CHAPTER FIVE
Veronica should have walked away—except she had an arsenal of smartass comebacks ready for this guy, who had the audacity to lurk on the terrace reserved for her friend’s wedding. Well, it was nice that he’d caught her in the nick of time. But he was still holding her, his arm an iron vise around her waist.
And he was watching her as if expecting an actual answer. What was stopping her from kissing him? Certainly not distance. All he had to do was lower his mouth to fit effortlessly over hers.
Lips to lips…then she’d sample his taste with a soft stroke of her tongue…then she’d open her mouth under his…
Veronica squeezed her eyes shut as it dawned that she’d been staring at his mouth. “You can put me down now, Sir Galahad.”
Simon set her on her feet. “And here I was, hoping you’d make good on that offer.”
“Not going to happen. I said I could kiss you. Not that I would. Besides, it’s only an expression.” Veronica was desperate to focus on anything but him. What was it about formal-wear that highlighted nearly every attractive detail of a man’s looks, anyway? The well-cut suit seemed to emphasize his height. The titanium-colored silk necktie complemented the gunmetal flecks in his blue eyes, which were even darker now than when she’d last seen him on the balcony of Villains Club Lounge yesterday.
Every time she ended up alone with this man, she was left with heart-thudding horniness that she didn’t know how to handle.
“So, Simon—” she maneuvered her purse and bouquet under one arm and dug into the cake “—does the bride or groom know you’re hanging around in the shadows like a creeper?”
“If you’re asking whether I’m a crasher, the answer’s no. My date models jewelry. She knows Mason Corrine.” He had the balls to smirk. Oh, it burned her up when men smirked at her, as if she existed for their amusement. “Another thing. Coming out here to make a call is no more creepy than hiding in the dark so no one sees you eating.”
A snapshot of her shoveling cake into her mouth wouldn’t appear flattering splashed all over Instagram. Not that she was obligated to explain that to him. He probably wouldn’t understand if she tried to explain why she had to hide to eat cake. He dated models and actresses—women who were paid to be perfect.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were here, Simon?”
“The truth?”
She took a bite of cake and smiled indulgently. “Nothing less.”
“I saw you come out here, and all I could think about was what happened yesterday. I’m talking about you and me on that balcony, Veronica. What could I have said to you tonight that wouldn’t make things fucking awkward for us both?”
“What about Hello?”
Simon raised his eyebrows. Then he gave the slightest of nods and slowly moved in close while she sucked frosting off her fork. Taking full advantage of the fact that she was positively paralyzed with anticipation, he stepped behind her. His fingers tantalized her skin as he gathered her hair in his fist and cupped her shoulder. Cool night air touched the nape of her neck just before his warm, firm mouth did.
Lazily, he left a path of those hot, full-pressure kisses from her hairline to the carefully tied bow that held her halter gown in place.
When his hand slid under her dress to squeeze her breasts, all she could do was arch into his touch with a shallow sigh. Carnal agony. What else could describe a need so immediate and so intense? She was wet for him—he had to know it. He had to know the scrape of his fingertips across her hardened nipples made her weak.
“Hello, Veronica,” he murmured.
The words, all dressed up in the coarse timbre of his voice, rattled her every erogenous zone. She plucked the fork from her mouth and licked her lips to double-check that she hadn’t just swallowed her tongue.
Simon stopped kissing her neck. He took her plate and she trembled, waiting for him to turn her around and go for her mouth. But he tugged her hair, urging her downward…and she went.
On her knees, fork still in hand, Veronica knew her thong was soaked.
Oh, God. Am I really going to blow a guy who resents me for firing him?
She waited for him to appear in front of her.
Except he didn’t.
She felt him twist a handful of her hair and yank it back, and then she heard a rustle of fabric followed by a deep groan. Then they were moving in a rhythm as he wrapped her hair around his cock and thrusted.
He was fucking her hair and she was aching to touch herself while he did it. But her body was frozen stunned.
Simon used her, jerking himself into her hair, no question aroused by her quiet obedience.
But that’s what made her such a good girl—she was obedient, compliant, willing.
“Fuck, Veronica…I’m going to come.”
