Fair Game: A Football Romance (40 page)

“They don’t know you’re sleeping in your office?”

“Nope, and now I’m not, because we finished the project, hence the bags.”

“I see.” We exit the elevator and hang a left. Halfway down the hall, she stops and stares at something propped against her door. It’s a bouquet, a big one, wrapped in paper, waiting for her to find them when she gets home. They’re a little wilted. They’ve probably been sitting there over twenty-four hours if she’s been sleeping in her office. We don’t say anything as she scoops them up and unlocks the door, pushing her way inside with her computers and her flowers.

Inside, she flicks on the light in the dining room and tosses the flowers haphazardly onto the table.

“You can put that anywhere. I’m going to just put these in my office. I’ll be right back,” she says, toeing off her shoes and padding down the hall away from me. I close the door and place her bag on one of the dining room chairs. I bend at the waist and read the card with the flowers, keeping my hands stuffed into my front pockets.

Thank you for lunch. I hope we can do it again soon –Sayeed

Sayeed, huh? Jealousy pricks at my heart, and I think of how Violet must have felt that morning listening to me talk to Sabrina. I did tell her I loved her. Hearing only my side of the conversation must have sounded like an exchange between lovers. Why the hell didn’t I think of that? I thought she was in the shower and I hadn’t spoken to Sabrina all weekend. I needed to take the call. It’s unfortunate that she didn’t confront me about it, but we had only known each other two days, so I can see why she bolted.

“Do you feel like ordering something for dinner later?” she asks, entering the living room. Her apartment is cozy, not a lot of space, but there’s only her, so it makes sense. She opens the curtains covering the French doors that lead to a patio outside. When she lifts her arms to push the material back, her shirt rides up, making her perfect ass more visible. I’ve missed that ass, but I have to get my thoughts off Violet’s curves and onto the conversation we need to have next.

“Sure, sounds good.”

She sits, curling her legs under her on one end of a perfectly white couch. I wouldn’t peg her to have unpractical furniture, but there are so many things I’ve yet to learn about her.

“You gonna stand there all day or come sit with me?”

I do as she did and remove my shoes at the door. I like that she doesn’t track the world’s garbage and germs into her home. I sit sideways next to her with my knee up and my arm draped over the back of the couch.

“You have an admirer.” I can’t help it. I have to bring it up. It bothers me that a man is bringing flowers to her at home.

She fidgets and plays with the edge of her loose shirt. People fidget when they’re uncomfortable or guilty. She must be involved with this Sayeed person. It’s stupid of me to think she’s still single. She’s a beautiful, smart, successful woman. However, knowing this and accepting it are two different things.

“Oh, that’s just my doctor. We became friends when I was in the hospital,” she says, waving her hand dismissively.

“A doctor who makes house calls with flowers?”

“We went to lunch a couple of times. He’s nice, but it’s nothing.”

“You were sick enough to be hospitalized? What happened?”

“I was working too hard. I caught a cold and it turned into pneumonia. I’m better now, though, not contagious or anything.” She’s doing it already—reassuring me, enabling my OCD behavior.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“What?”

“Tiptoe around my aversion to germs. I’m fine.”

“Major, can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Have you ever been diagnosed with OCD? I don’t mean to be insensitive, but your need to have things clean and organized is a little extreme.” Her face is soft and sympathetic, like Katie’s used to be when we first met. I won’t admit that my compulsive behavior is related to OCD. Katie sat me down once with a copy of the diagnostics and statistics manual of mental disorders. She read all the symptoms of obsessive-compulsive disorder and begged me to see a psychiatrist, but I refused to go.

“No, I haven’t. It’s been suggested that I see a professional, but I’d rather not. I’m a Marine. Being organized comes with the lifestyle.”

“So you don’t think it’s a problem?” she says, shaking her head.

“No, I don’t.” I’m not going down this path today. I don’t want to waste time on my peculiar mannerisms. I want to get to know more about Violet.

“Okay then, tell me about your friend, Sabrina. How did you two meet?”

I reach out to twist a curl from her ponytail around my finger and examine it. The soft ebony lock naturally forms to my finger. I wish she’d take it down so I could run all of my fingers through it.

“Major?”

“Hmm?”

“Sabrina, how did you meet?”

I drop the curl and steady myself to tell her the story I hate to tell. I clear my throat and start at the beginning.

“Violet, I used to be married. My wife’s name was Katie.”

“Oh . . . so you’re divorced?”

“No, widowed. She died six years ago.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says, reaching out to take my hand and pull me closer. I scoot forward until my leg is pressed against hers.

