Page 62 of The Groupie

She shrugs. “Seemed appropriate. You’re falling, and we have an expiration date.”

“Fuck.” I can’t lie to myself or her because it’s true, isn’t it? “You let me worry about me.”

“Fine. But remember my rule—”

“Fuck your rules.” Anger makes me grip the steering wheel tight as I pull off the highway and head to my condo. She stays blessedly silent.

Candice sends me another text, and I ignore it.

Five minutes later as I pull into my condo garage, my phone pings again. Candice sent two texts, but I don’t bother reading them now.

“Let’s go.” My voice is tight with anger simmering on the edge of my control.

“How can I refuse your charming offer.” She doesn’t wait for me to come around and help her out, and we ride up the elevator in heavily charged silence. Her eyes spark with almost as much anger as I feel, and that pisses me off more. What does she have to be angry at?

She’s the one callously disregarding how I feel with her self-righteous rules. Besides, I’m angry enough at myself, so there’s no place for her anger. I have her covered.

She steps inside my condo ahead of me, and as soon as I close the door, I pin her back against it, trapping her, pressing my hard dick against her, and letting her feel the full wrath of my frustration.

“Fuck. Your. Rules,” I goad her. Her eyes fire up, and my nerves nearly explode with the need to have her, to taste her, to be inside her.

“Never mind fucking my rules. Fuck me.” She fists my shirt and slams her mouth onto mine, biting down on my lip and grinding her hips against mine.

“Jeezus, Buttercup,” I groan into her mouth, tasting blood. “This is going to be angry sex, is it?” I don’t wait for her to confirm, and clamping my hands under her ass, I lift her. She wraps her legs around me, and I carry her down the hallway to my bedroom, kicking the door closed behind me with a bang.

* * *

Sweaty and spent, her head rests on my shoulder with her hair spread out around me as my eyes drift closed.

The blaring sound of my phone ringing jars me, and I pop up reflexively. Glancing at the phone, I swear under my breath. It’s Delaney.

I can’t ignore her call, or she’ll call Coach—or the Brawlers’ general manager if she’s really pissed.

“Who is it?” Rylee asks.

“Brawlers PR.”

“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?”

“Not as much as you are if Jonesy doesn’t keep his mouth shut.”

Exhausted, I ignore the phone call. Despite however much trouble is brewing around us, I have no trouble sleeping with Rylee in my arms, on my mind, and in my dreams.