That was the hardest and the hottest night ever. The sexy football star slept fully clothed on the living room couch downstairs while I tossed and turned under the covers in my second-floor bedroom, hot and bothered, imagining the then twenty-five-year-old stud stalking upstairs and fucking me into my twin bed.
Of course, nothing of the sort happened. Gabe is, as advertised, a good guy.
But it didn’t stop my younger lustful self from dreaming.
I smile. Wickedly. Yes, I will definitely take the good-guy challenge for Gabe Clements.
5
FILL HER STOCKING
Gabe
The next morning, I work out with Drew at the Mercenaries stadium, running routes with my quarterback. As he rolls through the playbook, I am in the zone, focused on football only.
That’s how I plan to be this season.
Like when I haul in a beautiful spiral and take it to the end zone.
When Drew catches up with me, I give a cocky shrug. “Guess we’re ready for the Super Bowl.”
“’Course we are,” he says, then with the ball tucked under my arm, we head to the corridor.
“What’s it like?” he adds. “To win one?”
I smile at the glorious memory of a certain Sunday a few years ago. Even now, I get a chill. A good chill, just thinking of how it felt to claim the Lombardi trophy. “You know how great sex is?”
Drew snorts, then laughs. “Yeah. I do.”
“Imagine something one hundred times better than that,” I say.
He whistles. “Damn.”
“And then you’re maybe in the ballpark.”
“You fucker,” he mutters.
“You asked,” I toss back. Then, I clap him on the shoulder. “We’re gonna have a good year. It’s my personal mission to make a ring happen. I got your back.”
“And I’ve got yours,” he says and then we head to the weight room inside the facility.
While I work out, I try to focus on football only.
With every chest press, I zoom in on the season I want to have, the plays I want to make, the stats I want to surpass.
But somewhere between the squats and the lat raises, my mind returns to the vision from last night in a purple halter top and short shorts that revealed a hint of cheek.
I’ve run into Ellie a few times over the past several years. Ellie’s grandma’s birthday extravaganza a year ago. Then last summer at the fortieth-anniversary party my brother and I threw our mom and dad. Ellie brought them a board game to celebrate the occasion because my parents met at a Monopoly tournament and have always loved their game nights.
But my most vivid memory is when I saw Ellie under the mistletoe at my aunt Sarah’s eggnog-tasting party five years ago. Resisting kissing her was harder than catching a Hail Mary pass.
Ellie was in college then, twenty or twenty-one, batting those big brown eyes at me and smiling up at the sprig of mistletoe. She was all sweet innocence with only a slash of red lipstick across her bee-stung mouth to hint at dirty deeds.
“Merry Christmas, Gabe,” she’d said in her smoky, sexy voice. “Have you been a good boy this year?”
No. I had not. Not one bit.
“I always am,” I said. “What about you?”
She shrugged coquettishly. “I skipped a seminar last week. I hope that doesn’t get me on the naughty list.”
I’d like to get on that list with her.
“That doesn’t seem like enough of a sin,” I said.
“Oh,” she said, with a wicked glint in her eyes. “Maybe I should try harder.”
I was harder.
“Guess it depends if you want presents from Saint Nick,” I said, trying to be friendly, not flirty. I couldn’t tear myself away from her, even though I should have.
“I do like gifts. Maybe Santa will understand. I sure hope he’ll fill both our stockings,” she’d said.
Her stocking wasn’t what I wanted to fill. I’d balled my hands into fists, resisting my mom’s friend’s daughter and the urge to wipe off all that lipstick with a hard, punishing kiss.
Especially when she waited, chin tipped up, under the mistletoe.
I swallowed down the surge of lust. She was in college, for fuck’s sake.
Then she smiled, bright and big. Sweet as cherry pie.
I relaxed, seeing again the sweet girl next door. She wasn’t the Christmas vixen on the naughty list.
“And to all a good night,” I said, then she rose onto her tiptoes and brushed a chaste kiss to my cheek.
Then, thoroughly innocent, she walked straight to the eggnog bar and chatted with her mom.
Innocent. Sweet. Friendly.
That was who she was.
That’s probably who she still is.
Even though those words—naughty list—echo in my mind years later. Along with the way she flirted with me.
She’s probably the consummate good girl. But…what if she’s not? What if her naughty list comment was a hint?
The possibility is too enticing. I’ve got to know if that was even her last night. She was walking a dog, after all. You don’t usually walk a dog when you’re just visiting. Has she moved to Los Angeles from New York?
No harm, no foul in finding out, right?
I let go of the lat-raise bar, climb off the machine, and grab my water bottle. As I take a glug, I glance around. Drew’s lifting free weights, so I can snag a moment to check her out. I slip my phone from my shorts pocket, unlock it, and search for Ellie Snow.
Her social media feed, full of pics, pops up right away.
And so does my dick.
Just look at those tits. Those lips. That stomach.
She’s no longer the off-limits teenage girl down the street. She’s not the college beauty either. She’s all woman, and she has filled the fuck out in the rack department.
Hips too.
I could grip those hips hard. Grab a fistful of that chestnut hair. Devour those candy lips.
Like a detective cracking the case, I tap the screen with a satisfied grin. Yup. She’s got a little blond dog, just like the gal strutting past The Happiest Hours.
“I knew it,” I mutter, victorious.
“Knew what?”
Busted. Drew’s behind me, peering over my shoulder. I stuff my phone into my pocket right away. He stares as if he caught me red-handed, which he did. “So, it seems you aren’t so worried about non-football injuries,” he teases.
I huff, rolling my eyes. “Just looking someone up. No big deal.” I nod to the StairMaster. “I need to hit the steps.”
“Is that the only thing you need to hit?”
I flip him the bird.
No matter how appealing the idea of hot rebound sex is, I’m still reeling from the here’s your handcuffs moment.
Sure, Ellie flirted her sweet ass off with me at a Christmas party a few years ago. But no way do I want to screen Ellie, or anyone, with questions like—so, want it rough, dirty and, maybe, bound?
Best to stick to the football-only plan. I blast a hard-rock playlist as I sweat on the StairMaster.
I don’t reach out to Ellie. Then I truly do my best to put her out of my mind.
When I return home from the gym, the handcuffs on the entryway table catch my eye.