Page 38 of Playing for Keeps

“With fire.”

Her smile is slow and hot and my cock swells and hardens in direct proportion. Fuck.

“If we can’t flirt or talk football, what the hell is there left for us, Fontanna?”

Looking around at the others who are ignoring us, letting us have our tête-à-tête, I consider her question far too seriously. “How about we get to know each other. Two strangers meeting.”

“On a blind date?” She perks up. “I’ll play that game.”

“No games.”

“You’re a real hardass, aren’t you?” She picks up her drink and this time she sips it, a blond curl falling across her forehead. My hand reaches up to touch it because it looks irresistibly soft and fuck. My cock is on fire and she’s not even trying.

Hunter and Cat bring the food out to the dining room and move everyone to the table for a sit-down, honest-to-God feast, ending our non-flirtation for the duration of the meal. We sit together, but Chloe engages with everyone at the table, regaling them with tales from her misspent youth as the itinerant daughter of a larger-than-life sports reporting legend. She fascinates everyone, including me. I’m half horrified and half amused at the life she led, admire her grit, and am completely charmed by her storytelling.

“So you went into locker rooms as a young girl?” Mia asks. I can’t tell if she is fascinated or horrified. I am immune to the shock factor of Smitty’s upbringing by now. Or so I thought.

“Let me tell you about the time I saw my first penis,” she says. I coughed, almost swallowing an ice cube. I’d switched back to ice water, but it might be time to go back to the whiskey. The others laughed and prodded her on.

“I was with dad in the NBA Championship locker room. I was nine years old. There was the usual hubbub of shouts and champagne being sprayed around and I was dressed in a little plastic raincoat because Dad had planned to take me inside and had permission—someone owed him something. I got all sticky and got it in my head that I needed to wash it off.”

“Don’t tell me—” Cat puts her hands over her ears in mock horror but everyone else is grinning. I’m riveted. Chloe continues.

“Yes I did. I went to the showers and someone was in there big as life. I didn’t yell or overreact because I was fascinated as fuck, but the guy screamed and my dad came running, sweeping me away, handing me off to one of the player’s wives outside of the locker room. I was mildly disappointed and told my dad later, but he insisted I keep my disappointment about Sam the Bam’s junk to myself.”

“Fucking crazy,” I say. “Both you and your dad.” I couldn’t help laughing in spite of feeling appalled on a deeper level. Sean and Hunter were laughing so hard they were almost crying. Cat and Mia looked horrified and Gabe was holding in a laugh, and looking at me.

“Dad was upset about that one and didn’t let me into locker rooms for a long time after that. Though I did occasionally sneak in.”

“Nothing ruffles you, does it? Not even when you were a kid,” I say. “If you were a guy, I’d want you on my team.”

“What a thing to say to your date,” Cat says, looking as if I’d insulted Chloe. I’m satisfied that Chloe takes no such umbrage at my comment. In fact, she looks pleased, if the beaming smile is any clue. Our eyes meet and stick, our smiles matching, and then I feel it, that tug, that spark as our stare goes from mutual admiration to another level.

The unmistakable shine of flirtation takes over her eyes and I can feel the mirroring shift in my own stare. More importantly, I feel the shift in my pants as my dick takes notice. It’s worse than before because we’re not playing games. It’s as if the air in the room changes from cool to hot, as if some sick Cupid flicked a switch—or hits me with an arrow in a cruel joke saying not so fast, buddy, she’s not one of the guys, she’s your sexiest nightmare waiting for you to show her how manly you are.

“Who’s ready for dessert?” Cat stands and claps her hands. “Tate brought us some chocolate-covered strawberries and I made Tiramisu.”

Chloe darts an accusing look at me and I smirk. She brought nothing with her and I enjoy the pale pink blush rising to her cheeks. Amazing to see in a woman who can swear like a teenage boy with something to prove.

“How romantic, Tate.” Mia said. That diverts my attention from Chloe’s tantalizing warmth and the sensuality I feel oozing from her as I turn to her. Mia is teasing me. Chloe must sense that too as she rips my attention back by planting her hot palm on my thigh under the table and squeezing. I don’t flinch but my cock does and my smile falters.

“Not bad for a defensive player.”

Chloe reaches out and takes one of the chocolate-covered strawberries as soon as Cat places them on the table, as if staking her claim. She gives me a challenging look as she puts the chocolate tip to her lips and licks. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was competing with Mia and out to win. But then maybe that does suit Chloe. She is a competitor by nature and wants to be the best, at the top. Maybe on top too . . . Fuck. Her tongue circles the strawberry, smearing the chocolate and my cock screams for her attention, for the attention of her tongue and that mouth.

Then she bites off the tip and I close my eyes, not wanting to see any more. The others are too busy trying out their desserts to be paying attention to our byplay, so I lean in, my eyes on her unblinking violet ones.

“I want to make you pay for that.”

“Promises—”

I cover the hand she still has on my thigh with mine and move it up to my cock. Her stare sizzles, pupils darkening, but if I thought I was going to shock this too-cool reporter who has seen everything, I’d have been wrong. Maybe I’m not trying to shock her or put her off. Maybe I really want to excite her, seduce her. Because I sure as fuck am exciting myself. And she sure as fuck looks excited. Exciting.

Needing to calm down because we’re at a fucking dinner table with a group of people—my friends—and I have no wish to put on an exhibition of my excitement level because I still need to stand up before I—we can leave. I take her hand off me and pull it on top of the table, still holding it.

When did I decide I was leaving with Chloe?Aside from the fact that it had been my plan all along to leave with my blind date, to bring her home and spend the night fucking our brains out, or making love, depending on how I felt about her, that was before I knew said blind date was fucking Smitty. It would be a dangerous thing to leave with Chloe Smith, the ultimate sports media maniac.

Leaning close to my ear, she whispers, “Let’s get the fuck out of here as soon as we can—as soon as you can stand up, though I hate to see the hard-on go.”