Oooh, yes. Only— “Wait, not in my hair. Or on my dress.” She broke free, intending to take over and let him finish in her hands.
Simon was too far gone, and as she twisted around, he let loose a growl and spurted ropes of semen that arced beautifully…
And landed on her plate.
He’d saved her cake, only to violate it.
“You jizzed on my dessert,” she blurted, torn between outrage. Then there was a rush of filthy curiosity. What if she ate it, every crumb and drop, on her knees in front of him?
Simon zipped up, withdrawing from her, denying her. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re not.” Blindsided by the distance now between them, she stood and aimed her fork. “I could stab you for that.”
“First you wanted to kiss me. Now you want to stab me.”
“God, I wish this hadn’t happened.”
“You regret it?”
“Yes,” she lied, nearly shaking with arousal—and furious because she was so turned on.
“I don’t. I got to play your Sir Galahad. Sounds to me like you could use one.”
Veronica frowned. “I don’t need a hero, Simon. What I do need is a slice of cake that’s not dressed in your come.”
With nothing more to say, she slipped past him and into the ballroom.
◆◆◆
If Simon wanted to fuck his chances of returning to the Las Vegas Villains roster, then kissing Veronica Greer again would definitely be the way to go. But hell, yeah, he was tempted.
The temptation had begun the day she’d called him into a meeting with his agent and a few corporate higher-ups, introduced herself as the new GM, and then fired him. Beyond the instant anger, in the recesses of his male instincts, was reckless curiosity. What would a woman like that—fragile-looking but as lethal as poison—be like on his dick?
Now he was aching to know. Each time he encountered her, his resistance buckled and common sense crumbled. Catching her as she’d tripped had been an automatic reaction, but what he’d gained from the contact was that for all her bravado, she was delicate to hold…a shockingly gentle weight for a man to have against his body. And damn, the way her eyes glittered like jewels and her lush mouth teased that damn fork as he advanced on her…
Was it a tactic? Few things were more dangerous than a woman who knew how to use her assets as artillery. Simon had watched her in televised press conferences. He’d witnessed her charm aggressive journalists into drooling idiots with just the right words, just the right expression. Was she working him the same way?
Or had the vulnerability that rose off her been real?
Simon wasn’t going to take the risk. His career, his dreams of Super Bowl victories and Hall of Fame glory, were riding on his next steps. Tonight, instead of escorting an ex to a Vegas wedding, he should’ve been on a football field in Texas. He’d placed too much trust in his boys, into the franchise’s decision-makers. He regretted that now, but beyond regret, he’d learned in the grittiest way possible to be smarter.
To look out for himself—because no one else would.
Inside, Simon found his way to the bar where his date, Samantha Weatherby, was swaying to music and tossing back a drink.
“Is that a beer?”
“Yes, it is. They’re all out of bourbon.” Samantha signaled the bartender to refill her glass. “Our barkeep here carded me. Imagine that.”
Smart man. One of her modeling selling points was that she was a chameleon and could easily be made to appear older or younger, dominatrix or virgin. Tonight she’d turned the dial to wholesome and looked like a girl-next-door fantasy. With big violet eyes and pink hair, Samantha was for damn sure the kind of girl Simon would’ve loved to have had next door. Instead, his closest neighbor had been an elderly farmer with anemic cows.
Samantha was as honest as any woman he’d ever been involved with, but she fought inner battles. An angel with a crooked halo.
She ducked under his arm to hug him. “Did I ever tell you that you’re awesome, Simon Smith?”
“What do you want?”
She glared at him for a moment. Her glossy lips puckered into a pout. “Cynic. I was only going to say that I really appreciate you coming with me to Mason’s wedding. Most ex-boyfriends would’ve said no.”
“I did say no. The first time you asked.”
“But the second time you said yes.”
Simon lowered his voice as a chain of giggling women shuffled past them toward the dance floor. “I was balls-deep in you, Samantha. I would’ve said yes to anything.”
“Anyway—” she unwrapped her arms and took a sip of the beer “—I was saying that I’m thankful for you. And I met someone…here at the reception, I mean. I’m going to be leaving with him. Of course you can take off, if you want. But I wish you’d stay awhile and get the most out of tonight.”
