” and I push on.
“Loyalty is admirable, but how loyal do you think the team is to you? If you start to slack off next year or get a minor injury—” I nod to the brace on his right elbow “—do you think they’ll keep playing you? Put in any effort to get you in top shape?”
He hesitates and folds his arms across his chest. “There’s always a rookie to replace me, I get it.”
“Then maybe you should explore the options. Go out there and get what you want before a rookie steals that opportunity, as well.”
I’ve hit my mark. I can see Warren smile from the corner of my eye and I relax a little.
“Moving teams is a delicate thing...” Jeremy says and his large biceps twitch. It’s his tell—I noticed it before he folded at each hand of poker.
“So, let’s meet and I’ll help you strategize. If in the end you don’t want to take the risk, no harm done.”
He hesitates and I glance at the brace, see a potential opening to touch him. “How about this? Let’s arm wrestle and if you win, this discussion is over. If I win, you meet me for a drink.”
He relaxes and grins as he eyes me. “You think you could take me?”
No, but I need to touch him to put together a more solidly convincing pitch. I’m surviving—barely—on Warren’s tip, but it’s not enough. I’ll get there, but right now, I need my old standby to seal this one and convince the others to hear me out. “Maybe against your left arm. Worth a shot,” I say with an innocent shrug.
A second later, we’re seated across from one another as the other men watch with amusement. Eyes locked in silent intimidation, we reach out and join hands.
Our lifelines connect and my visionary powers are activated.
Jeremy sits in the Dallas general manager’s office. On the desk in front of him is the best contract of his career. He signs it and the manager hands him his new jersey with the number 17 on the back. He stares at the number with a look of pride.
When I blink back, I’ve lost the arm wrestle. Obviously. But I have exactly what I need.
“Sorry, Hailey—didn’t think I’d let you win, did you?” Jeremy asks with a “maybe next time” smile as he releases my hand and stands.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. I pause as he collects his wallet and car keys from the table. “But, uh, hey Jeremy, it’s too bad you don’t get to wear your number out there on the field.”
He pauses. “What do you mean?”
“Number 17—it’s the one you want to wear, right?”
He looks slightly freaked out that I could possibly know that.
“Just sayin’ negotiations with another team might allow you to do that.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Warren’s wide grin and I know I’ve nailed it. Player numbers are sacred and Jeremy’s been wearing one that doesn’t sing to his heart for ten years.
I wait.
Jeremy shakes his head as though he can’t believe he’s agreeing to it. “One drink.”
I contain my excitement as I nod professionally. “One drink.”
The rest of the players are suitably impressed and I’m able to gain lukewarm commitments from them as they leave. I’ll take it. Far better than I’d expected. And it only cost me four hundred dollars in lost poker money. Bargain.
Once everyone is gone, Warren approaches, carrying a large garbage bag. He tosses recyclables into it as he asks, “How did you know about the number thing?”
“I remember seeing it online somewhere that he used to wear that number in high school,” I say as I start to help him clean up. It’s not a lie. I did my research on these guys and the glimpse just sparked my memory.
“Well, it worked,” Warren says.
I stop and give him a warm look. “Thank you,” I say with more sincerity than I’ve ever felt in my life. My gift has guided me to a lucrative, successful career, but I’ve never had help from another person before. No mentor, no support system... It feels nice.
Warren stops and turns toward me. “No problem,” he says gruffly.
We are standing toe-to-toe and looking deep into one another’s eyes.
A moment of tension simmers between us and the next we’re reaching for one another. Warren grabs my face and his mouth crushes mine with a passionate desperation.
I wrap my arms around his neck and jump, wrapping my legs around his waist. He grabs me and supports my weight with his hands under my ass as he deepens the kiss. My hands tangle in his hair as all the tension and buildup over the last few weeks comes pouring out in the impulsive yet inevitable kiss.
Warren lowers me to the poker table, scattering chips everywhere, and leans over me as we continue to make out. Hands and lips frantic as we kiss as though we can’t get enough of one another.
Maybe he’s been missing me too this past week.
His hands clutching my waist and his mouth searching mine certainly indicate that this has been a long time coming for him.
My body sparks to life and I raise my hips to connect with his as I slip my tongue between his lips and force his head even closer. I don’t want the kiss to end and I can’t get close enough to him, can’t get deep enough into this embrace.
