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Fourteen boxes.

Packing and unpacking fourteen boxes takes a toll on the body. And my shoulders are sore; my core feels like it’s on fire.

But I’m here.

I actually went through with it.

I hear them first as I round the building that houses all of the equipment for the fields. The bleachers come into sight first, followed by then the men I came to see.

My hips sway a little more than before, my lips tilting up into a half-smile even though my heart races.

I glance at each one, taking them in as the sweat glistens off their backs and chests. Most of them only have on a pair of gym shorts, ranging from blue to black to red. Their laughter drifts across the field as they huddle around the small area where all their gear is laid out.

A few guys playing rugby. Seven of them, to be exact.

It’s just a hobby team for the university, and most of these guys don’t take it seriously. Which is why there’s no one here. It’s just a reason to get out some aggression and judging by each of the guys’ history, there’s a lot of aggression here.

I knew they’d be here, practicing and putting all their goods on display.

A small hum slips from me and into the mid-August heat as I spear my hand through my hair and let the wind push it out of my face and off my shoulders.

It doesn’t take long for one of them to notice me walking a little closer than I should.

After all, the field backs up to woods and the only reason I’d be walking out here is for them. And now they know it.

The guy closest to me tilts his chin up as he asks, “What’s going on?”

The rest of them quiet down as I walk up to the bleachers and take a seat, letting my bag fall into the grass and rest against the metal. I’m in jeans, so I spread my legs just a bit as I lean forward, my body language suggestive but also relaxed.

“I just came to see the game,” I say sweetly and let my eyes roam from the tall blond with broad shoulders to the darker brunette with a tattoo sleeve down his left arm.

“No games today, sweetheart,” a man says at the far end of the group, but I don’t turn to look that way.

“It’s always a game,” I tell him back. “I’m Allison,” I say, flirtation in my voice.

“Well, hello,” the closest guy--the dark blond, or dirty blond as I like to call it--says and walks closer to me, taking a seat to my left but far enough away that I’m still comfortable. “I’m Daniel,” he tells me.

“I know,” I say and then bite down on my lower lip. “Daniel, the one with the Irish temper,” I add, quoting his bio from the website for the frat, and then move my gaze across the remaining six men on the field. I looked them all up and Daniel definitely caught my eye. I’m not really into blonds normally, but I certainly noticed him.

“James has the beard,” I say to the man with the neatly trimmed beard and then add, “Don’t shave it or I might forget.” That gets a laugh from them. He’s classically handsome, but only slightly above average looking.

I finally take a look at the guys on the far right. I expect to feel a certain way, but my gaze is caught, trapped by a beast of a man. His eyes pierce through me, pinning me in place. It takes a moment for me to even register any other defining feature. I can practically feel his sharp jawline covered in stubble that would be rough to the touch. His hair that’s nearly black and just long enough to grip at the top, but shorter on the sides.

His shoulders … broad enough to trap me under him.

“I don’t know yours,” I tell him, feeling my heart race a little harder. My body heats with the way he looks at me.

There’s something different about him. The air around him is tense. And I’m grateful for the distraction.

“Dean,” he tells me and his expression stays hard. I’d say almost cold, but that’s so wrong. There’s a heat there, a heat of defiance. And something else. Or maybe I’m imagining it.

He’s the type of man who gives you chills while making everything else that matters hot.

The kind you know you’re supposed to stay away from because they’ll ruin you without thinking twice … The kind of man my dreams are made of.

My cheeks heat and a small smirk lifts Dean’s lips as if he can read my mind. As if the dirty thoughts in my head are what his dreams are made of too.

“We’re just finishing up a workout,” Daniel says and I nod as he adds, “We’re getting ready to party.” His voice is deep, but Dean’s is deeper.

“Damn, I was really looking forward to your practice,” I answer him with a pout, finally ripping my eyes away from Dean.

“You want to come?” Daniel asks me and I shake my head before taking a peek at Dean, who’s still watching me with that hunger in his eyes. “Come on, I know you do,” he teases and the playfulness in his voice makes me smile. He’s cute in a charming but deadly way, and that’s not what I’m after.

“Not today,” I answer him, my voice coming out a little smaller than I’d like.

“Suit yourself,” Daniel says and stands up, walking to where he’s laid his bag on the ground. “If you change your mind, come on down to Broom Street.” He smiles with a warmth that’s inviting. “It’s going to be fun,” he adds.

A few guys let out a rough laugh, deep and low. “You’ll know which house is us,” one of them says.

I keep finding my gaze drifting toward Dean’s and each time I do, his intense stare is on me. I didn’t come here for him. A little flirtation here and there is all I was aiming for, but the way he looks at me is doing something to me that I can’t deny.

He’s bad for me. But I can’t help what I want.