Shyness wasn’t something he associated with her. No, it wasn’t shyness he detected. It was guilt. “When we broke up, we gave up the right to each other’s business, didn’t we, Samantha?”
At least, that had been the plan. He’d dated women after her, and even though over the past several months she reappeared in his life just to fuck, they’d lost the layer of closeness that came with being a bona fide couple.
“I care what happens to you.” Samantha sipped from her glass. “Dragging you here, then leaving with some other guy…Not my finest behavior.”
“Would it make you feel better to know I wasn’t expecting to get any from you tonight?” She jabbed his side with her knuckle, and he grinned.
“Oh, Simon. I’m trying to be serious. Don’t tell me you’re taking up with yet another football groupie. It’s time you met somebody who’ll treat you right. Let’s see…” Samantha scanned the ballroom. “What about her? She’s awfully pretty and seems capable of holding a decent conversation.”
Simon watched as an Asian woman in a flowing dress held a group in rapt amusement. His gaze drifted to the hand she was waving animatedly in the air. Big-assed diamond on her finger. “She’s married, Samantha. Contrary to what the general public thinks, I’m not that much of a bastard.”
“You’re not a bastard at all.” Undeterred, she continued to twist left, then right, tactfully pointing out women who had the potential to be what his best friend, Hurley, a defensive tackle who’d been traded from Las Vegas to San Francisco, called “one-hit wonders.”
“Drop it, Samantha—”
“Oh, mister, mister,” she interrupted in an excited whisper. “What about her? No wedding ring. She’s dancing alone.” She put her arm around him again. “Don’t you see her? The one in the bridesmaid gown with the messy hair.”
Simon saw her, all right. A knockout from the front, Veronica was just as sexy from the back. Fine-boned with a nicely shaped ass.
He was the reason for her messy hair. It’d felt like cool silk wrapped around his dick.
“Swear you’ll talk to her. Simon, seriously. I want that for you. I want that for me.”
Veronica’s hips rocked in time to the music. With a little wiggle, she made room for a middle-aged couple on the dance floor while a scattering of men ogled her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw him. In acknowledgment, he gave a slow nod and lifted one corner of his mouth. And Veronica, on display for hundreds of others, was her perfect, unapproachable self again. Not the woman who ate cake with uninhibited pleasure, who stumbled over her own feet, who walked around carrying sex toys.
As guests crisscrossed the distance between Simon and Veronica, he turned to give his ex a firm headshake. “No.”
“Why the holy hell not?”
“That woman is Veronica Greer. She dropped me from the Villains.”
Samantha’s pert nose scrunched. “Oh. Well, that won’t work.”
No fuckin’ kidding. Simon reached, claimed her beer, and finished it off. Though Samantha gave him a withering look, she didn’t say more until a few moments later when someone announced the tossing of the garter belt and bouquet.
Despite the fact that Samantha claimed she would never be the marrying type, she made a run for the press of partygoers.
Simon hung back, sticking to the ballroom’s shadows. Cameras flashed, earsplitting laughter and applause ricocheted off the walls. A lacy garter belt flew into a crowd of men. Then women and girls of varying ages formed an eager cluster in the center of the dance floor.
Again, Simon was able to spot Veronica. Forgetting about her would be best for his sanity, but his brain wasn’t in control right now. Other, more demanding, parts of his anatomy had taken over. He crossed his arms and ventured forward, his footsteps sure and strong but soundless under the pound of hip-hop music.
The bride flung her bouquet behind her, and a sea of hands shot up. It flipped a few times as it descended onto the crowd.
Simon watched Veronica—subtly yet deliberately—shift to the left. And the bouquet dropped into the frantic grasp of the woman next to her. She’d sabotaged her own chance of grabbing it.
◆◆◆
Veronica was buzzed as the crowd finally started to thin well past midnight. Not buzzed on booze—it typically took three full glasses of wine, or four beers, or an impressive five bottles of hard lemonade to get her tipsy, and so far she was under the two-flute limit she’d set for tonight. No, she was all fuzzy in the head and a-flutter in the tummy because a man with the most sexilicious body she’d ever seen—well, of course she remembered his feature in ESPN The Magazine’s Body Issue— had kissed her.
