I drive my Model X down the busy streets of L.A. to my exclusive neighborhood. Passing by the decorative fountains and upscale shops and restaurants lining the streets always puts me at ease. Towering palm trees line both sides of the streets. Bike paths and walking trails snake through the back of the neighborhood, but I’ve always been too busy to take advantage of them.

Shayla sits in my passenger seat, looking good enough to devour. Her curves pour into an off white dress cinched at the waist with a wide, matching belt. Her cinnamon colored thigh peeps through the side slit. Too bad she won’t let me consummate our union.

She was understandably quiet during the plane ride and the drive. She’s probably processing yesterday’s events in her mind. Hell, I’m still processing them, too. I’m certain I’ve done the right thing, but I feel a heavy burden to make everything perfect for her and Cee.

I glance at the bling on her ring finger. I’d wanted more than a quickie wedding in Reno, but time was of the essence, and the chapel was open twenty-four hours. Shayla enforced her “strictly-business” policy like the wedding Gestapo—refusing to kiss me to seal the deal. Although the sheisty looking minister and his witness gave us curious looks, they hadn’t asked any questions. Cold, hard cash was the language most people spoke, and I’d paid enough to silence all doubters.

Finally, I park and then guide Shayla through the same garage where I’d run into Cee. As we approach the stylish chrome and glass lobby, a mob of reporters crowds the building’s entrance.

One turns in my direction. “There he is!”

A cacophony of clicking cameras, popping flashbulbs, and shouting momentarily stuns me. I should be accustomed to this by now. “Shit.” I grab Shayla’s hand. “Get ready.”

“For what?”

“A day in the life of Colt Emerson.”

I push ahead, dragging her with me, ignoring her tugs of resistance. I’m violating her “no touching” rule, but these are extenuating circumstances.

Before I can take three steps, a reporter thrusts a microphone in my face. “Colt, how do you feel about being traded?”

“No comment,” I reply.

A chubby correspondent from ESPN muscles his way toward me. “Chicago’s a great team. How do you plan to contribute?”

Chicago? Coach hadn’t said anything about trading me to Chi-Town. I’m not ready to trade palm trees for blizzards. But since I’m not able to exercise my free agent clause for another year, I have no choice where I go.

I keep my stoic expression in place.

A familiar blonde from the local news blocks my path. “Your agent says it was a mutual decision reached by you and the team’s management. Is that true?”

Mutual decision, my ass. And why hasn’t my agent called me?

“Yeah, that’s right. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have somewhere to be.” I place my hand on the small of Shayla’s back and try to steer her through the throng of paparazzi toward the elevator.

“Colt!” one of the vultures yells out. “Is this your new girlfriend?”

Shayla shakes her head. “No, I’m not his—”

I cut her off, sensing the perfect opportunity to use the press to my advantage, for once. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my wife.”

The collective gasp could’ve woken the dead.

Blinding flashbulbs are followed by more questions.

“You sure know how to pick ’em!”

I bristle as a brawny reporter appraises Shayla like a prime heifer at auction. I want to punch this dude! In the past, I didn’t give a damn who ogled the trophy on my arm, but Shayla is different. I have to protect my wife from this madness.

“Watch it, buddy! That’s my wife you’re drooling over.” I jostle him with a solid hit to the shoulder as I charge toward the elevator.

“What a jerk!” he shoots back. “No wonder you’re being traded.”

All I can think about is shutting this guy’s loud mouth. He won’t be able to talk with a busted lip. I turn and lunge at him.

Shayla yanks my sleeve, pulling me back to her side. “He’s not worth it,” she hisses. She takes control, hauling me inside the elevator. She’s not afraid of these buzzards.

God, I’ve missed that. Every female I meet wants something from me. Shayla can hold her own. My body instantly heats at her boldness. As the elevator doors close, I’m consumed with a sudden urge to taste her. I pull her into my arms and plunge my tongue inside her hot mouth. I don’t give a damn about the consequences—I have to sate my hunger.

Shayla is tough. But her mouth is soft and warm. She welcomes me like a long-lost lover. Our tongues roll together in an erotic dance that I don’t want to end. The taste of her mouth ignites an inferno in the pit of my belly. I delve deeper, taking command of the kiss, branding her with my stamp of passion.

I tease her lower bottom lip with my teeth. I nibble, lick, and trace her lips with my tongue, before storming back in and ravaging her mouth again.

She melts against me. In that moment, I know she’s lost the battle. The purring from her throat is a sweet melody that feeds my insatiable ego. I relish the feel and texture of her mouth as she submits to me.

After that, everything happens fast. My hands drop to her waist and roam to the soft globes of her ass. I pull her against me and grind my pelvis against hers. When our bodies touch, it’s like a chemical reaction unleashed. Unpredictable. Intense. Explosive.