Most Valuable Playboy

“And you do know he’s her husband?”

She stares at me. “Yes, I am aware. And she didn’t take a vow before God and family to tell her husband all his sister’s secrets. Like I said, she honors the code.”

“But she knows that I’m here?”

Violet sets down her fork. “Are you asking me if I specifically texted her and told her hey, guess what, Cooper’s coming over tonight? The answer is no. If she knows generally that you gave me several stupendously magnificent orgasms, the answer is yes,” she says with a proud lift of her chin.

I smile. “Stupendously magnificent?”

“I might have mentioned your talents.”

“Excellent.”

Violet laughs. “If my brother knew about your skills, that would be an issue, but as long as I’m praising your oral and manual talents to my sister-in-law, it’s all good?”

“I’m simple like that.” I take a beat. “Besides, it’s different with Trent.”

“I know,” she says, her tone slipping to a more serious note.

It’s different because I have no clue how he’d feel about me being here. I don’t know how he’d react if he knew my relationship with his sister has sailed into uncharted waters. And I have no idea what he’d say about the way my heart seems to take on a different shape when I’m near her. A new and wholly unfamiliar shape.

But I know this much—I don’t want to think about Trent tonight. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”

“Funny, I don’t, either.”

She leans over and drops the Tupperware in the sink and glances at the clock on her microwave. “Ticktock. Bedtime approaches.”

I put my hands on her thighs, nudge her legs open, and wedge myself between them. “Yes, and I need to do bad things to you before I leave for the coldest place on earth.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Is Baltimore that cold?”

“Hell if I know. It’s not California, that’s for damn sure. All I can say is thank the good Lord for domed stadiums or I would be screwed in the NFL. I’m too warm-blooded.”

She runs a hand down my arm. I’m wearing a black T-shirt. “You are. Also, do you know it kind of turns me on to know that I’m touching the arm that everyone is going to be talking about on Sunday?”

I laugh. “You can lick it and kiss it, too.”

She purses her lips. “I’m so lucky.”

I mimic throwing a football, and she grabs hold of my upper arm. “Seriously,” she says with a sigh. “You’re a gunslinger.”

I puff up my chest. “Why, yes, please inflate my ego more.”

She runs her hand from my bicep down to my forearm. “I’m not trying to inflate your ego here. I’m honestly just amazed at what you can do with this simple body part.”

“Wait till you can see what I do with other ones.”

Instead of tossing a zinger back my way, she presses a kiss to my bicep and lets her soft hair fall against my skin. Goosebumps rise on my arm. This woman. I run a hand through her hair. “What are you doing to me?”

She meets my eyes. “I don’t know. What am I doing to you?”

She waits for me to answer.

I brush the backs of my fingers along her cheek, answering in my head.

Everything. She’s doing everything to me—hitting me everywhere—mind, body, and straight in the heart with an arrow I’m not even sure she knows she’s aiming in that direction. But only a few hours ago, she made it clear we needed boundaries. Our playbook should be simple, not complicated. This isn’t a quarterback option; this is an easy down-and-out pass.

That’s why I turn her question around on her. “What I’m doing to you,” I say as I scoop her up, wrapping her legs around my waist, “is taking you to your bedroom.”

She squeals and ropes her arms around my neck, holding on. With her hooked around me like a koala, I carry her out of the kitchen and turn down the hall.

“Bedroom is that way.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I figured, since the hall only goes one direction.”

“You’ve never seen my bedroom.”

“Do you need to go hide teddy bears and Justin Bieber posters before I go in?”

“Don’t be silly. I did that before you came over.”

When I reach the door, I push it open with my hip. I stop and stare, as if I’ve entered a wonderland. A den of femininity. Her bed claims most of the room, and above it shines a string of lights shaped like lotus flowers. On one wall, she’s hung the word Dream in chunky letters, and on another, the letters spelling out Love are illuminated in a bright red sign. One more wall is emblazoned with Create, and the final one says Listen.

All these words are intrinsically her.

“Wow,” I say softly, as I stare. “I feel like I’ve been given the keys.”

She loops her hands tighter around my neck, saying nothing, almost as if she’s holding in words, and maybe emotion, too. My eyes roam the walls, then the bed, and then I do a double take.

Gently, I lower her to the bed, let her go, and walk to the head of the bed. She watches me as I reach for the silky purple fabric. I give it a tug. A scarf is tied to each bedpost at the top.

“So that’s what you did before I came over.”

She nods as she nibbles on her lips. “You did say you wanted to tie me up.”





26





They say a photograph is worth a thousand words.

I’ve never been more tempted to take a photo in my life. But I want to experience all one thousand words that this moment is worth. And then some.

Violet lies naked on her bed, her arms stretched above her head, her right wrist bound by a purple scarf, her left by a red one. The lights from the lotus strands cast a pretty glow across her skin.

I run my hand down her neck, between her breasts, along her stomach. She arches into my touch. My fingers make their way south, teasing at the soft curls of hair, then dipping lower. Her mouth falls open, but before I spend more time in the V of her legs, I stand beside the bed.

“Want to know why I wanted you tied up?”

“Because you like me tied up?”

I laugh as I lift my hands to the hem of my shirt. “That, and to reduce temptation.”

She narrows her eyes. “Seeing me naked and trussed up makes you less interested. Gee, thanks, Coop.”

“No,” I say roughly as I tug off my shirt.

Her breath hitches. “Oh shit.” She stares at me with wide eyes. “You’re . . .”

Yeah, this is why I work out. This is why I run. This is why I lift weights. For this moment. For the look in her eyes. For the heat in her gaze as she stares at my chest, and as she ogles my arms.

“You’re torturing me,” she whimpers.

“How am I torturing you?”

“Because I can’t touch you, and your body is unreal.”

I raise a hand to my pec, drag it down my chest, over the grooves of my abs. I drop my hands to my jeans and undo the first button with a pop.

“Cooper.” Her voice is a plea.

“Yes, Violet?”

“Why can’t I touch you? You’re stunning.”

Every early morning workout was worthwhile. Every bench press has proven its value.

I’m not a narcissist. I don’t need praise. But I’m so goddamn satisfied that she likes what she sees.

Wait.

Make that lust.