Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Hunter
The tension inside me groaned under the pressure of too much weight.
If I didn’t bend a little, I might snap.
Damn. With her lips so close, the sweet heat of her breath fanned my flame.
I should back off and walk out of here whether my traitorous thigh killed me or not.
Where was that chilling pain when I needed it?
One kiss. I would allow myself one kiss.
Moving my mouth that fraction to meet hers, I felt the need.
My irrepressible cock vibrated, standing stiff no matter that I was injured and hurting and had an ice pack on my thigh.
None of it was enough to stop the desire for her.
I nibbled the soft pillows of her lips, plunged my tongue inside, heard her sigh.
Moving my hand up her arm, across her shoulder, I threaded it through her luxurious soft hair and cupped the back of her head.
Holding her, I kissed deeply, drinking her in for all I was worth as if it was my one chance to quench my thirst.
And it might very well be. Drawing an uneven breath, I separated our lips, moved my shaky hand from her, wanted to say something but I didn’t know what the hell to say.
I’m sorry? Aside from being a flat-out lie, I wasn’t sorry.
Not yet anyway. The throbbing in my thigh started up again full force, but I suspected it had never stopped.
I’d just stopped paying attention to it.
“Looks like I found the cure for pain,” I said.
She laughed soft and nervous.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“You’re lying.”
She rolled her eyes and pulled back from me, separating us enough so that the soft warm feel of her disappeared. The pain in my leg sharpened, accompanied by other aches and pains, including an ache in my chest. And in my sorry cock.
Swiping a hand through my hair, I said, “I need to go.”
I pushed myself up from the couch and sucked in a breath when she reached in and pulled the ice pack from my thigh.
“You like to live dangerously, don’t you, Cat?”
“It would appear so. I invited the wolf into my home.” She smiled, sad but saucy. “And enjoyed every minute of it.”
She stood, backing away from me. Straightening awkwardly, I tested my bruised leg.
“This has to be the end of it. No contact. Not even phone sex.” I clamped my jaw in rigid composure as if resisting the bad medicine I was forcing down my own throat.
Watching her eyes, I could see the disappointment, see the longing, and I knew it went deeper than lust, had more weight than a schoolgirl crush.
Damn me to hell. I saw in her unguarded eyes a reflection of how I felt. But there was no way I could have her, no way we could be anything to each other except professional colleagues. For too many reasons to count.
The biggest reason had nothing to do with Coach. She was too good for me. I hadn’t earned a woman like her yet. I needed to prove myself this season. Maybe then . . .
Hell. Her father would always be Coach. Unless I went to another team.
I needed a big payday and I’d only signed a one-year contract.
Would I give up being coached by the best in the league so I could date his daughter?
I sucked in a deep breath, afraid to answer the question.
I ripped the notion of any future romance between me and Cat from my mind.
Concentrate on the here and now. Now I needed to have a business relationship with her. And that was all. No hesitation, no hedging. No phone sex, no stolen kisses. No hope for anything else.
I turned away, wandered to her window, knowing I should leave but needing to stay, to feel the caring, the warmth of her company, to feel like someone had my back. I’d been taking care of myself and my family for so long, the feeling of someone taking care of me was irresistible.
“So you’re a glutton for punishment,” I said. Realizing there was more than one possible interpretation of the meaning of my words when I saw the confused look on her face. I added, “Going to work for your shitty father.”
“It’s true.” She came to stand with me at the window.
Just out of reach. “He was—is a shitty father. But he’s mine and I know I’ve mentioned this—I like a challenge.
I wanted so badly to be part of his team.
I envied his players. Still do.” She gave me an honest smile of self-deprecation, impatience at her own foolishness.
“I figured I had two choices, she said, “I could either rebel and hate football and everything about it and act up to get his attention, or I could immerse myself and become part of the team.”
“So if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em?”
She nodded. “I learned everything I could about football and the Militia organization. I’m not the rebellious type. It’s too destructive.”
I wondered if she was a rebel and didn’t know it.
“No?” I said. My chest tightened, resisting my compulsion to lay all the cards on the table. I pushed past the war between desire and pride. “Are you sure kissing me wasn’t an act of rebellion?”
Watching the notion dawn on her face as it went from hell no to maybe it’s possible to horror fascinated the hell out of me, but I took mercy.
“You don’t think—”
“No, I was teasing.” I could have said a lot more, but I needed to get myself out of there, not let her entice me any further into leaning into her comfort or embracing her strength and caring.
Most of all, I needed to get out of there before I gave into that ever-present passion sizzling just below the surface between us, always ready to bubble over.
At the door, she stood back to let me leave without interference.
“I’ll see you after the game Sunday. I’ll be in Seattle—”
“No.” It was an abrupt, knee-jerk reaction born of the knowledge that I couldn’t be trusted in her presence, couldn’t stand to be in her presence without being able to have her, to claim her. I tempered my tone and words.
“Please don’t come to Seattle.” I imagined she’d be on the team’s plane, that I’d have to see her before and after the game, spend hours on the same flight, maybe see her at the team’s hotel.
“I know it would be hard.” She waved a hand around. “To be on the flight with you, to be around you. I’ll make an excuse.”
“I’ll be on my best behavior, even without you.” I should have thanked her, but I half wanted her to refuse to stand down. I was an idiot.
Without waiting for a response, I left, closing the door behind me with a solid thud and strode down the hall swiftly in spite of the ache in my thigh. It was nothing compared to the ache in my gut.
Slamming the Seattle hotel room door behind me, I threw myself on the bed as if I were a ten-year-old.
I was no better at age twenty-five at dealing with losses than I’d been back then.
I still sucked at it. Wyatt got on my nerves with his philosophical Zenlike attitude, putting it behind him in a matter of minutes.
