Forever Defiant (Fourth and Forever #2)

Prologue

Then . . .

I came out of the bathroom as Dustin Slater was going into the Men’s. I bounced off some very hard abs — the guy was taller than me by four or five inches, but his quick hands had caught me before I stumbled.

“Shit, are you okay?”

I nodded, my heart racing. I knew who he was, of course I did, they’d just won the championship, it was impossible not to know. And I already had an unhealthy obsession with the football program.

Was this my chance to get an inside scoop?

I reached out, a casual touch on his arm, my smile apologetic. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Simple. Basic flirting one-oh-one. A flutter of eyelashes. A coy smile. Even though I’d been playing into it, it didn’t mean I didn’t feel it — the spark.

I hadn’t been ready for that. I didn’t want to actually be attracted to him, but holy Lord, the guy was fit. He was gorgeous, and he knew it, but man, that packaging was fine.

I was probably drooling. It was only slightly humiliating that I’d turned into a ball of need with one look.

“No need to apologize, we walked into each other. Blame can be shared.”

He gave me a smile, and I berated myself for reacting to it, while also realizing I was in his way, which he had very politely not pointed out. “I’ll move,” I told him, and stepped aside. “See you around?”

He didn’t do the sleazy look-me-over thing; he smiled and said, “I’d like that.”

God, he was smooth. I’d almost believed he was genuine. I bet every girl he’d had in his bed thought the same.

When he came back to the bar, he had his back to me, several women around him, and yeah — I took a look. A quick one. A respectful one. A necessary one. Because a man’s ass should not look that biteable. At all. He looked like my favorite snack, and I was suddenly starving.

His light brown skin was warm and smooth, a contrast to the hard lines of his body. He moved like he knew exactly what he could do with it.

Short-cropped dark hair. A perfectly trimmed beard. A jaw that looked like it could break me, and a mouth that looked like it would apologize for it beautifully. Worshipfully. And those eyes — dark, stormy, and knowing — the kind that could tempt or taunt with just one look.

I risked another glance — and he was already looking back.

Of course he was. He was a player with a capital P.

His gaze across the bar had enough heat in it that I was grateful he wasn’t standing close to me, because I’d have been a puddle on the floor.

It landed on me with the casual precision of someone who always knew when he was being watched.

And his smile — the one he used on cameras, crowds, and girls who didn’t know better — appeared slow and deliberate. Like he knew exactly what I was thinking.

And he liked that I was thinking it.

I didn’t look away despite my own internal conflict warning me that this was a very bad idea.

I was on unofficial probation for my blog post that questioned the athletic department’s spending, specifically the football program.

I’d kept my head down ever since my run-in with Dean Cole, and whenever I got the itch to look into it again, I’d remember the dean’s hard glare and words of warning.

But the journalist in me wanted that story.

And now here I was, holding Dustin’s stare, my mind racing through all the reasons why this was a bad idea, but Dustin Slater was a star player; there was no way he was ignorant of what was happening in that program.

It was one conversation, possibly two. What harm could it be to flirt a little?

The journalist wanted the story; the woman . . . well, a closer look at him would still count as research. Right?

Fueled with solid reasoning, I lifted my drink in a silent toast to the sportsman across the bar, and perhaps there was a little bit of ‘I don’t care’ in there to the dean as well.

Either way, it was an invitation to the wide receiver, who was quite capable of running circles around me if I wasn’t careful.

Dustin raised an eyebrow — the universal male signal for ‘I see you and I’m interested.’ Then he turned and walked out the side door to the patio at the back, which was still open but quiet because it was still winter.

Recklessness? Eagerness? Call it what you will, I waited a moment to see if anyone else followed him, and when no one did, I did.

“Hey.” He was leaning against a table, his hands on either side of him, gripping the table lightly, showcasing the stretch of his biceps beautifully.

“Hi.”

And my confidence left me.

I had experience with guys, but nothing like this. Not with someone on Dustin’s level. My earlier ambitious thoughts disappeared. He was closer than expected; the heat from across the bar was something else entirely up close.

The glint in his eye told me he knew that I was floundering, and he took one confident step forward, until suddenly he was right in front of me. Right in front of me, looking down, that same heat as before, burning in his eyes.

This guy was mesmerizing. He was watching me with a look in his eye that already told me he knew what he wanted. And it wasn’t sleazy, it was warm, it was inviting. I needed to speak, say something, anything. I could not just stand and stare at him like a fool.

I was a journalist for fuck’s sake.

“I—” I didn’t get a chance to say anything else. He kissed me. No preamble, just his head dipping, his mouth claiming, and me melting into his arms. Like a goddamn damsel. Not my finest moment, I knew it even as my arms wound round his neck and I was pressed against the wall and being that girl.

The man could kiss. He was dominant, confident, and irresistible. His hands moved over me, but not in a clumsy or intrusive way. Just a light brush of his palm on my ass. A hand smoothly traced down my back. I bet he could pull off those moves in his sleep. Of course he could. The guy was a player.

I knew that.

But somehow, he made me feel like I was the only person he wanted to kiss.

I was the only one he wanted to be here with.

He kissed me like he already knew what I liked, which was impossible, and somehow he was doing it anyway.

That was a remarkable achievement for someone you’d only said hi to. And that was the most unsettling part.

The thought of probing into the sports program disguised as a playful, flirtatious conversation vanished as soon as he made his move.

The first score of the game went to number eleven of the Lions.

Dustin somehow made the kiss deeper, more intense, more deliberate, and I stopped thinking entirely. My head was spinning, but I wasn’t stopping him.

Should I be stopping him? One hand was now firmly on my ass, squeezing, and I didn’t hate it. I didn’t hate it at all.

I’d never had anyone move this fast on me before, but I was keeping up. My hand skimmed down his arm, over his bicep, and I couldn’t help but squeeze.

Good God, it was like a rock. Another rock was firmly pressing into my lower abdomen, and the evidence of how well this was going made me catch my breath.

His mouth trailed kisses over my jawline, down my neck, ending with a light nip on my collarbone, and I was suddenly grateful for the wall behind me, as it held me up because my knees were like jelly.

What the heck was that about?

And all the while, all I wanted was more. So much more.

Dustin pulled back and looked down at me. “You want to split?”

It was the breather I needed. The moment to regain focus.

Sex. He wanted sex.

He didn’t even know my name.

What the fuck was I doing? I was eager to pursue my story; I wasn’t eager to sell myself for it.

No matter what people thought of journalists, we had morals. I stepped away from him and the wall. I needed the distance. God knew I needed the distance.

“This is a bit fast, no?” I tried for an alluring smile while I tried to pretend my heart wasn’t racing. I think I may have managed a grimace.

Dustin shrugged. “Fast, slow — does speed matter?”

Yes, you dirty ho-bag.

“We could try a date?” I hadn’t even finished the sentence when I saw him shut down. I needed him back to being interested. “Or a conversation.” I laughed as I stroked my hand down his arm. Flirtatious, not desperate.

He caught my hand, brought it to his lips, and smiled. “Maybe next time, beautiful.”

He left me standing in the dark. He didn’t look back, and I had the distinct impression that Dustin Slater never looked back. I was left wondering whether I’d just blown my chance at a story.