Warren’s hands hold me tight to him, then one drifts to the edge of my tank top. His fingers slip beneath the fabric and goose bumps surface on my skin as he gently tickles along my waistline just below my belly button. His hand slides higher, dragging the fabric upward as he trails along my ribcage.
I can’t breathe and all I feel is longing as I pray for his hand to move higher...
But it doesn’t.
Fuck, his restraint and respectfulness is even hotter than if he’d ravaged me like a selfish caveman.
He pulls back reluctantly and his gaze burns into mine.
His silent question is met with an enthusiastic, resounding head nod.
Yeah, I fucking want this.
Warren picks me up, and my mouth presses against his again as he blindly, clumsily carries me up the stairs and into his room. We crash against the wall and door frame and I’ll probably find bruises in the morning, but I feel nothing but pleasure in the heat of the moment.
We break away from one another, panting for air, as we enter the room and I barely take in the surroundings as he tosses me onto the bed. There could be football-themed bedsheets and I wouldn’t care.
He climbs onto the bed next to me as I sit up and lift my hands above my head and nod at his questioning look. His fingers tickle my skin as he lifts the edge of my shirt over my stomach, slowly up over my ribcage, over my breasts and then up over my head.
Static catches my hair and I shake the strands around my shoulders.
His gaze takes in my lacy bra and breasts swelling over the top. The look of appreciation and desire steals my breath.
Warren Mitchell is a player. Making women feel desirable is his thing.
Yet, he’s looking at me as if he’s never seen breasts before and it’s absolutely intoxicating.
Well, if the sight of my bra is blowing his mind...
I reach around and unclasp the bra. I slowly slide it down over one arm, then the other, then let it fall away from my body.
Warren’s desire burns in his gaze as I take his hands and place them on my breasts. He moans and the pleasure running through me at his touch is far from expected. I’ve been touched before...not recently and my body count doesn’t exactly make me an expert at intimacy, but I know his touch affects me more than any other ever has.
He massages gently as he moves closer and lowers his head to my neck. He kisses tenderly along my flesh and my entire body reacts. Goose bumps cover every inch of my skin as I cling to his broad shoulders, my fingers digging into him. His five o’clock stubble tickles my skin from my ear to the hollow of my collar bone and I want to feel that sensation on every inch of my body.
“Hailstorm...” he mutters against my skin.
The sound of my nickname on his lips isn’t taunting or teasing and for the first time, I don’t tell him to stop calling me that.
In fact, I don’t want to stop anything he’s doing.
I reach for his jeans and unbutton them. Then I push the fabric down over his hips and ass. He stands next to the bed to allow the fabric to fall to the floor; he steps out of them and crawls onto the bed on top of me. He reaches for my jeans and slowly unbuttons them. He lowers his head to my stomach and places several tantalizing kisses below my belly button as he unzips the denim, then roughly yanks it down. I raise my hips to allow him to continue dragging the fabric down my body, then toss it to the floor.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he takes in the matching lace thong underwear. My body is vibrating with excitement and anticipation as my legs part.
In his underwear, he falls between my legs and his hands trail the length of my inner thighs. His fingers reach my groin and linger before his hand slips into the front of my underwear.
I arch my back at his touch, feeling myself grow wet.
His gaze burns into mine as he touches the soft spot between my legs and the look reflecting in his eyes has me more on edge than his touch. His finger slides along my clit and folds and I’m already aching and craving him.
I reach down and stroke him through his underwear. He’s hard already and I can’t believe it’s me having this effect on him.
A few weeks ago, we were enemies.
Now lovers?
Seems ridiculously ironic.
He seems to be thinking the same as his expression holds a hint of questioning—like how the hell did we end up here?
I don’t want to overthink it and I don’t want his overactive mind putting on the rational brakes, so I pull his face down toward mine as I wrap my legs around his waist.
His fingers plunge inside my body as his mouth lands on mine. Hard, demanding, and sensual, he kisses me until I’m breathless and clinging to him for air.
With one hand he removes my underwear.
I’m lying there fully naked, fully exposed but feeling confident and sexy and probably the most unexpectedly...
Safe.
Warren pulls away and removes his underwear. He reaches into a bedside drawer for a condom. He tears it open with his teeth, then slides it on over his long, thick erection.