During the game he couldn’t be more single-minded about winning, but when it was over, the QB only looked straight ahead to the next game, returning to his affable self.
For me, it would take some doing to unwind from the failure, to ease the tension and relax. Between the loss and the jet lag, I was wired. I turned on the television and didn’t hear my phone ring, but I felt the vibrating in my back pocket where I’d left it. I checked the screen and froze.
It was Cat.
Before I could stop myself, I stabbed the answer button and lifted the phone to my ear.
“What the hell are you calling for at this hour?” Unfair or not, Cat was the perfect target for my frustration. She needed the discouragement. She shouldn’t be calling me.
“To check up on you—why else? I’m your handler.” There was indignant sass in her voice and that enraged me.
“You know damn well by now I don’t need a handler. I’m in my room, in bed, and would be sleeping if I didn’t get f—cking useless phone calls in the middle of the night.”
She snorted and laughed.
“Just as I thought. You’re not very good at losing games. Sorry about that dropped pass.”
“Thank you very much for the f—cking reminder.” My blood boiled and my hand tightened around the phone as I sat up in bed, still fully clothed. I stood and started undressing, needing to use the excess energy of rage.
“It was a dicey pass. Well defended. Not your fault, not entirely.” Her words weren’t exactly soothing, but they were calm. She hadn’t flinched a bit under my onslaught. I slowed my breathing, realized my heart raced as I pulled off my pants.
“What the hell time is it on the East Coast? Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“I . . . couldn’t sleep. Obviously. I wanted to talk to you, Hunter, to make sure you didn’t get discouraged about the game.
” She quieted. I pulled off my shirt, my heart still racing, faster now as I became aware of her in my mind’s eye, in bed, in her nightie or maybe not.
As if my mind had snapped, shutting down the reasoning part of my brain, I clutched the phone and lay back down on the bed with only my boxers on.
“What are you wearing, Cat?” The words slid out past all the defenses, all the warnings, every grain of decency in me shoved aside with the stiff-arm of my stiff cock.
She sucked in a breath.
“You know I didn’t call you for—for—”
“Say it, Cat. Admit this is exactly why you called.”
“For phone sex. I admit it might have been at the back of my mind.” She heaved a submissive sigh.
My pulse quickened at her admission.
“Tell me what you’re wearing. Then take it off.” I reached down and pulled my cock from my shorts. It was the only part of my body fully engaged and not injured. Aside from my rapidly beating heart.
I heard the rustle of sheets.
“I was wearing a T-shirt . . . with your number on it. And panties.”
“You’re killing me, Cat. Don’t do something like that, don’t be so sweet, so good.
” My breathing got heavy as I thought about her in my T-shirt, thought about how it would strain over her ample breasts, how her nipples would pop, how damn much I wanted to touch those nipples, take them into my mouth one by one.
Hard breathing turned into ragged breathing and I shut my eyes.
“Hunter, talk to me. You’re not in this alone. What are you wearing? Are you naked? Are you stroking—”
“Yes, damn you.” The words were wrought from me, unwillingly, because I thought of her alone in her bedroom. Wanted to touch her, to feel the hot wet tunnel of her clamping down on me. I fisted my cock tight and pumped.
“I’m touching my pussy. So wet, so much need for you, for your cock inside me. Ooh, Hunter. I can’t stop, can’t stop. Don’t stop—”
I listened to her words, felt my tongue licking her clit as if I were there, as if I could taste her. Fisted my cock fast and hard, breathing in rough pants, clamping the phone to my ear, keeping her connected, in my head.
“Not yet, not yet—I’m spiraling—almost—”
I heard a strangled cry as if she were dying and I knew what racked her, made her take gulping breaths as I held my cock, sliding my hand to the tip and crushing it viciously in my hand.
I let go of the frustration, of the last defenses against my one desire, gave in to the endless spasming release as the hot cum pumped.
Heard her breath in my ear as if she were here next to me.
But she wasn’t here.
Forcing myself to slow my breathing so I could speak, I let go of my cock, shoving it back inside my boxers as if in exile. Too late.
“Cat.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“I know how you feel,” she said, exonerating me from saying anything.
It was true. She did know how I felt, was the only person on the planet who had an inkling. But even Cat didn’t know the depths of trouble I was in, the whole sordid story of how I got there. Or how the sordidness of it made me feel.
“This is . . . ridiculous,” I said. I could have said a few choice other words, but it seemed too cruel under the circumstances.
It was all that. Bad. F—cking bad. And I didn’t have a clue what to do about it.
Not in this moment anyway. My mind wasn’t back to its full functioning yet, the blood still rearranging itself from my greedy cock.
“It’s all your fault. You and your wet-dream-inducing hunk of a body, your—”
“Do women even have wet dreams?” I asked, my sex-fried brain not easily righted, wanting to hear her expound, to hear her talk dirty. In for a penny.
She snorted, unladylike and ribald, and my gut clenched with longing I could be there to see it, to hold her.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know all about a woman’s ability to produce all kinds of moisture,” she said, trying to be sassy but failing because her voice was too breathy.
I would have let her go on, indulged in the flirty banter with her because it was the middle of the night in a strange city and it felt like a slice out of time, not the real world.
But there was a rap at my door. I ignored it a second, but it persisted.
“Damn Wyatt,” I muttered. “He’s knocking on my door and won’t stop.”
“You should go get that,” she said. “I should go, get some sleep. Good night, Hunter.” She rushed me off the phone and I could hear the regret in her voice as plain as an air horn.
. As I half limped to the door, I wondered if her regret was about hanging up, or about calling me in the first place. Probably both.
“Hang on,” I yelled at the door.
Cleaning up quickly, I threw on the hotel robe then pulled open the door with a full scowl in place to greet Wyatt.
But it wasn’t Wyatt standing there. It was Coach.