Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
“And I want to hear it.” My lips brush the shell of her ear. Just one little kiss. I’ll be good. “After we take care of this. Are they looking now?”
In the distance are the faint sounds of rapid-fire questions and friendly laughter. Most of my teammates will have come streaming out of the front exit by now. That doesn’t mean the press hasn’t noticed me.
A small movement of Pen’s head, and then she answers conspiratorially. “The pack appears to be stirring in this direction.”
Softly, I chuckle. A pack indeed. Then I catch her gaze with mine.
“I’m going to kiss you now.”
Nerves flutter over her in little beats. I feel it against my fingertips where our skin meets. Ducking my head to hold her darting gaze, I make my voice as gentle as possible. “Okay?”
She licks her plush lips. “Okay.”
I force myself to keep it slow. Respectful. Just a little taste.
Her lips soften beneath mine like butter in the sun. She trembles, a small hitch in her breath gusting over my skin. My gut tightens with hot, insistent lust. I want to open her mouth and delve deep, drown in her flavor. I’ve kissed her twice now and still don’t know her taste. It’s a travesty. But to kiss her that way would be too real. And she expects an act.
Keeping my head in the game, I kiss her softly. Once. Twice. Gentle as I can be.
God, but it hurts not doing more. With sheer force of will, I pull back. Because while I’m willing to play this game for the media, that’s all they’re going to get of us. If I’m ever given the chance to truly kiss her with all the lustful greed in my heart, it isn’t going to be in public.
A spark of satisfaction ignites in my chest when I find Pen a bit dazed, her lips parted and lush. Without thought, my mouth gravitates toward hers, and I kiss her a few more times. Softly. Softly. She’s just so . . . Nope. I pull back, my movements a touch jerky when I help her off the hood and then bend down for my bag.
“All right, Sweets. Let’s go.”
“Do you think they got a good shot of us?” The hopeful question has my smile wavering.
While I’m fantasizing about making Pen blush and sigh with pleasure, she’s focused on our agreement. Like everything in her life, she tackles the assignment wholeheartedly. I admire her dedication. Truly. If only it wasn’t homed on keeping to a pretend relationship I never wanted in the first place. Irony, oh, how you suck.
“If they haven’t, then they’re not doing their jobs very well.” I have stopped giving a great fuck what the public thinks of my private life. I have an urge to flip the press off, hide Pen away from their prying eyes—my self-righteous inner rant ends with a swift kick to the gut; the entire situation has been manufactured by me.
What’s really doing my head in is wondering how it would have gone if I’d simply asked Pen out that day at the airport.
Now you’ll never know, fucko.
Tight-lipped and grim, I hold the passenger door for her like my mamma taught me, and when she’s securely inside, I stalk around to the driver’s seat. Once inside, I start the Grouch, and it comes to life with a satisfying grumble.
“Well,” she asks me, intent. “What do you think?”
Nonplussed, I blink. “What do I think?”
So many things I could tell her.
She huffs and gives me an admonishing look. “About the girls’ idea. Did you not hear a word I said?”
No, I was mentally pouting and kicking myself in the balls. Welcome to my hell.
“I must have drifted. Sorry, Pen. Long day.”
She sits back, resting against the door. “That’s okay. I was saying that the girls keep track of all your schedules, and they say you have a bye week in November that coincides with Thanksgiving. But March has a game that day and can’t get home. Since Jan’s house is close to March’s university, they thought it might be nice if we all stay there for the week and celebrate Thanksgiving break together.”
I know the drill. The Luck family hasn’t had a quiet home Thanksgiving schedule in, well, ever. First it was my dad playing, then it was we boys throughout college. In college you’re doomed to play that day, chomping down on a meal when it’s done. Not every NFL team plays on Thanksgiving, so one day, schedules willing, once March is drafted maybe we’ll have one.
Until then, we make do.
“You’d want to go?” I ask Pen. It’s a nice idea, and I miss the hell out of my brother.
She frowns, a small moue of worry. “Unless you don’t want me to?”
“Pen. That is not what I’m saying. Of course I want you there. Jesus.”