Page 14 of Yes, Coach

"That's, uh..." He clears his throat. "That's Andy."

"Andy? Like, that's the species name?"

"Andy Reid." His cheeks actually flush, and it's adorable. "The thing's impossible to kill, outlasts everything else, tough old bastard. I, uh… I name them."

I snort, pressing my fingertip to my mouth on a giggle. "You named your snake plant after Andy Reid?"

"Don't start." He swallows, scratching the back of his neck, looking sheepish but so sexy.

"Oh, I'm definitely starting." I move to the next plant, a delicate little thing with purple flowers. "Let me guess... this pretty one must be Tom Brady?"

"Hell no. That's Pete Carroll. Looks all sweet and innocent until it takes over your whole damn garden."

I let the belly laugh come out without muffling, and there’s a satisfaction in his eyes that hits me bone deep. "Okay, so where's Brady then?"

His tongue glances his teeth as he shakes his head. "On my desk at school. Or he was, anyway. You ran your fingers along his leaves, and I got mad. Damn near killed the thing until I forced myself to give it to Jim… Um, Mr. Turner. We talk football together and his science class needed some fucking greenery. It wasn’t the damn plant’s fault, but I couldn’t stand looking at it any longer."

I start to laugh, but then catch the look in his eyes and realize… He’s serious. He got that jealous because I touched a plant named Tom Brady?

Why do I find that so flippin’ sexy?

"And...” I have to force myself to remember to breathe. “Bill Belichick?"

"Kitchen. The Ficus. Stubborn as hell, thrives on neglect, still outperforms everything around it."

The fact that he knows all their personalities, that he's put this much thought into plant-football metaphors, is somehow the most endearing thing I've ever heard.

"Turn around." He shifts forward, and I can tell the plant conversation is over. He makes a spinning gesture with his hand over my head.

I turn my palms up, doing a slow turn, letting him look his fill. When I complete the circle, his jaw is tight and his hands are clenched at his sides.

"Fuck, you're perfect." He reaches out and traces one finger along the neckline of my dress. "Did you follow all my instructions?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Show me."

My cheeks burn, but I reach up and undo the top button of my dress, letting it gape open enough to show that I'm not wearing a bra. His sharp intake of breath makes my nipples harden.

"Good girl." He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne and the faint scent of soap. "Are you nervous?"

"A little."

He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Good. You should be. Do you know why?"

I shake my head.

"Because I've been thinking about this moment for months. Ever since you started running the track where I could see you. About having you here, in my space, with nowhere to run." His thumb traces my lower lip, and I think back to the first time I ran that track, wearing booty-hugging running shorts just for his eyes. Barely eighteen. "About all the things I'm going to do to you and do for you."

My breath catches. "What things?"

"Patience, baby girl." His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in the hair at the back of my neck with a soft tug. Just enough to let me know things are changing. "First, I need to know you trust me. Completely. Because once I start touching you the way I want to, I'm not going to want to stop."

"I trust you, Daddy."

"Do you?" His grip tightens slightly in my hair, not painful but possessive. "Because trusting me means doing exactly what I tell you, when I tell you. It means you belong to me tonight. Think you can handle that?"

The way he's looking at me, like he wants to devour me whole, makes my knees weak. "Yes, Daddy."

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