And touched her. And masturbated in her hair.
Unfortunately, it wouldn’t happen again. She had other plans for Simon Smith.
Working the room toward the exit, she noticed the woman who’d been snuggled up to him a while ago was now grinding against another man. Simon was still in the hotel…somewhere. Only minutes before she’d spotted several teens accosting him for autographs and camera-phone snapshots.
In the hushed foyer, she felt her throat constrict but didn’t break her stride as she approached Simon, who stood near the massive wall of windows. He watched her confidently, as though he’d known she’d come searching for him.
“There’s a girl with pink hair who’s dry humping one of the groomsmen.”
“Samantha’s my ex-girlfriend. I escorted her to the wedding as a favor. What and who she does isn’t my territory.” Simon raked his gaze from her head to the stiletto torture instruments that doubled as designer shoes. “Know something, Veronica? Your face says you don’t give a damn, but your body language is telling me a different story.”
“Crock of shit.”
“Save it for a man who doesn’t know anything about nonverbal behavior. Four-year hitch at LSU. I picked up a thing or two in the psych program. And watching people’s moves, predicting what they’ll do next, is part of a quarterback’s job. Communication’s about a lot more than words.”
She’d be lying through her teeth to say she wasn’t drawn in by the glint of heat that made his pupils flare. Was his restraint as tight as a drum, like hers?
“When I said Samantha’s my ex, your shoulders relaxed and you moved in a little closer. Not much, but enough for me to notice. The exact moment I called you on it, you tensed up again.”
Veronica wouldn’t play into this man’s games. But she couldn’t walk away, either. She had a plan to put into place—a plan that required his full cooperation.
“Veronica Greer.” The hint of military formality in the thunderous voice just behind Veronica prompted her to swing around. Ah, yes. The father of the bride. A decorated military veteran, Elroy “Captain” Smart was as take-charge and startlingly powerful as her own father. Meddling mothers and larger-than-life fathers were what she and Grace had right away discovered they’d had in common and, frankly, was what had cemented their instant friendship.
“The one and only,” Veronica greeted. “Are you enjoying yourself, Cap?”
“My wife and Grace would settle for nothing less than a legendary party. Give me my slippers and a crisp newspaper any day. But the smile on my girl’s face is worth all this expense and more.” Cap looked beyond Veronica and gave Simon an assessing look. “Well. Simon Smith. The Blue-Eyed Badass.”
Please, Cap, keep your commentary to yourself just this once. Don’t mention his stats, his reputation, his unemployment, my firing him. In fact, don’t mention football at all….
At least, not before Veronica got Simon to agree to her suggestions.
“You’re taller in person.” With nothing more, Cap walked on.
The good thing about the interruption was that it took Simon’s attention off the subject of Veronica’s body language and what tales it was telling on her.
“You’ve been on my mind,” she told Simon, her face schooled into a neutral expression. “Your career, your situation, to be exact.”
“No plans to stab me with a fork?”
“That’s still a possibility, but not the topic of this conversation. I have a solution for you.”
“Unless you have an offer from the Villains, I’m not interested.” His words were so final, his baritone so deadly serious, that she almost flipped him off for dismissing her without first allowing her to propose the damn solution.
But she wasn’t so easily discouraged. “A contract with another team can resurrect your career. You were not Mr. Congeniality on the Villains. The temper, the fines, the disrespect for authority? How many times did your coach chew you out last season for going rogue and disregarding his plays?”
“Disregarding bullshit plays, you mean,” he growled. “Yeah, America thinks I’m an arrogant dick, but the truth is that the plays I wouldn’t follow are the ones that would’ve screwed the team worse than it already was. I’m talking about a hell of a lot more turnovers and injuries. I’m talking about shit that only makes sense now that we know there were players and coaches on the take.” His eyes burned like blue fire, and there was almost no trace of the flirt who’d teased her on the terrace. “You weren’t out there. You don’t know, Veronica. I know. So trust me.”
“What you’re wanting me to do…I just can’t, Simon.”
