As I fluttered my eyelids open and caught sight of the morning rays filtering in through the sheer white curtains of my bedroom, I felt the instant sensation that only zero sleep could provide. I had a feeling mothers with newborn babies feeding every two hours had slept better than I did. After tossing and turning for most of the night, my body was still reeling from my date with Quinn. Not only had he only kissed me at my door, but he’d left me with the kind of kiss people spent their entire lives trying to experience just once.
Literally, the unicorn of kisses.
And after that kiss, when I’d been heated with arousal and left unsatisfied, he’d engaged in a text conversation that had left me gasping, sated, and flushed with satisfaction.
His professional status wasn’t just reserved for the field. Quinn knew and executed the art of dirty talk like it was his day job.
Imagine what those words sound like in person, when he’s sliding inside of you…
My skin heated and ached at the thought.
But I refused to let my mind go there. It was the sole reason I’d slept like shit last night in the first place. As I’d lain awake, staring up at my ceiling, my mind had raced with the play-by-play of our conversation and the way his words had made me feel. By the time the clock had struck three a.m., I had wound myself up again to the point of frustration.
Thinking of time, I glanced at the clock on my nightstand and saw it was only half past eight.
Jesus. It was my day off. I should not have been awake.
With a sigh and half-assed attempt at throwing my hair up into a messy bun, I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen to make some coffee.
Right now, my coffeemaker was the only man that could offer any inkling of satisfaction. Mr. Coffee had been a good friend, oftentimes the only man in my life, for the past five or so years.
Once I’d filled him with enough grounds to brew six cups, I tapped his lid closed and pushed his start button, and then pushed again when he failed to respond.
The first initial trickles of hot water brewing filled my ears, and I smiled. He might’ve been slow and sluggish at times, and his buttons had seen better days, but I still loved him all the same.
While my coffee brewed, I plopped down onto my sofa and started scrolling through social media on my phone. Mentally, I told myself it was just because there was nothing better to do. And I also reminded myself that I should definitely not look at the text conversation we’d had last night.
But, apparently, my brain wasn’t very good at remembering anything at eight o’clock in the morning because I somehow found myself exactly where I shouldn’t be.
Our text conversation was front and center on my screen, and I couldn’t stop myself from rereading his messages.
Quinn: Touch yourself. Take those perfect, pink-tipped fingers and rub a sweet circle around your clit, baby. Can you feel yourself on your fingers? Slick and hot for my cock?
Oh, sweet baby kittens in a pink basket.
His version of dirty talk was better than my own personal porno.
When the apex of my thighs started to ache and protest lack of stimulation, I closed out of my inbox and decided that if I wanted a virtual dose of Quinn, I needed to find it in less arousing ways.
One click tap to the Instagram icon, and I quickly navigated my way to Quinn’s page.
I opened his most recent post—uploaded a little over an hour ago. It was a picture of him standing in the Mavericks’ weight room with a big old smile on his face, dumbbells in his hands, and droplets of sweat dripping down his bare chest.
Heaven Almighty, no one should look that good sweaty.
Memories of the videos he’d sent from that very same weight room filled my head like visions of sugarplum fairies dreamily dancing for children on Christmas Eve night.
Eventually, my eyes found the strength to move away from his abs and read the caption.
@QuinnBailey: I be up in the gym, workin’ on my fitness.
#practiceday #weightroom #Mavericks
#GoodMorningKittyCat
I blinked once, twice, and reread the last hashtag.
#GoodMorningKittyCat
I couldn’t have stopped the smile that crept onto my lips and consumed my whole face if I’d tried. Good Morning, Kitty Cat. I probably shouldn’t have been so damn smitten over it, but it was the sweet, thoughtful little things like that that put Quinn in a league all his own.
There was a Times Square painting highlighting various kittens and cats sitting on top of my mantel that proved that very truth.
I had the urge to send him a message, but quickly remembered he’d be at practice for the next few hours. He probably wouldn’t even be able to respond.
I glanced toward the kitchen to see that Mr. Coffee had finally finished up, and I shuffled in there to get a much-needed dose of caffeine. And possibly, a little distraction from my brain’s horny as fuck thoughts.
But while I fixed up my coffee, my brain couldn’t stop thinking about Quinn.
God, I wanted to see him again. As soon as possible, to be exact.
Like a corn kernel turning into popcorn, a thought popped into my head.
What if I turn the tables on him and stop in for a quick hello visit while he’s at practice?
He’d definitely shown up at my place of employment. Hell, he’d purposely flown on more than one of my flights to see me.
But was it a good idea?
Oh, geez. Stop worrying about the logistics, Cat. Be spontaneous.
Before I knew it, I’d convinced myself that stopping by the Mavericks’ stadium to say hello was a good idea. And about fifteen minutes later, I was dressed, inside my car, and following the instructions of my GPS, en route to the stadium’s location, and surprisingly, the New York Mavericks were located in New Jersey.
Once I pulled into the parking lot, I shut off the engine and hopped out of my car. It only took a few glances around the perimeter for my eyes to spot what looked like an entry gate. The giant security guards manning that entrance weren’t too difficult to spot either.
Instantly, realization started to set in.
I’d just made a forty-minute trip to an NFL football stadium to say hello to Quinn, you know, like he was just some average Joe working at Target. Not a freaking professional athlete who probably required his own team of security when he went to highly publicized events, not to mention his team had their own team of security. Which, apparently, they utilized on a daily basis.
Basically, everyone but me had fucking security, and it was most likely impossible for me to get anywhere close to Quinn without him knowing in advance.
