Trap Game

Reggie

 

 

 

GOD, I NEVER TIRED of watching Calder in action. Watching him, period. I sat, rapt, in the Crush stadium while they took on the St. Louis Legends. This was supposed to be an easy win but could turn into a potential trap game if the players didn’t keep their wits about them. Carolina Crush’s second to the last chance to secure a playoff spot.

My lips still tingling and swollen from last night’s kisses, I took to my feet when Marquis—the wide receiver—landed another touchdown. Crush maintained the lead in the third quarter. The man beside me waved an unlit cigar around.

He’d introduced himself as Frankie, nothing more than that. He didn’t wear jeans, a Crush T-shirt, and definitely not a baseball cap on the perfectly styled crest of black hair that topped a very strong, handsome face. No, Frankie was dressed in the type of sharp suit that reminded me of the old days, the Rat Pack, the fifties.

Glamor.

Gangsters.

Sitting beside him, I felt somewhat overwhelmed and protected at the same time. A moll. A dame.

I almost laughed at the absurd notion. But then the offensive team jogged off the field and entered my line of vision right below us. Calder glanced up, his eyes bright and intense, the jersey clinging to his biceps the same way his pants stuck to that tight ass of his.

“I ain’t averse to some hot chocolate action myself, and Marquis sure knows how to score, but I got my eye on Holt,” Frankie mentioned, leering at the definite tight end of the team. “You?”

“Number fifty.”

I was all about #50. So much so I didn’t even pay much attention to the rest of the players or the rest of the game.

I’d woken that morning to the evidence of Calder’s arousal. Sometime during the night he must’ve gotten up and grabbed a pair of briefs, because it wasn’t his naked cock pressed against me anymore. The briefs were hardly a barrier, though, against the hot barrel of hard flesh. Reveling in the sensation of virile man pressed against me, I’d snuggled back, his arms surrounding me, tightening.

Thick and solid, he rocked against me before jerking back with a groan. A spark of need coiled in my belly.

He’d flipped to the edge of the mattress, rubbed his hands through his short hair. I rolled behind him, placing a kiss on his shoulder.

“Sorry.” His glance had been a little sheepish, a lot hungry.

I rose up to my knees and stared down his bare chest to his groin. The tight boxer briefs stretched to capacity around a long thick pole of flesh and a visible cockhead.

“Wow.” I tickled my fingers at the back of his neck. “Something sure doesn’t look sorry.”

“You little . . .” Calder spun so fast he dizzied me.

He drove me down onto my back and slugged me with a pillow before tickling my tummy until I kicked up. Flipping him, I sat right on his erection. I grabbed his thick wrists in both my hands.

“Little?” My breasts in his face, the heat of his breath made my nipples tighten.

A flush spread across his cheeks beneath the dark shadow of his morning stubble. With both hands at my waist, he easily handled me and set me on my feet.

His breath gusted over the top of my head when he stood half a pace away from me.

I peered at him, so wanting to reach up. Touch. Kiss.

Heal.

Both of us.

Calder’s hooded eyes stroked down my body covered in his shirt. He took a step back. His cock was pretty much about to burst out of those sexy boxer briefs.

I licked my lips.

He groaned, and those changeable eyes narrowed.

“I’ve got a call to make. Why don’t you go start breakfast”—he swatted me on my butt—“little woman?”

“Sexist pig.” I turned on my heel.

His forearms around my waist tugged me back into his body for an instant. “Feisty sweetheart.”

I didn’t start breakfast. Sexist pig. Sexy man. I hopped into the shower, trying to extinguish the fire Calder had started instead of getting myself off with a soft slick rub of my clit. Over two years—way more than that—and all I’d had was my vibrator, my fantasies, my fingers.

I wanted to fuck. Needed sex. Wanted to make love with a man who mattered to me.

My body zinged as I dried, dressed in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, and entered the kitchen with a towel wrapped around my hair.

Why don’t you make breakfast, little woman?

Calder had made breakfast.

Sweet man.

I’d heard him on the phone, his voice hushed, as I helped myself to hot coffee, buttered toast, diced fruit, a bowl of granola and yogurt. So he wasn’t Julia Child. But he was talking to his sponsor, and that meant more than anything to me.