I take in his sexy, muscular body and I’m filled with anticipation like I’ve never experienced for a man before. He’s physically perfect and slightly intimidating—a man in full.
He returns to the bed and picks me up effortlessly, placing me over him as he lies on his back. He’s giving me full control over this. Full power. It’s sexy as hell.
Beneath the burning lust, the questioning look is back in his eyes and I’m more than happy to put his mind at ease.
I want this. I want him.
I stare down at him as I grab the headboard with one hand and, with my other hand pressed against his chest, I lift my body over him and allow him to enter me. He releases a slow breath as though trying to pace the intensity of the sensations.
I ride him slowly, seductively. Up and down, feeling the length of his cock slide all the way in and almost all the way out. I stare down at him and he stares up at me with all the desire any woman could want.
The feelings radiating through me are more than just physical pleasure, which is terrifying and yet makes this feel...right.
This is just physical for him. Protect your heart, Hailey.
Warren grips my hips and takes back some control as he lifts and lowers me over his body. His hard cock plunges deeper and deeper with each stroke.
I’m so close to the edge.
His gaze is locked with mine as he reaches up. I think he’s going to fondle my breasts, but instead his hands cup my face and he gazes at me with affection and lust as his orgasm topples over. He moans and his body jerks as the sensations come over him, but he gently strokes my jawline with his thumb as he plunges into my body.
The dichotomy of the rough and gentle. Desperate yet patient. Demanding yet loving is too much.
The first ripple of pleasure sweeps through me...the sensations of an orgasm like I’ve never experienced before.
I moan in pleasure as my body erupts and trembles. I fall forward and Warren immediately reaches up and wraps his arms around my waist, drawing me against his chest, plunging himself deeper, increasing the erotic sensation within my body.
The tender contradiction tops the list of unexpected actions in this time and space and my heart fills with an emotion that’s almost like...
But it can’t be.
His breath is warm on the side of my face as he whispers into my ear. “Hailstorm.”
I hear the word repeated over and over, but it sounds faraway as I ride out the best orgasm of my life.
He rolls our bodies and pulls me in close, tucking me against his chest, as my heart rate struggles to settle. He kisses my forehead, my cheeks, my nose...
Kisses before sex are foreplay, but kisses like this after sex are the most intoxicatingly dangerous thing in the world.
Might even make a woman fall in love if she’s not careful.
Hailey Harris is in my bed.
Not only in my bed, but tucked in close to every curve of my body, leg strewn over mine, head resting on my chest...she’s holding my fucking hand. Well, the back of it anyway.
I have no idea how this happened. I have no idea what I’m going to do about it. I’ve never let a woman stay the night. This is new territory to me. Right now, all I can do is lie here as still as fucking possible and make sure she doesn’t wake up and beat the shit out of me for somehow having manipulated this into happening. I have zero delusions that she planned this or will be thrilled about it in the morning.
How I’m feeling is a mystery. Physically, I feel incredible. Best orgasm of my life—not that I’d inflate Hailey’s ego with that knowledge. If she ever asks, I’ll give it a six. But emotionally, I’m numb. Like that feeling I had after my first professional touchdown or after my first championship win... The kind of numb where your body is in protection mode because the emotions are too much. Self-preservation kicks in to prevent a high with an inevitable crash that could be devastating.
Hailey moans in her sleep and moves even closer. Her body’s like a furnace and I run hot, so sweat starts to pool on my lower back, but I don’t care. I like the feel of her pressed against me and I wish I could mean that in a sexual way, but it’s an odd protective thing...like I think she feels safe enough to be asleep next to me.
Given our history, I didn’t think either of us would ever willingly be unconscious and vulnerable next to one another...but oddly enough the temptation to give her a permanent marker mustache is only mildly amusing.
I still chuckle at the image though and she stirs.
I tense and go completely still.
Don’t wake up, don’t wake up...
I haven’t processed all this yet and I’m certainly not ready to talk about it or run for my life.
Her eyes flutter open and she looks sleepily up at me.
I hold my breath and count down the seconds until she loses her ever-loving mind.
Instead, she smiles sleepily as her eyes close again and she snuggles back in.
“A sleepover at Warren Mitchell’s house—who would have thought?” she mumbles and something deep in my core tells me I’m a goner.
Who the fuck would have thought?