“I didn’t tell you so you’d feel sorry for me. I don’t usually talk about it anymore, but if you’re going to understand my relationship with Sabrina, you need to know about Katie.”

“Okay, go on. I can see this is hard for you. I won’t interrupt.”

“I appreciate that. I met Katie the year I graduated college. I knew I was going into the Marines immediately after school ended, so I wasn’t looking for a relationship, but she took my breath away. She was so open and free—a lot like you, actually.”

She smiles an
I don’t want to be compared to your ex but I’m being supportive
kind of smile.

“Anyway, one thing led to another, and we got married a year later and moved to Guam, where I was stationed for two years. We got pregnant and had a baby girl. Her name is Malory.”

Violet begins to grip my hand like a vice when I mention that I have a child. I know this is all new information for her, but I need to get it all out at once, so I continue telling my story.

“Katie suffered a severe form of postpartum psychosis.” I swallow past the lump in my throat that’s always there when I think of Katie’s suicide.

“She drove her car into lake Fena with Malory strapped in her car seat.”

Violet gasps, and her hand flies to her mouth.

“Oh God, Major, no.”

“Katie drowned, but someone saw her drive the car in the lake and tried to save her. She swam in and saw Malory in her seat and chose her over Katie. She said Katie wasn’t moving, that she already looked like she was gone, and she couldn’t leave the baby in the car one way or another. That person was Sabrina.”

God, it’s hard speaking those words out loud. Even after six years, it rips my heart apart to know that Katie was suffering so much that she saw suicide as her only way out. I look up from the couch cushion where I’ve been focusing my attention and find Violet’s eyes brimming with tears.

“Don’t cry. Come here,” I say and pull her into my lap for the second time today to comfort her.

“I’m such a bitch, I’m so sorry,” she sobs into the curve of my neck.

“What? Why are you a bitch?”

“I was so stupid, assuming you were talking to a girlfriend, and it turns out it was the person who saved your baby’s life. Wait.” She sits up suddenly.

“She did save her life, didn’t she?”

Her face is so full of hope, it makes my chest ache knowing she’s concerned about my daughter, a child she’s never met.

“Yes, she saved her, and I’m forever indebted to her for that.”

She slumps against me again, only to bolt upright a few seconds later.

“Where is she? She doesn’t live with you.”

“She lives with my sister, Samantha, in Oceanside. She has custody of her.”

“Why?” Violet’s beautiful face is twisted with shock and confusion.

“I’m a single father in the Marines. I have to be able to ship out at a moment’s notice, and she’s better off with Sam anyway.”

“How can a little girl be better off without her daddy?”

“I’m no good with kids. I’m too rigid, too direct. Sam has other kids and a wonderful husband. It’s just a better environment for her to grow up in. I see her everyday, and I spend time with her on the weekends. She knows who I am, and I hope she knows I love her.”

Violet lowers her eyes, and I wait while she thinks.

“I think you’re wrong.”

“About what?”

“Your personality traits are who you are. You can’t say she’s better off without you because you’re strict and anal. Those are good qualities in a parent. I do understand the Marine part of it though. Has she always lived with your sister?”

“Yes, Samantha took her right after Katie died. I was so grief-stricken I couldn’t take care of myself, let alone a newborn. It wasn’t meant to be permanent at first. She was just supposed to help me transition, but it worked out so well and I got deployed to Iraq, so we made it permanent a year later.”

We sit in silence for a while, her absorbing everything I’ve just said and me reliving it in my head. I try not to think of Katie’s death because I’m mostly responsible for it. I was so busy with work and my own life that I didn’t see how much she needed me. I missed the warning signs. She tried to tell me she didn’t feel well. She tried to show me she was struggling, but I was too concerned with making sure the diapers were stacked in perfect rows on the shelf in her nursery and bottles were sterile and hidden away in the kitchen cupboards. My obsession with lists and keeping supplies stocked consumed my life. When Malory was born, my compulsions became more powerful, more overwhelming. It made me blind to Katie’s depression. I could have saved her if I’d listened and taken her to get help, and Malory wouldn’t have suffered mild brain damage from nearly drowning.

“Major?”

“Hmm?”

“Will you lay down with me?”

“Yeah, here on the couch or on your bed?”

“My bed.”

I scoop her up and carry her down the hall. She points to the door on the left, and I enter and lay her on her very feminine purple comforter. There’s a lot of purple in here, I notice, looking around, but her name is Violet, so go figure. She likes photographs and candles and knickknacks. Every surface in the room is covered with them, and it makes me cringe inside. She has an antique rocking chair in the corner of the room with clothes thrown on it, unfolded and wrinkled. I’m going to have to close my eyes and forget the chaos around me if I expect to stay in Violet’s bedroom.