I didn’t listen in, but I knew. His fourteen-month chip was on the counter next to his wallet.

Like the chips thrown down on the Vegas strip—a gamble. Except this time Calder wasn’t gambling, he was getting his life back in order. Making it all right in his head.

I touched the marker. Brought it to my lips before setting it back down. Another one of those rogue tears slid down my cheek before I dashed it away.

The hurt and the pain and the mourning. Calder and I could only heal together.

Now I watched him, his knuckles planted on the field, sweat glistening on his forearms, squatting low and tight. The fourth quarter now, with Carolina set to clinch this win.

A front row seat c/o Calder.

And the mysterious man beside me who mentioned, “You’re the dancer.”

“What dancer?”

“From the Rouge show in Vegas.”

“How did you know?” I tore my eyes from Calder after he snapped the ball to Macintyre.

“Frankie knows all.” The man flashed a full-lipped smile.

“Reggie Malone.” I held out my hand

“Frankie Burelli.” He gave me a firm shake and a sharp grin.

“You like to go to Vegas.”

“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?” He smirked.

“That hasn’t always been my experience.”

He snorted. “Well, sweet thing, this man knows how to keep a true secret. Even if I’m a flaming gay who loves to gossip.”

Just like Peyton and Philomena, I felt like I’d made an instant new friend.

The fourth quarter played on with one hairy moment that had my new friend storming to his feet after a ref made a seriously bad call against the Crush.

“That’s fuggin’ bullshit! No way was Holt out of bounds!” he yelled boisterously.

I merely grinned. I couldn’t agree more.

Moments later the ref’s call was overturned, and Frankie sat down, plucking the creases of his perfectly pressed trousers. “Sorry ’bout that. It’s the hot Italian temper in me. Plus Brooks is my man. Not like that, unfortunately.”

“Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

“Not possible for a beauty like you.” He gave me a sidelong wink.

At the next bad call, I rose right beside Frankie, adding my bellowing voice to his, and he nudged against me. Fledgling friendship officially solidified.

I grasped Frankie’s hand as the final whistle blew. We both stomped to our feet—Frankie almost yanking my shoulder from my socket with his greater height.

Then he tossed me up in his arms with a loud roar that brought Calder’s attention to us while the fireworks blasted overhead, all the Carolina fans in attendance celebrating the win.

Calder’s gaze seared right through me with sizzling power, all the force he’d laid out on the field flooding through me.

I didn’t want to stick around to watch the reporters glom onto him. Didn’t want to watch the cheerleaders or the Carolina Cougars—or Raquel—congratulate him.

I just wanted to hold the moment we’d woken up together this morning in my head, in my heart.

As soon as Frankie put me down, I said my goodbye and bowed out. I followed the fans, wondering if this was how Calder had felt every time he’d watched me dance but hadn’t been able to stick around. To show me how much he wanted me.

No matter how tempting it was to stay and drool over him, I drove my rental car to his house, took out my key, let myself into the dark place.

Dark houses.

I was used to those.

All those months Chris was overseas. First tour. Second. Third. Never satisfied unless he was in the sandbox. No longer satisfied with me or what we had.

Two hours later, I heard the key in the lock.

Calder was home.

As soon as he stepped into the kitchen, my body reacted maddeningly. Heat rushed up my spine and down to my belly. Lower, a curl of expectation fluttered between my legs.

I hadn’t dressed up or dressed down. Maybe I put on lip gloss and fluffed my hair and checked my appearance a few dozen times in between prepping dinner and setting the table.

And maybe I shivered when he said, in his deliciously low voice, “Hey there.”

I didn’t look at him yet. I couldn’t. Not with the flush of desire written all over my face.

“Hey there back.”

As he roamed closer, cool winter air clinging to his skin melted into a puddle like my body wanted to do. At his feet.

I wanted a slow hot kiss, his kisses that had made my toes curl the night before. Instead I accepted the light brush of his lips on my cheek. Tingles still happened, and I finally gave in and looked at him.

He had of course showered after the game. He hadn’t shaved since the morning, the dark stubble pirate-worthy. Per the regulations, he wore a swanky suit—dark gray and well fitting, the excellent cut accentuating broad shoulders, lean hips, and long legs.

Help.

Perhaps I should’ve dressed up after all . . . in full body armor.

