Who does Colt think he is? Sure, he can throw a football, but given a half second more, I would have won that scrimmage and Colt would have been on the ground. Hands down. And as much as I try to ignore it, his showboating on and off the field gets under my skin. So what if he won? I've always told myself that if you want something bad enough, you go out there and get it. And that's exactly what I plan to do. Colt wouldn't know a thing about hard work. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and has had just about everything handed to him, and that's always rubbed me wrong. Lucky bastard.

I picture Julianna standing on the field during the scrimmage, her tight skirt hugging her tight curves, and her breasts nearly spilling out of her blouse begging me to touch them. That woman is perfect. Just thinking about her makes my pulse buck like a bull. I've never wanted a woman so badly in my life. I picture that decisive scrimmage game again, and remembered noticing that her heels were sinking into the turf as she walked across the field, causing her to wobble ever so slightly, and I wanted to help her—maybe be near enough to breath in her perfume and give her a hand, but ultimately decided against it. She didn't seem like the kind of woman who would want me to walk her across the field because of her shoes, like a child being ushered across a street. No, she was unlike any other woman I had ever met before. Sexy. Self-reliant. Confident. She knows what she wants. She may have picked Colt, but she doesn't realize that she made the wrong choice. And if she thinks I'm going to give up, she is mistaken.

I pull my phone from the pocket of my recently tailored Armani suit and check the time. 7:16 pm. I realize I’m near Julianna's penthouse at the Time Warner Center and I decide to not waste another moment. I need to make a bold move. I walk across the street. A small florist shop is still open, its sign casting a neon glow, and I scan the buckets of flowers—blues, golds, whites, pinks, lavenders—peonies, carnations, orchids, tulips—the variety is dizzying. Then my eyes land on a far corner of the room, and I know I’ve made my decision. I buy the largest bouquet of flowers that they have available—an entire bundle of 100 long-stemmed red roses.

"Go big or go home, right?" I tell the florist as he carefully wraps the heavy bundle in clear plastic paper.

"She must be pretty special," he smiles.

"One in a million."

I realize that the bundle is so big I need to use both of my arms to carry it across three blocks across Columbus Circle to Julianna's place. But I know it was important that I make a lasting impression, and this should do it. So I walk in the direction of her building, and in a few minutes I see it. The Time Warner Center is a massive and iconic structure. It stands majestic and proud, nestled in the bustle of the city. I adjust my tie, take a deep breath, and enter the lobby. An older man is seated at the concierge desk. He quickly stands up and approaches me.

"Can I help you, sir?" he asks.

"I'm here to see Ms. Julianna Heaton."

"Is she expecting you?"

Shit. I didn't have an appointment. Should I say she's expecting me? Or should I be truthful? I decide that honesty was probably the best policy. And besides, I've never been a good liar.

"I don't, but my name is Ethan Blake. I'm currently trying out for the defensive end position with the New York Nailers, and it's important that I see her this evening."

"Wait a minute!" the man exclaim. "I know you! You're the guy from SportsNation! Yes! Yes! That's you—the guy who got knocked out by that other football player."

I swear it seemed that no matter where I went, I couldn't get away from Colt Stackford. I’m sick of the tabloids buzzing about our fight, and I was even sicker of being reminded about it from strangers.

"That's me, but listen," I say, changing the subject, "Could you let me up to visit Ms. Heaton? Like I said, it's important."

"I can see that," he says with a whistle, looking down at the bundle of flowers in my arms. "I'm not usually permitted to let guests up without an appointment, but I'll make an exception this once … under one condition that is."

Oh great. How did I find myself bartering with a concierge? "Sure, what's that?" I ask. He walks back to his desk and pulls out a New York Nailers hat.

"Can you sign this? I'm a huge fan."

* * *

I take the elevator to the top floor and find myself in front of the grand double-door entrance of her penthouse. I straighten my suit coat and gather my nerves before knocking, and then lightly rap on the door with my knuckles. No answer.

I wait and listen for movement, but don’t hear anything. I knock again, this time with a little more force. Did she leave? Could she have slipped out without the concierge noticing? I figure I’ll try knocking once more. If she doesn't answer, I'll leave. Here goes nothing...

I think I hear someone coming to the door. Yes, she's home. The lock clicks and the door opens. There she is, I swear, a goddess in heels. Julianna stands in the doorway wearing a stunning, form-fitting red dress. She’s smelling amazing, and her blonde hair is cascading down to her shoulders. It's taking everything in me not to touch her—not to run my fingers against her cheek and through her hair. But my fantasy is stopped abruptly when she speaks.

"Wh-what are you doing here?” she asks. “Did Sammy let you up?"

