Flicking my gaze up quickly, I gauge his reaction. It takes a moment for my rushed words to sink in. I know the second they do. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t flinch. The happiness in his eyes simply disappears.

“I’m so sorry. We have an exhibition match, and—”

Brody holds up a palm, cutting off my hurried explanation. “I understand.”

Just like that. Like I knew he would.

“How’s camp going?” I ask, changing the subject.

He rubs a hand across his brow and then down the side of his face, scratching at the faint gold stubble on his jaw. There’s weariness in the gesture. “It’s hard. These guys are good. Damn good. I knew they would be. This is the pros, right? But shit, Jordan, sometimes I wake up wondering what I’m doing on the team. What do they want with me? It’s a whole other league to college. I never expected to feel that. Not with football. It’s what I’m best at. All I’m best at.”

“Brody.” I shake my head, unable to believe what I’m hearing. “You need to give it time. You’re on the team because they saw something special in you. I’m not sure I can even explain what it is. It’s like you’re made up of puzzle pieces, and when you’re on the field they all click together, creating a beautiful picture no one can look away from.”

Brody quirks a brow. “You mean you can’t look away from. Because I’m hot.” He nods his head and rubs his chest suggestively, his hand sliding across a thick wall of muscle to circle a nipple with his finger. “You know you want some of this.”

I laugh out loud.

“Laugh it up now, chuckles, because you won’t be later at the pathetic orgasm your vibrator gives you.” His lids lower. So does his hand. “Nothing beats the real thing.”

I squirm uncomfortably on the bed, the pulse between my thighs now a raging ache.

“Hurry up and get some time off, baby.” Brody draws back a little, and I see his palm stroking along the swollen crotch of his fitted football pants. I suck in a breath. “I need to fuck you.”

Four weeks later I get two days. I book my flight online, pack a bag, and leaving an hour earlier than I need to for my flight, I instruct the cab driver to drop me off at Northgate Mall. Shrugging my carry-on bag over my shoulder, I make my way inside, straight toward Victoria’s Secret. Once inside I stop dead. Lace, satin, and silk assault me no matter where I look, and the prettiest man-child I’ve ever seen sweeps toward me with fixed purpose. He’s taking in my deer-caught-in-headlights expression and appears ready to wrestle me to the ground. Maybe it’s a slow sales week.

“I know you,” he says.

“You do?” I ask as my elbow is grabbed and I’m hustled right into the belly of the beast.

“My boyfriend watches all kinds of sport. It’s his religion,” my accoster explains excitedly, jostling racks of underwear with his hands. “Even women’s soccer.”

His slight insult is one I’m used to hearing, so I grit my teeth and smile. He introduces himself as ‘John Darling, the underwear stylist, but everyone just calls me Darling, or Johnny.’

“So today you’re looking for …” he trails off, waving a hand for me to expand.

My face heats with the intensity of a brush fire.

Johnny nods knowingly. “Something sexy.” He strides off. I think I’m expected to follow, so I do. “What kind of sexy are we after?”

“There are different kinds?”

Brows wing up. “Of course.” Johnny expands. “Innocent sexy. Hardcore sexy. Flirty sexy. First date sexy. Third date sexy. We’ve been together too long sexy,” he rattles off and sucks in a breath to continue. “We’ve been apart too long sexy, I—”

“That one!” I shout, relieved there’s a sexy in there somewhere that fits my exact needs.

Johnny pauses to confirm. “We’ve been apart too long sexy?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“Oh my god.” His eyes brighten. “That’s the best kind of sexy.”

“It is?”

“Uh huh.” Johnny starts toward the racks. I follow. He starts shoving hangers of bras and panties at me without questioning my size, leaving me to assume he’s an underwear savant. I grab them before they fall. “It needs to make an impact. Sex factor ten. Something his eyes can devour in a matter of mere moments before getting down to business. It also needs to be a little bit filthy, and a lot more flimsy,” more scraps of lace hit the growing pile in my arms, “because that’s when the ripping can commence.”

Oh my god. My eyes drop to the mountain of lingerie. “I don’t have time to try all this on. I have a flight to catch.”

“A flight.” Hands flutter and his next words sound winded. “How fucking romantic.” Johnny grabs everything back from my arms, leaving one solitary bra and panty set. “That one it is.”

He divests me of my bag and directs me to the fitting room. “Let me know when you have it on so I can check the sizing.”

I put the bra on. It’s sheer, edged in black piping with cups that barely cover my nipples, and decorated with embroidered red roses. The matching thong is a tiny mesh triangle, a strategic rose, and three black straps that go around each hip. It’s romantic, a little exotic, and says ‘I love you and want to fuck you,’ all at the same time.

“How are you doing?” Johnny sing-songs through the door.

“It’s perfect.”

“Of course it is.”

“Can I wear it now?”

“Of course you can. I’ll go get the scissors and we can snip the tags off for you, sweets.”

It’s midnight when I place my bag on the floor by the hotel room door and knock. I’m in Tennessee. Brody’s Houston team is facing the Titans in two days for the first exhibition match of the season. I’ll be watching the televised game. It’s highly probable Brody won’t get any field time—he’s second string wide receiver now—yet his nerves are at fever pitch. It’s clear in the way he clenches and unclenches his fists when he talks about it.

With no answer, I knock again. Harder. My arrival is a surprise, so I send up a quick prayer that he’s in. After a few moments the door swings open. Brody’s hair is mussed, and he’s wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and a sleepy, irritated scowl. It disappears quickly and he breathes my name, taking me in like I’m an apparition.

Darkened eyes lower over the black knit dress I chose to wear. It has a high button neckline and a short skirt—perfect for the occasion. When they rise, his gaze lands on my chest, caught by the action of my hand. It’s attending to the task of undoing the first three buttons, revealing the suggestion of cleavage, sexy lingerie, and a clear message. “Did someone call for their room to be serviced?”

“That would be me,” Brody says to my boobs. “But I think they made a mistake.”

I slowly unfasten another button. His lungs expand. And hold.

“Oh?” I prompt.

“It’s not my room that needs servicing.” Licking his lips, Brody’s gaze flicks up. My heart hammers at the lust in his expression. “It’s me.”

The next button goes with a slightly shaky hand. “Then we have a problem.”

“We do?” he asks.

I cock my head. “I’m not that kind of girl.”

A grin splits Brody’s face, and he gives a husky laugh. Grabbing my wrist, he hauls me inside his room, bringing my bag with me. “Yes you are.”

But the laughter dies out when the door shuts and I’m slammed up against it, face first. The move is wired with sexual aggression. His arms come around me, his body pushing me into the door. The last of the buttons are ripped away in his impatience. Torn from the dress, they bounce to the floor unnoticed. His breath harsh and hot against my neck, Brody yanks the top half of the knit down, freeing my upper body.

“Jordan,” he rasps, his hands everywhere, pulling at the cup of my bra, pinching a nipple, the other yanking up the hem of my dress, shoving it to my waist with no finesse.

My panties are pushed aside and thick fingers probe, finding me swollen and wet, which I have been from the moment I boarded the plane. A growl leaves his throat and before I take my next breath, the blunt head of his cock pushes inside. Pulling back, Brody drives forward until he’s all the way in.