I wheeled away before the temptation overwhelmed me to grab his tie, yank him to me, and lick him all over like a kitten with a bowl full of cream.

Shutting off the oven, I curled my fingers into my palms so I wouldn’t make a grab for him. “I made lasagna.”

Calder slung his bag into a corner and kicked off his shoes. “Lasagna?”

I glanced at him.

He watched me with those piercing silvery eyes. “Since when did you learn to cook?”

Bending toward the oven, I heard him inhale sharply when I presented him with my ass in the tight black jeans. “Since I figured out the freezer section of the grocery store.”

His masculine laugh hit all the right notes, the sound so low it was almost sexual.

I took out the bubbling casserole. Slapped the potholders on the counter. Glanced back at Calder again as the smells of home cooked food filled the kitchen.

“I’m kidding. I learned how to cook when I became a grown-ass woman.” I started dishing up, a monster helping for Calder and about half that for me. “Take a seat.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He pulled out a chair, but didn’t sit just yet. “Smells amazing, Reggie.”

I drifted by him, putting our plates on the table already laden with a fresh salad, homemade garlic bread, water for Calder, and wine for me. I knew he went out with his teammates, had been in plenty of situations since his detox where alcohol was present. Never with me, though.

“Wait until you taste it.” I stood by my chair.

As I knew he would, he pulled my seat out, waited for me to sit, then easily pushed it in. What I didn’t expect was the soft whisper of his firm lips at the side of my neck.

“I believe I already did. Taste it.”

Shivers.

I tried to keep my hands steady on the fork and knife and wineglass and breadbasket. The man exuded sexual prowess. He’d never really turned it on for me before, so just that slight shift from him completely weakened my knees.

He took his chair, but before tucking in, he winked at me. He loosened the tie, took off his jacket, unbuttoned the top of his shirt, rolled up the sleeves. Every movement of his fingers capable and nimble while mine continued to shake.

Thirsty, I took a deep sip of wine.

Calder drank half a glass of ice water in one go before smiling at me so that damn dimple in his left cheek slid deep. “I could get used to the service.”

I kicked him under the table.

“Ow. Woman, did you see how many times I got tackled tonight?” He grinned.

“You’re damn lucky I didn’t tackle you the second you walked through the door,” I muttered.

“What was that?”

“Shut up and eat.” I skewered him with a glare that only made him grin wider.

I’d never been on the other end of Calder’s full-throttle flirtation. Maybe I’d bit off more than I could chew, but I couldn’t wait to find out.

After his first mouthful of lasagna he groaned, in such a deep tone I wondered if that was the way he sounded when he came.

“Damn, Reg. You weren’t lying.”

“Wanted to make sure you got your carbs.”

“And cheese. Fuck, this is amazing. Even better than it smells.” He lifted a giant forkful to his mouth.

“I think you said that the other night about me.”

His eyes widened, and I worried he might choke. He chewed, swallowed, finished his glass of water.

“You can’t do that to a man when he’s eating, Reggie.”

“Funny. That’s what you were doing the other night too.” I tucked a tendril of hair behind my ear and bit into a thick crusty slice of garlic bread.

Calder narrowed his eyes—the silver a much darker gray all of a sudden—and continued to eat through the mountain of lasagna like it was nothing more than a fancy little sandwich.

I was not surprised when he went back for seconds, demolished the garlic bread, and pretty much ate through the entire bowl of salad.

The man had a body built of sheer muscle mass because he worked out every spare second. And I very much appreciated his dedication to his sport and his scarfing down of my meal. It’d been so long since I’d had someone to care for.

I finished my portion, my salad, and basically sat back to enjoy him enjoying my food.

“You guys played really well today.”

“Stupid ref almost screwed everything up for us,” Calder commented.

“No doubt.” My lips curved. “In fact, my seatmate Frankie threatened serious bodily harm until the call was overturned.”

Calder paled beneath the ever-present tan and five o’clock shadow. “Frankie, huh? I hope that was okay. He can be a little rough around the edges.”

“I didn’t get that at all. He was a total gentleman to me.”

Calder coughed and mumbled something.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Nothing. Just . . . you know he has connections, right?”