“Oh my God, you’re an idiot.” I loudly chastised myself—to myself—for going with the whole don’t worry about the logistics mind-set before I’d left my apartment to start this venture of crazy. “I mean, seriously? Who does this, Cat? Who just shows up to a football stadium on a whim?”
I kicked at a few loose pebbles of the gravel parking lot and groaned.
I wasn’t sure which was worse: the frustration of wasting nearly two hours out of my day to drive back and forth to a stadium for no goddamn reason, or the mortification over the fact that I’d actually just gone through with this absurd, and let’s face it, extremely impulsive plan.
“Can I help you?” a voice called over to me, and I looked up to find a man walking toward me.
Oh, great. That was just what I needed, someone to actually spot me in the fucking parking lot. I honestly didn’t know what to say to his question, and I found myself blurting out something just as equally ridiculous as showing up to the stadium unannounced.
“Uh…I wanted to see Quinn Bailey…”
Way to let the impulsive and completely awkward cat out of the bag…
Why couldn’t I have just said something simple like, I got lost, so I just pulled in here until I could get my GPS straightened out?
The man, who I quickly realized was pretty fucking good-looking once he’d closed the distance between us, tilted his head to the side in confusion. “Quinn Bailey?”
“Yeah…You know the guy that…uh…throws the ball…” I answered, and I even added a throwing motion with my right arm to really hit a home run of embarrassment.
An amused smirk crested the man’s lips. “Do you know Quinn?”
“Uh…Yeah.” I nodded and decided to just throw caution to the wind and see if maybe this man, whoever he was, could get me inside the stadium. “Quinn and I are friends…good friends… And he left this…uh…” I paused and quickly glanced into my purse for some kind of excuse for my random drop-by.
It was a fucking mess by the way.
Pens.
Lifesavers.
Random wrappers and receipts.
By the time I came across the most viable item—a half-empty bottle of Bath & Body Works hand sanitizer, I yanked it out of my bag and waved it in the air like I’d found Willy Wonka’s Golden fucking Ticket. “This! He left this,” I said way, way too loudly for the short distance between us. I took a breath and lowered my voice before adding, “He left this in my…uh…purse…and I wanted to give it to him.”
“Hand sanitizer?” The man looked at it, reading the label, and grinned. “Citrus explosion? Hmmm, I always thought Quinn was more of a vanilla-scented kind of guy.”
“Well…he really likes it. The citrus explosion, I mean…” I paused and internally grimaced at my own words.
God, I sound ridiculous…
But what the hell, right? I was already this far deep into the hand sanitizer/citrus explosion story. Why stop now?
“I think it’s a good luck thing or something,” I lied. “And he just…uh…lost it last night…and I have it…and I just thought I’d stop by real quick to drop it off for him.”
He quirked a brow. “And what’s your name?”
“Catharine Wild,” I responded and held out my hand.
“It’s nice to meet you, Catharine,” he said and shook my hand. “I’m Wes Lancaster.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Wes.”
I honestly had not a clue what Wes and the Mavericks’ relationship was, but I was hoping he had some kind of job that gave us a security free pass.
“Give me just a sec to make a quick call?” he requested and I nodded.
Wes pulled out his phone and turned his body slightly away from mine as he tapped the screen and lifted it to his ear.
Oh God. I hope that security free pass I was just hoping for isn’t actually a security pass to kick my crazy ass out of here…
“Hey, Bennett,” he greeted into the receiver. “Is Bailey close by?”
I stood there awkwardly, uncertain of what I should do with myself as he continued his phone conversation.
“Let me talk to Phillips, then,” he said curtly, and a moment later, he asked, “Does Bailey know a Catharine Wild?”
Wes stayed silent for a moment before adding, “No shit?”
I had no idea what had just been said, but whatever it was, it had him turning back toward me with an intrigued smirk on his lips. He ended the call shortly after that and slid it back into his pocket.
“Well…” He grinned and motioned toward the gate entry doors I’d spotted earlier. “If you follow my lead, I think I can help you find Quinn Bailey.”
“Really?” My eyes widened in surprise. “Do you have friends in high places or something?” I asked, teasing, and he just smirked.
“I guess you could say it’s something like that.”
It didn’t take us long to make our way past the giant security guards manning the front entrance, and honestly, they didn’t even bat a fucking eye or ask for any kind of identification when Wes walked toward them.
All it’d taken was a simple, “She’s with me” for them to not be disturbed by my presence.
We walked in the direction of the center of the stadium, and besides the occasional staff member that passed us by, the place was an empty shell. The boring concrete walls absorbed any contact sent their way and made our footsteps sound louder than normal.
People waved and greeted Wes as he walked past them, and he returned the sentiment with a simple nod or quiet hello.
Apparently, he was a pretty popular guy inside this stadium.
Maybe he’s like one of the concessions managers or something?
Once he directed us down the cement tunnel that led to the field, my initial view of the pristine green turf urged a rush of butterflies into my stomach. They flitted and flipped, and if I went by feeling alone, they reproduced like fucking rabbits until they moved up into my chest and tightened my breaths.
Any minute, Quinn would realize I’d driven all the way down to the stadium to say hello.
All of a sudden, the realization of what I’d just managed to get myself into was too overwhelming. Personifying a cat with dew claws still intact, anxiety clawed at my throat.
Would this come across as too weird?
Would he be concerned I was secretly some crazy, obsessed fan or something?
Oh. My. God.
Abort! Abort! This is not a good idea!
I shuffled my feet in place, at any second, ready to turn and hightail it out of there.
But my hourglass of time had run out once we reached the end of the giant tunnel.
“Just wait right here,” Wes said. “I’ll be right back.”
Time to face the impulsive music, Cat.