“Then step aside.”
Veronica stopped him with a hand on his arm, but when he wrenched it back, her fingers slipped. Somehow her hand tangled with his, and she gripped him tightly. “You kissed me outside,” she whispered. “Why?”
“After what happened yesterday, it was driving me insane wanting to know how you’d respond if I touched you. There came an opportunity to put it to the test, and I took it.”
So he’d been toying with her. She should shrug it off, not take it seriously…be glad he didn’t want to start something serious. It wasn’t as if she would sacrifice an image makeover project for mixed-up feelings toward a man she couldn’t realistically have a future with anyway.
Simon shattered rules, made enemies, and never apologized. Veronica was an expert at pleasing people—Miss Customer Service. A sunny disposition, a few witty words, and a confident attitude almost always turned things in her favor. When that didn’t work, ball-busting usually did the trick.
A romantic association would only propel them toward disaster. “And were you satisfied with the results of your little test?”
“No. Because I want more.”
Veronica’s chin snapped up, and she searched his eyes for the callous playboy, the hellion, the angry and jobless quarterback. What she saw was just a man, unmasked and bared to her.
Underneath the layers—the Ball Buster, the “celebrity” GM, and the darling, never-step-outside-the-lines Greer daughter—she was just a woman, a woman with a death grip on her perfect mask.
“But people don’t always get what they want. That’s according to you, Veronica.”
“That’s according to life. I just want to know what your game is, Simon.”
“Football. That’s my game.”
Veronica was so close to leaving it at that, but unfortunately, it wasn’t in her nature. What good were charm and charisma if she couldn’t exercise her talents?
“Luca Tarantino and his band of money-motivated assholes threw you under the bus. Your image is the least of the feds’ and the league’s concerns. They aren’t in any rush to clean it up. So what’s a man to do when no one believes the truth?” She glanced down at their joined hands, and at last let him go. Suddenly it felt as though she were missing something essential. “The best shot you have of playing this season is to start looking good to teams—now. Change their minds about you. Make them want you—no, compete for you. You’ve created a name for yourself in football, Simon. Unfortunately, that name is the Blue-Eyed Badass. Fortunately, you have me.”
“Right. And what does a good girl like Veronica Greer want to do with a badass like Simon Smith?”
Besides getting them a suite and letting him put that silk tie to more creative use on her?
“I’d like to help change the way the world sees you,” she said.
Simon gave an ironic chuckle. “It’s going to take more than a character reference to get me back onto a field.”
“No one said it’ll be easy. But it’s possible. Think of how many people still approach you for autographs and pictures. You’re not the first NFL player to chase redemption. Jesus, you’re not even the first quarterback. Athletes have crawled back into the media’s good graces from steroid hell, sex drama, drug charges, prison stints—”
“And what can you do?”
“Clean up your rep. Get you in the right situations at the right times. Get your name on SportsCenter for the right reasons. Keep this in mind, though. The Las Vegas Villains will not pursue you. My parents’ decision on that matter is final.” She edged closer, not caring what he might read in her body language. She needed him to hear her, totally and completely. “You’re not a Villain anymore, Simon. I’m willing to help you move on. But only if you want me to.”
A scatter of guests passed them, laughing and jostling. One of the polished women tossed an appreciative glance back at Simon. Reflexively, Veronica blurted to him, “Call me. Uh…after you think about my offer. If you’re good with it, we can chat further and go over the logistics then.”
Veronica recited her private number to him; then with great care she marched to the ballroom.
What the royal hell was that? “Call me”? “Logistics”?
In ways that were puzzling, Simon appealed to her. It was insulting that he’d skipped her on the chain of command to get to her parents. Yet compassion overwhelmed her. It was inappropriate of him to kiss her. Yet she was still turned on. It was infuriating that her guard slipped every time she was with him. Yet the fact that he provoked the part of herself she kept hidden was intriguing.
It was foolish to even fantasize about getting hot with one of America’s sexiest sports idols. Yet, part of her—the part that wanted to be foolish, craved the danger—was ready for flesh and heat.
Ready for Simon Smith, and all the trouble that would come with him.