Page 68 of Play Fake
I bite my tongue, so fucking hard I think I taste blood. I want to fucking explode. Because I will make one hundred percent sure Ben never so much as lays eyes on her again, let alone a single fucking finger. Neither will Easton or any other fucking guy, so long as I can stop it.
I don’t know what she thinks she sees on my face, but she reaches out and runs her fingers softly over the back of my hand.
“I knew what I was getting into last night. I asked. I wanted it. We had fun. Truly. It’s fine, Waylon,” she says it in a soft tone, so soft and even-tempered it's almost convincing.
Meanwhile, I’ve had my chest blown open. My heart was firmly in this clueless woman’s grasp. And she… she had fun. A fun night of fucking. That’s what she’d told me she wanted originally, after all.
“Checked your ‘fuck a hot football player box’ then?” It’s sarcastic, but she doesn’t read it that way.
“Very fucking hot,” she smiles and her eyes roam over my chest for a second before returning to my face.
She definitely wasn’t listening to me last night then. Or thought it was just shit I was saying because we were fucking.
“And if I want more?” The words are out before I can stop them.
And again, she misunderstands because her cheeks heat.
“I’d consider it.” Her eyes drift from me to the spot on the wall where I’d pinned her during round two and my dick twitches at the idea of putting her there again.
“Now?” I ask because fuck me, I’m a greedy son of a bitch, and I’ll take what I can get.
Her eyes snap to mine, and I can see desire pool in them. She might not like me, but she wants me, and I will absolutely press that advantage.
Her blush deepens, and her eyes drift down to where the sheet barely conceals my hard-on before she replies.
“Um, it’s been a while since my lady parts have been that well and truly fucked. And I think they might need recovery time.” Her lips quiver with embarrassment or amusement. I don’t know which.
I stand up abruptly, and she does too. She tries, really tries, to keep her eyes up top but they drift down more than once. Which is exactly what my cocky ass was hoping for.
That’s right Mac. Get a good long hard fucking look.
And she does. Her gaze eats up every inch of my skin, settling hard on my cock before they pop back up to mine. I take a step toward her as she stands frozen in place.
I reach forward and tuck her hair behind her ear, placing a soft kiss on her cheek before I whisper in her ear, “But if I slid my hand down between those gorgeous thighs, you’d be wet for me?”
A little intake of breath is all the admission I need.
“Good.” I dot a few more kisses along her jawline. I want her mouth, her tongue tangled up with mine like it was last night. But if she wants me to pretend to be her fuckboy, I’ll do it. “You should go before you change your mind, then. Don’t want to put them out of commission when I like them so fucking much.”
I smile against her skin before I pull back and look into her eyes. Something flashes there, something I can’t quite make sense of. It’s overwritten with desire and lust and a smile now. A genuine one. Finally.
“I’ll talk to you later, Waylon.” She gives me one last look and then walks out the door.
TWENTY-ONE
Mackenzie
“I am so fucked,”I groan, burying my face in the pillows of the couch.
It’s an impromptu girls' night in the middle of the week because whatever Olivia is dealing with, and I am sure it is a 6’4, sexy as sin, star quarterback, who has her in a tailspin, she still doesn’t want to talk about it. And in true-to-her fashion, wants to solve problems for me and Wren instead.
“I mean, it sounds like you were thoroughly fucked,” Olivia smiles at me from across the room.
“You’re not helping!” I shout, but it’s muffled by the fabric.
“What’s the problem, anyway?” I hear Wren in her trademark, why worry about men at all voice. I can’t remember the last time she dated. Not because she can’t. She’s gorgeous and given she works at her dad’s sports bar like she owns it, I’m fairly certain most guys would love that she can list stats faster than they can look them up. But she just doesn’t care to. It’s too low on her list of priorities.
“I have a thing for Waylon. Waylon fucking Prescott. Me. And. Waylon,” I lift my head to glare at Wren over the fringy lace edge of the pillow Olivia insists we keep.