"It's nice to see you too," I say, brushing aside her confusion. "I didn't catch the concierge's name downstairs."

"I can't believe it. I told him to not let anyone up without an appointment."

"It's not his fault,” I say, not wanting to get him in trouble. “I was pushy."

Then I see her look at the bundle of flowers and do something I didn't think she was capable of—she blushes. It only lasted for a moment, and then she shakes it off.

"It's a bad time, Ethan. Let's talk at the office." She begins to close the door, but I place my shoe inside of the frame.

"I'm not leaving," I say.

This catches her off guard, and she stands there for a moment. We lock gazes. I can see a new intensity flare in the depths of her clear blue eyes. My pulse quickens as I step closer to her. This is my chance. I reach out my arm, but instead of touching her, I rest against the doorframe. I watch as her breath quickens and I think I can see a flush appear in her cheeks.

Then I hear what sounds like the voice of another man. "I've just poured your wine, Julianna. Who’s at the door?" Yes, it’s definitely a man. Who was he? What was she doing with him? A middle-aged man in a business suit appears in the doorway. I guess he’s in his early 40s. His hair is beginning to thin, but I can tell that he combed it meticulously to hide this fact. He looks at me and then looks at the 100 long-stemmed roses in my arms and asks Julianna, "Who the hell is this?"

Given all of the SportsNation hype, I’m a little surprised he didn't recognize me, but also relieved. Before I can answer, Julianna turned to him. "I think you should leave. I'm sorry to do this Matt, but—"

"It's Mike—"

"Sorry, Mike. Maybe another night?"

The man can’t hardly believe that he’s being replaced, but he doesn’t argue, and just shakes his head. "There won't be another night," he says, his ego obviously crushed. He goes back to grab his keys, and then leaves for good.

I watch as the elevator closes behind him, and then I turn to Julianna. "These are for you," I say, handing her the roses.

She takes them in her arms and I can’t help but notice how closely her lipstick matches the deep red of the roses. Coincidence? Or fate? I’m entranced. The red dress. The deep-red plump lips. The scent of her perfume. The impossibly high heels. All of this heightens my senses, and I feel my cock twitch in my pants. It’s ready to burst through the confines of the material. Fuck, I want her so badly. I feel as if in that moment I'd do anything to have her. I step into her penthouse and she closes the door, locking it behind her. My shoes make a faint clicking sound against her brightly polished hardwood floors. Her place is huge with a wide-open floor plan and ceiling-to-floor windows that look out over Manhattan, with all of the lights of the city shimmering in the distance. I scan the darkness and think idly that the lights look like broken glass spilled across the skyline.

"You get what you wanted?" she asks with the hint of a smile. She saunters over to the table, swinging her hips suggestively and places the flowers down. " It's just you and me,” she says with a wicked smile. “Whatever shall we do?"

I think for a moment, and without hesitation say, "Besides doing you, I don't know."

"That's bold," she replies, "but I like a man who knows what he wants."

This spurs me on. I step closer to her and touch her hair, and then her shoulders, one at a time. Her dress hangs just below her shoulders, so I touch the exposed skin. My other hand brushes against her thigh. "You're so beautiful," I say. "I can't stop thinking about you. Ever since our first meeting at your office, I knew I needed you."

"Well, aren't you just the bleeding heart romantic," she says dismissively. "The roses, the accolades—what's next?"

I place my hands on her face and look into her eyes, trying to break through her cold exterior. "I mean it. I've never met a woman like you before."

For some reason, that does it. I finally have her attention. I can see the pulse in her neck flutter and quicken. I lean in, slowly brushing my lips against hers, and then her lips part. She opens her mouth to take me in, our tongues mingling and exploring, and pressing against one another. The warmth of her tongue against mine is intoxicating. She bites my bottom lip and I run my fingers through her hair, breathing in her scent deeply. I grab a fistful of her blonde locks and use it to pull her head back, I expose her throat. I kiss her vulnerable neck, traveling with my mouth upwards until I’m back at her lips. I press my mouth into hers hard. My cock stiffens. I want to hold her breasts in my hands, I want to touch the small of her back and touch her perfect ass. I want to know what she feels like in the secret inner spaces of her thighs.

She pulls back and looks into my eyes. I think her gaze could melt me into a puddle at her feet. She then leans back in with her arms wrapped around my shoulders and whispered, "Would you like to stay here tonight?"

My heart thumps. I touch her hair, and whisper back into her ear, "Do you want me to?" I then run my tongue across the ridges of her ear and she shudders.

"My couch pulls out, but I don't," she says with a sinful, wicked grin.