Page 23 of Wicked Player

“Well, yeah, but you’re smart. You can dig out his secrets without having to dig too hard. Men love you. You smile your sweet little innocent smile, flip your hair, and tilt your head and men are always eating out of your hands. Mostly because they see you doing that and they want to be eatin’ you somewhere else.”

I had taken a sip of my drink while she spoke and ended up choking. Wine burned my nose and I covered my mouth, reaching for a napkin. “You’re gross,” I said. Oh God, wine in the nose burned like the dickens, as my mom always said.

“I’m honest,” she declared with a mischievous grin. “And remember my words next time you’re talking to Gage, would ya?”

Yeah. Because thinking of him eating me somewhere other than the palm of my hand would keep me on task.

And there was no way in hell I was telling Amanda I’d been fantasizing him doing that very same thing since yesterday.

* * *

“Oh God.”My hand pressed to my stomach over my perfectly fitted and tight black dress. One shoulder and arm was completely bare. The line of fabric cut a sharp diagonal line to my other arm where that sleeve was loose and sheer. At my waist, it cinched together and was skintight over my hips and down to the floor. My ankles wobbled on my heels, even though the silver, ultra-scrappy heels were ones I’d had for years and worn dozens of times. This was, by far, the fanciest I’d ever had to dress for an event and it wasn’t only that making me feel like puking.

It was because as soon as I’d left dinner with Amanda earlier, I’d gone straight home and before I got ready, I’d reached into my nightstand, grabbed my vibrator, and proceeded to take care of myself not once, but twice.

And both times I’d fantasized Gage and his dark eyes and his inky hair and his firm muscles and rigid abs above me, beneath me, holding me down, slipping me around.

During it, I’d imagined him being that guy, doing all of those delicious things, while a black strip of satin covered my eyes.

The man, John, from last night, had said he wanted to see me again, and more than once since I’d taken care of myself, I’d not only checked my phone for messages from Tristan, hoping he requested me tonight, but I’d also resisted texting Tristan and setting it up myself.

That wasn’t how it worked. Not in the beginning.

My job was to sit back, anticipate his request, and in the meantime, apparently, I was also going to drive myself insane.

But God, I’d have loved to know that after I had to spend another few hours with Gage, that I could go somewhere else and have someone take that edge off, clearing my mind of all physical reactions to the mysterious football player.

* * *

The Hills Hotelwas the richest and most elegant hotel in Raleigh. It was a place I'd never been but had always wanted to see the inside of. As I entered the lavish lobby with its travertine tiled floor and modern artwork and sculptures hanging from the ceiling, my already wobbly legs shook more harshly. This place was so far outside my comfort zone we weren’t even in the same zip code. I made my way through the security line where they checked every handbag.

"Have a lovely evening ma'am," the security guard said to me.

"Thank you."

I headed toward the elevator and as the door opened, I stepped in and off to the side. I was immediately accompanied by two couples. I didn’t have to be a football fan to recognize them. I was in the elevator with Beaux Hale, quarterback of the Raleigh Rough Riders, his wife Paige, his sister Shannon, and her husband, Oliver Powell. I also didn't have to be a fan of football to have my breath stolen by the masculinity and testosterone pulsing off of them in radiant waves. Goodness. Were all football players built like they stepped out of a marble statue mold?

Conversation was quiet as the elevator doors closed behind us. I assumed part of that quietness was due to the badge pinned to a lanyard draped around my neck. The network’s rainbow-colored logo along withPRESSstamped in the middle generally made more famous people immediately zip their lips.

I faced the doors as we rose to the fourteenth floor where tonight's festivities included a dinner and dancing in the restaurant at the top. We would eat, drink, and be merry while we slowly turned in the circulating restaurant. On any other night, it would feel like a fantasy come true. Tonight however my nerves were ragged. The drink I had earlier had well worn out its usefulness. I was no longer relaxed and prepared.

No, the very thought of spending several more hours in the room, regardless of how large and cavernous, with Gage seemed to be an impossible task. At the very least, it would test the limits of the professionalism I so boldly proclaimed to Amanda.

"Your dress is lovely."

That came from a soft and sweet feminine voice. I lifted my gaze to the gold reflective doors and caught the cute blonde, Paige Hale, smiling politely behind me and off to my side.

"Thank you." She was dressed in a buttery yellow gown. The dress dipped low between her breasts and slid gently down the curve of her hips brushing the floor. With her hair swept up with grand curls piled on her head, others flowing just past her shoulders, she looked like she could be a Disney princess. "Yours is lovely, too. It looks great with your tan."

Her friendly grin widened. "Thanks," she said. "I bought it today."

The brunette, who I knew was Shannon Powell, laughed uproariously. "You dork,” she exclaimed. "You don't tell people you got a spray tan."

Paige playfully rolled her eyes and I smiled at the banter between the two friends. This was a conversation I would have with Amanda or one of my brother’s wives.

“That's ridiculous. Why do I care if anyone knows I have a spray tan?"

Shannon rolled her eyes and her voice dropped an octave. “Because it's uncouth. And tonight we are supposed to be the belles of the ball." She burst into another round of laughter and this time Paige followed her.

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