“Connections? All I know is he’s gay because he flat out said so, and he likes Brooklyn’s ass.” I leaned forward. “Not as much as I like yours though.”

Then silence slowly filtered in while we stared at one another.

Calder dragged his gaze from mine. He dipped his head in a sort of self-conscious movement then scraped back his chair. He cleared the table, cleaned up. After putting in a ridiculously long day and playing and winning an NFL game that made it almost a sure bet Carolina Crush was headed for the playoffs. There wasn’t even a hint of exhaustion in his step or stride.

I remained at the table, drinking my wine, watching him as the silence tightened between us.

God, his ass. In a suit. Most women would pay for the view I was privy to. Calder Malone, Crush center man, cleaning the kitchen. When he stood at the sink, I watched the stretch of the dress shirt as his shoulders flexed and twisted. My pulse thrummed in a deep low pulsing hum. Purr. I wanted to rub up all over him. Like a kitten with a bowl of cream.

Tension seemed to wrap around him as he braced his hands on the edges of the sink. But maybe he was just fully aware of the way I drooled over him. He released his grip, snapped the damp dishtowel, hung it on the rod.

Turning, he approached the table. I propped my feet on a chair. He poured me more wine, took his seat with a glass of water in his hands.

I continued to peruse him, and he met my stare dead-on. Something happened between us. Almost like an invisible kiss drawing us together.

“Tempted?” I asked, lifting the replenished glass to my lips.

“No. Not anymore.”

“You know I’m not talking about the alcohol, Calder.” My gaze drifted to his mouth.

He shot off the chair so fast it crashed to the floor. He backed up to the counters.

I rose to my feet. I set the wineglass down. I roamed closer, stopping just near enough the heat beat between us. But I didn’t touch him.

My chin lifted. “How long are you going to wait before you take what you want?”

He swallowed. “How the hell are you so sure of yourself?”

“I’m sure of you.”

“So I’m the fallback option?”

“Not even”—I ranged up to him, my lips at the corded side of his neck—“close. And you damn well know it. So stop with the guilt trip already. It’s getting tired.”

His hand shot out, grabbing my hair, jerking my head back. His other arm banded around my waist and he lifted me up and into him. The hard thrust of his cock rocked against my belly, and his quick reaction pulled a moan from my throat.

“You have no idea how much I want to devour you.” His gravelly voice sent chills over my body.

“What are you waiting for?”

His hand twisted harder, and I gasped. My nipples rubbed his chest, my pelvis bucked against his cock.

His kiss brutal and lashing, his tongue did devour. The silence broken only by my gasps and his groans, he kept me still with his hand delved into my hair. I drew in a stuttering breath as soon as he let up, a curse leaving his wet lips. I brushed my cheek against his, loving the masculine burn of his stubble on my softer skin.

My hand trailed down his chest, and I stepped back. Watching the silver-black clash of his irises, I tugged on his belt buckle.

“But first I want this.” I touched the hot, rigid, thick bulge bucking against his pants. “In my mouth.”

“You sure?” His dick throbbed as I traced its length.

“Oh yeah.”

“Then you need to sit down.”

“Why? Worried I can’t take it?” I smartassed, but I let him guide me to my chair.

I took that seat and laid my hands right back on his belt.

Calder widened his thighs, and I caught my breath at the enormous erection barely constrained by the slacks. I nuzzled my face against his clothed cock, smelling the heat, the want. Filling my lungs with it.

I couldn’t wait to have him in my mouth.

I looked up as I unbuckled the belt. He unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged it off, his cheeks hollowed and pink. Eyes low and thunderous. Muscles tensed and carved from granite.

My fingers fumbled. His hands clenched at his sides. I slid the belt free then managed through the button, the tab, the zipper, his cock at mouth level with me. I could almost taste him in my throat already as I dragged fabric down. First the pants. Then his briefs.

He shucked them away along with his socks.

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Full mast, his cock pumped up and beyond his abs. The thin trail of black hair down his stomach created a soft looking nest around a raging hard-on so big I wondered if I’d even get the drum tight dripping head into my mouth.

His scent alone made my panties wet. Cock out, hung, incredibly hard, and in my face. Licking my lips, I leaned in.

Calder caught hold of my hair again, stopping me just before my lips touched that mouthwatering crown. “Wait.”