She scoots over, and I curl around her from behind and shut my eyes. I’ll be all right as long as I don’t look at it . . . I hope.

The warmth and comfort of her body soothes my anxiety, and I don’t even remember falling asleep. Violet is like medication for my obsessive behavior. When I touch her, the restless, uneasy feeling in my chest disappears and I feel like I can cope. I’m grateful she didn’t ask me to leave when I told her how Katie died and that I had a daughter. That’s a lot of baggage on top of her suspicions about my OCD. I’m not the kind of man for her. She deserves better, but I think I may be falling in love with her and I’m too selfish to give up on this second chance.

Chapter Twenty

Violet

Orgasmic Cupcakes

I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him I’m pregnant after that heart-wrenching story about his wife and daughter. And he thinks he’s not good with kids, ugh. How will I ever tell him he’s going to have another?

I think he’s still sleeping, but I really have to pee. Maybe if I slip out carefully, I won’t disturb him. I try, but it’s useless. His arms are wrapped tight around my body and his legs are tangled with mine. I’ll have to wake him.

“Major?”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, you’re awake. I really need to go to the bathroom. Could you let me out?”

He slides his legs out from between mine and loosens his arms.

“I wasn’t going to let you sleepwalk away from me again,” he says while I stand next to the bed doing a pee pee dance. I swear, pregnancy shrinks your bladder. I pee ten times more per day than I ever have.

“Thank you for keeping me safe from myself. I usually only sleepwalk at night though. I don’t know why.”

“Go on, hurry up now before you pee your pants.”

“What time is it?” I call from across the hall when I sit down on the toilet seat.

“Eighteen thirty,” he calls back.

I slept for two hours and I could still go back for more. Sleep and pee, pee and sleep. Pregnancy is a wheel of magnified necessary bodily functions, and I’m tired of going around and around.

When I return to the bedroom, Major is gone. I hear him in my kitchen. Lord, I hope he’s not checking my cupboards. I throw stuff in there willy-nilly when I grocery shop. My cans and boxes are far from organized.

When I come around the corner, he’s arranging Sayeed’s flowers in a vase, picking off the dead blooms and brown leaves.

“They needed water,” he says plainly.

“Thanks, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes I did. They were just lying there on your table . . . dying.”

“Well, thank you again. I was just going to throw them out, but since you’ve gone to the trouble, I can put them on the table and we can—” He scoops up the flowers, tosses them in the trash, and dumps the water from the vase down the drain.

“Okay then, never mind.”

“I was trying to be mature, but I’d much rather you not be reminded of another man every time you look at those flowers.”

A smug smile slides across his face and my heart flutters. It actually flutters like it skips a beat. He’s jealous and possessive, but in a good way. It’s cute.

There’s a pink box on the counter behind him. “What’s this?” I say, opening it up.

“Oh my God, cupcakes. You remembered!” My mouth waters when I peruse the beautiful little masterpieces. “They’re so pretty. I don’t want to ruin them, but I’m going to,” I say, bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet. I pluck the one labeled,
Peanut
Butter Passion
from the box, and he happily watches me bite into it with the enthusiasm of a toddler.

“Good?” he asks when I close my eyes and moan. God, I love sugar. This baby has a serious sweet tooth, and this cupcake is going to make him or her very happy.

“Orgasmic.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh really? I’ll have to remember that. I’m not sure how I feel about you eating orgasmic cupcakes.”

“You should feel really, really good. Here, try,” I say, holding the cupcake up for him to taste. He takes a bite, and I know right away he feels the same way.

“That is an exceptional cupcake.”

He has a little bit of frosting on his lip, and I stand on my tiptoes to lick it off. He stills with our lips touching, not moving, and then, without looking, he removes the cupcake from my hand and puts it back in the box. His hands slide down my back until they cup my ass, and he swiftly lifts me onto the counter. My breath is coming in little puffs as he reaches up to pull the rubber band out of my hair, causing it to tumble down my back and shoulders. He still hasn’t kissed me, but just being this close to him causes my heart to race, and my core trembles like a volcano waiting to erupt.

He combs his fingers through my hair, and with one hand tugs my head back, exposing my neck. When his lips touch my skin, it feels like fire and ice. I don’t know who’s hot and who’s cold, but his lips and tongue burn a trail up my throat to my ear. The tip of his tongue traces my earlobe, and his breath in my ear is too much. I grab his shirt and frantically pull it from his jeans and start unbuckling his belt.

