Page 62 of Wicked Player

“Tell us everything!” I gushed.

I spent the next several hours surrounded by family. We talked about the game. They gushed over my reports I was doing on the hospital and Gage. I feigned professionalism every time his name was mentioned so I wouldn’t blush, but the entire time, I had my phone waiting in my back pocket.

And when my phone finally buzzed, it was nearly impossible to not grab it immediately.

I waited a whole two minutes before I checked it.

Smiled when I saw the message from Tristan.

Eight pm. Room four. You know the drill.

Twenty-One

Gage

It was different tonight. Different than I’d ever experienced and I hadn’t seen her yet. Tonight, I was already in the room. I stood in the corner, arms crossed over my navy blue T-shirt. I had a harsh bruise on my side from a tough tackle courtesy of Philadelphia’s cornerback. I’d spent time once I got home soaking in an ice bath even after my shower and the game. Then I’d showered again, popped some pain pills. The time couldn’t go by fast enough and stretched on forever.

So I wasn’t all that excited about the fact she was running late. Or that it’d taken so damn long for her to confirm the meeting in the first place.

But damn. My hands were already hot. Palms ready to slap them against her petite, heart-shaped ass.

If only she’d get there. I checked my phone again.

Ten minutes. Was it possible she wasn’t going to show at all?

Before I could linger on that thought too long, the doorknob turned. The light behind her from the hall left a gentle glow over her features.

She’d changed since the game. No longer dressed in blue jeans with rips at the thighs and knees and a skintight jersey bearing my name, she sauntered into the room with a pale pink dress, curving over the slope of her breasts. Thin straps I could break with a quick yank. It fit her chest, an extra piece of fabric belted around her waist and the pleats billowed out from her hips, the skirt creating a fullness that fell to just above her knees.

She was beautiful, gliding in on matching pink heels, stilettos that looked deadly and yet she didn’t wobble despite the fact she was blindfolded.

The door closed behind her, a lamp in the other corner of the room the only glow. I waited until she stepped forward, had her hand on the dresser to steady herself and helped guide her toward the bed.

“You’re not alone,” I said. I propped the heel of one boot against the wall and as she walked in, I dropped it.

“You’re here?” Her fingers clasped together in front of her and she turned toward the corner where I stood. “Blindfolded again?”

“For now.”

I pushed off the wall and stepped to her. “Take three steps back so your calves touch the bed, but don’t sit.” I stopped her when her back was to the bed. Easier for me to place her on it. Her waist was so small my hands could practically wrap all the way around her. When she’d been blindfolded, I’d taken her in a variety of positions, and yet none the way I wanted now. Her straddling my hips, arms bound behind her, wrapped in my hand. Her small tits bouncing as she rode me. As sheusedme for her own pleasure. All that hair flying. Her chin tilted up. I’d imagined it a dozen times, fantasized about how small she’d appear while she claimed what was hers even while I still had command of her body.

One corner of her lips tipped up. “Are you going to touch me?”

Yes. I’d get there. Soon, as long as this conversation went the way it needed to go. “We have to talk.”

“Well.” She smiled, pretty pink lips stretched happily. “That’s something new and kinky.”

This woman. How I wanted to bend her over my knee and spank her until she came from the friction of her clit pressed against my jeans.

Patience.

I dropped the preamble. To get through this, we had to rip it off.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I succinctly said, “You know who I am.”

Her hand went to her blindfold.

“I didn’t say you could remove it.”

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