THAT WENT WELL. Anna Jones’s gorgeous ass sways as she walks away from me. A perfect counterpoint to the swish of her little black skirt and the bounce of her red curls. I want to grab her and press her up against the nearest wall so that I can taste her tart mouth. I wouldn’t even mind if she bit me, just as long as her tongue soothed it afterward.
Fat chance of that. I stay where I am, defeat and disappointment—yes, thank you, Miss Jones, I’m well aware of that emotion now—crashing into me like a bad hit.
“Shit.” I rub my ribs where the phantom pain spreads wide.
It’s even worse when I see Gray sauntering over. Gray is my teammate and best friend. We met when we were fifteen and attending the Manning Passing Academy. We are both from Chicago, though from different areas, and had played against each other before but had never talked until then. When my parents died, Gray was the only one I could stomach being around because he had lost his mother to breast cancer the year before. Which means he knows me better than anyone alive. This is going to suck.
Gray’s obnoxious grin is wide and pleased. “‘Crash and burn, huh, Mav?’”
I glare, itching to punch that stupid smile off his face. “I never should have introduced you to the glory that is Top Gun. You don’t deserve it.”
When he laughs, I roll my eyes. “How long have you been waiting to use that line on me?”
“About four and a half years, give or take.” He slings a meaty arm around my shoulder and attempts to pull my head down for a noogie. I duck away and slap the side of his head lightly. Though it takes restraint not to bap him harder. I’m not in the mood. Not that Gray cares. He’s still grinning.
“What’s the matter? Red didn’t respond to the ‘Battle’ cry?”
“Fuck off, Gray.” There isn’t much heat to my request. My mind is still on Anna, and my body is itching to follow. Shit, I’m so screwed. Something pathetically close to a sigh lifts my chest as I stare in the direction she took—fucking fled—to get away from me. Like I was a disease she needed to stay clear of.
Which is unfortunate. Because it’s still there, that insistent clamor in my head that says: Her, her, her!
Not so great when she seems to have a cry in regards to me that goes: Run, run, run!
I don’t understand it. I wasn’t lying to her, and I don’t think I’m deluded, when I said that we’ve been virtually eye-fucking each other for the past month. Fortunately, I didn’t call it “eye-fucking;” she’d probably have my nuts in a clench if I had. Not that I’m entirely opposed to her touching my nuts…
“Shit.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. Then pinch it harder when I realize that Gray is still there watching.
“Dude,” he says, “let it go. This is getting embarrassing.”
“Why?” I snap. “Because I have to work for it? For once?”
The masochist in me kind of likes it. I sure as hell love it when she’s all snappy and taking me to task. If I could get her to do it while I suck on her neck, feeling the vibrations of her voice as she talks, or maybe have those creamy legs wrapped around my back while she’s doing it, and I’d push into her heat, making her groan just a little between arguments.
I take a deep breath. And another. I’m so screwed if Gray sees me with a hard on. Thank God for jeans. And the fact that Gray is still babbling too much to look down.
“Sex shouldn’t be work,” he insists. “It should be easy. Girls come to us, give us a good time, and we send them on their way with a nice thank you and maybe a pat on the ass if they’re extra special.”
“I pity your bed partners.”
“They have a good time,” Gray says. “A great time.”
“Sure. You let them do all the work while you lay back like a lazy shit. Sounds awesome for them.”
He gives me a sour look. “Well, you sound like a girl.”
“If I was one, I wouldn’t be fucking you.”
“You could do a lot worse—” His face goes red. “Damn. Would you stop that shit? I hate when you make me twist my words.”