“I want you to fuck me on the counter, Major,” I pant while he unbuttons my blouse and pops my sensitive breasts out over the cups of my bra. He bends down to trace one of my stiff buds with his tongue, and I wrap my legs around his waist and drop my head back with a thump against the cupboard behind me.

“I intend to do just that,” he says in a low, gravelly, seductive voice that makes my core pulse with anticipation.

I shrug my top off. Thank God I’m not showing yet. I’ve noticed changes in my body. My hips are a smidgen wider and my breasts are plumper. Leggings and tunic tops are my clothing of choice lately, but my baby bump is nearly invisible to anyone but myself. I need to tell him, but not yet, not now, not today.

He unclasps the front hook of my bra, freeing my breasts. His mouth is on mine now. Finally. Our tongues explore and reacquaint. His teeth nip and tug on my lips, desperate for more of me, and I know exactly how he feels.

Close isn’t close enough. I need him inside me. I lift his shirt and our lips briefly separate when I pass it between us and throw it on the floor. I skim my hands over his chiseled abdominal muscles and break free from his mouth to kiss a trail along his jaw, behind his ear, and down his neck to his chest, where I give him a taste of his own medicine and circle his nipple with my tongue. His skin is salty and delicious. I want to lick every inch of him. I continue kissing until I reach his navel, where I swirl my tongue over the surface of it and lick all the way up his washboard stomach and his defined pectorals. A deep, guttural growl begins in his chest and ends in a muffled moan when I cover his mouth with mine.

He slips his fingers inside the elastic waistband of my leggings and peels them down. I place my palms flat on the counter and lift my ass while he pulls them over my hips and I rub my legs together, kicking them off. I’ve managed to unbuckle his belt, but that’s as far as I’ve gotten between kissing and touching every part of him I can reach. Not to worry. He’s out of them in a flash with his rock hard cock pressing against my belly in seconds. I dig my nails into his muscular ass and pull him closer. He slips a finger between my folds and growls into my mouth, and I feel his cock twitch against my belly.

“Fuck, you get so wet for me, Violet, so, so wet,” he says, dragging the slickness of my arousal forward and circling my clit with his finger.

“I’m dying to taste you again, but I can’t wait. I need to be inside you. I’m sorry.”

I don’t take the time to tell him there’s no need to apologize. He rubs the head of his cock down my slit and slides in balls deep with one swift thrust.

My head hits the cupboard again, harder this time, but I don’t feel pain, only intense pleasure. I clench my legs around his body and dig my heels into the small of his back. My hands are palm down against his chest, holding him back to give him better leverage. I like this position. I can look into his eyes. Major’s eyes are the most interesting shade of blue. They’re usually a mixture of ocean blue and cornflower blue, but right now, full of passion and emotion, they’re black rimmed with a sliver of pale blue surrounding his pupils. I see so many things in his eyes as he pumps in and out of me, desire, understanding, respect, even a touch of sadness. I think I may feel more than just enamored or hungry for this man. I think I feel love.

“Major,” I exhale his name when he pushes deep inside me. “I think I might love you,” I say, and he pauses.

I don’t know where that came from. I don’t know why I just blurted that out in the middle of mind-blowing sex. I have no control over my mouth. It just happened.

His grip on my hair tightens, and he pushes deeper into me. He lunges for my mouth, kissing me hard. He pounds into me relentlessly with such force that I have to hold onto the counter with one hand to keep from falling.

I’m so close when he lifts me off the counter. His mouth abandons mine, my body molds to his, and he buries his face in my neck, forcing me to do the same.

He yells, but I can’t make out what he says because the volcano that’s been brewing between my legs erupts at that exact moment, and I sink my teeth into his shoulder.

“Fuck yes, Violet, I love you,” he pants as his cock pulses deep inside me. I will never forget this moment for as long as I live. Major’s fierceness, my pounding heart, his declaration of love and the rusty taste of his blood on my tongue. Absolute perfection.

We cling to each other, catching our breath, coming down from the highest high imaginable.

“I want to take you and those orgasmic cupcakes over to the couch and do this again, but I don’t want to mess it up, it’s so . . . white,” he says against my neck.

“It’s scotch guarded, and if we ruin it, I’ll buy a new one.”

I feel him smile against my skin and he easily lifts me off the counter with one arm. He grabs the pink box and carries me to the long white sectional. I’ve always hated this couch anyway. It was Luke’s fabulous idea to buy such an impractical piece of furniture. It would be nice to have a reason to replace it, and I can’t think of a better way to ruin it than having messy orgasmic cupcake sex on it with Major Sawyer Steele.