Page 8 of Played
Curves that can’t be street legal shove against a black long-sleeved shirt with a fire department insignia and dark pants. The uniform shouldn’t really be flattering, at the very least, or sexy on anyone. But the firm breasts, full hips, and thick thighs possess magic or something, because she turns these boring clothes into something worthy of Pornhub. Not overweight by any stretch of the imagination. Still, no one could call her slender or thin. Thank fuck. Nah, that body belongs on a video set or hip-hop reality TV show.
But as bad as those curves are, it’s her face that’s a punch to the gut. My fingers fist at my sides, and I battle the twin urges to stare and look away. To gaze into that stunning beauty and to avoid it at all costs. Big, heavy-lidded, and densely lashed brown eyes. Delicately arched eyebrows with a small birthmark punctuating the corner of the right one. A proud nose with wide nostrils. Plump lips with a faint little dent in the middle of the bottom one, which is slightly bigger. A dip that invites someone to suck on it, familiarize themselves with it.
A dip that’s the perfect resting spot for a hard dick about to slide up in that wide mouth.
I shake my head, my brows dipping into a frown that probably reflects the confusion and anger I can’t suppress. The feelings I want no part of. Because I shouldn’t be feelinganythingtoward this woman. No confusion. No anger. Definitely not lust.
It’s not like I haven’t fucked in the two years since Kendra’s passing. That would be a lie, and one I wish I could claim is true. But ask me if I remember the names of those women. If I remember the faces. Shit, if I remember the nut. The answer is no to all of them. As much of an asshole as it makes me, I just needed to get off when my fist wasn’t doing the job any longer. They were forgotten as soon as I came.
None of them, not one of those women, snatched me by the throat like this one does.
I don’t know her. Not her name, not who she is.
But that doesn’t stop me from detesting her in this moment.
Detesting her for making me feel something that had no business curling and knotting inside of me. Something that belonged solely to another woman. A woman who is no longer here.
“Solomon Young?” she asks, stepping forward, and damn if I don’t catch myself from shifting backward.
The fuck?
I almost shake my head, not in denial of my name but at the silken stroke of that husky, low voice. Did she eat too much smoke on her job? That has to be the only explanation why she owns a sultry tone like that.
“Yeah,” I bite out, and her pretty eyes flare wide a little at my terse response.Shit.Scrubbing a hand back and forth over my hair, I try again. “Yeah, that’s me. Who’re you?”
A small smile flirts with her lips, and once more, my gaze drops to that lush mouth. I hate that mouth. Hate that my dick tightens as if she’s dragging that same mouth down the throbbing length of it.
“Sorry.” She crosses the space separating us, arm outstretched. For a long moment, I peer down at it, but when that smile trembles just a little bit, threatening to fall away, I quickly grasp her hand, barely touching my palm to hers before I drop my arm back to my side.Surprise flickers in her eyes, briefly scrunches her brow, but her expression clears, and the smile is back in place. “My name is Adina Wright, a firefighter here in Providence.”
“Yeah, they already told me that. What’s so important you had to come down here and see me?”
If my harsh tone takes her aback, this time she does a better job of concealing it. Instead, she nods and turns to a messenger bag sitting on one of the leather chairs. She opens it and retrieves something from inside.
My journal.
My breath snags in my throat, and my heart drums a discordant rhythm in my ears. How ...? I jerk my gaze up to her before returning it to the book I’d believed lost. The book that holds my very personal and raw thoughts.
“How did you get this?” I rasp, numbly accepting the journal and cradling it in my hands as if it’s a newborn infant.
“I was one of the firefighters that responded to a call at your training center last week. Before we left the locker room, I noticed that”—she nodded toward the journal—“on the floor in water. The front and back cover are water stained, as are some of the pages. I didn’t want to leave it lying there—I figured someone would be missing it. So I picked it up, intending to turn it in to your front office. But I forgot it was in the pocket of my coat, and I accidentally brought it back to the firehouse. I’m sorry it took me so long to return it to you. With you being a professional athlete, getting past the red tape and convincing the staff here that I wasn’t a crazed fan took a little doing.”
“How do you know some of the pages are water stained?”
“I’m sorry?”
I stroke a hand over one of the dark-brown spots on the cover, then lift my gaze to her.
“I said, how do you know some of the pages are water stained?” I repeat my question, eyes narrowed on her. “You made sure you personally hand delivered this to me.”
“Yes.” She nods, and her tongue peeks out from between her lips, moistening them. The clenching of my stomach only throws gas on the anger licking higher and burning brighter inside me. “It’s personal, and I didn’t want to risk anyone reading it.”
“But you did.” The flicker of guilt, faint but there in those brown eyes, betrays her and confirms my accusation.
“I didn’t—”
“So you’re going to lie to my face now?” I snap, my grip tightening on the journal until I swear I can feel the print of my words beneath my fingertips. “There’s only one way you could know how damaged the pages are, and that’s by looking inside the journal. Reading it.”
“I’m not a liar,” she says, and the thread of steel in that voice has my chin jerking toward my neck.
