One Night with a Quarterback (11 page)

“Cassandra! I saw your car drive by, I know you're in there. Please do not make me come find you.”

Mellie scurried out the door before Cassie could say anything else. With a sigh, Cassie pressed the button. “Sorry, Tabitha. I was about to get in the shower.”

“Oh. Yes.” After a heavy pause, she asked, “Have you seen the girls? I need to get them started and they aren't in their rooms.”

Cassie took a brief look around the pool house, then answered honestly, “They're not here.”

“Of course they're not in the pool house,” Tabitha snapped.

Of course?
So they
had
been warned to stay away. The thought hurt, though the fact that her sisters cared enough to break the rule made her smile. Little rebels.

“I'm sure they're around somewhere. Maybe they stepped outside for a walk.”

“Of all the . . .” Tabitha continued to mutter, but Cassie was just fine not knowing what was said. “I'll expect you at the house at six, sharp. We have to be there early. You will, of course, be driving separately, and walking in behind us. And please remember what I said the last time?”

“Formal wear, up goes the hair,” Cassie said in a monotone voice.

“Excellent. See you soon.” The line clicked, and Cassie knew she'd been dismissed.

She wandered back to the bedroom and found the pile of clothing still staring at her. She noticed there hadn't been any invitation to come over and get ready at the main house. No offer to help with the updo she apparently had to create on herself. Tabitha had quietly and effectively walled her off by keeping her in the pool house.

The privacy was nice. But she had privacy in Atlanta. She wanted sisters barging in and borrowing things . . . without having to sneak over to do it. She wanted meals where she didn't have to be formally invited, evenings watching TV with her father on the couch, or Sunday afternoons playing board games with the family.

Instead . . . Cassie reached in her closet and gathered one of the dresses Anya had included in the box she'd mailed. Instead, she got charity dinners where she would sit around making polite conversation with strangers and eating dry chicken, say exactly ten words to her father, and spend the rest of the night being bored and pretending she wasn't actually a part of the family yet.

Pretty much a fail, on all parts.

Play the game, Cassie.
She set the dress down on the bed and searched through the mess Mellie had made for shoes that would match.
Play the game, wear them down by showing you can fit, and then they'll let you in.

God, she hoped.

* * *

Cassie waited while her father made the rounds at their table. Being the sponsors, the Jordans' table was the largest of the dinner tables present, seating twelve easily. Instead of being placed next to the family, however, Cassie found herself on opposite ends. She was seated next to an assistant coach of the Bobcats team on one side, and a charity matron in her sixties on the other. She'd evaded the “How do you know the Jordans” question easily enough with the skillfully crafted, “Relations,” truth-but-not-truth the PR people had fed her. With her different last name, most assumed she was a cousin of Tabitha's, and she simply didn't correct them.

Looking handsome in a tuxedo, Ken Jordan stopped by her chair. The coach to her right, Burt something, stood before she could say anything.

“Thanks for coming, Burt.” Ken gave him a handshake and a thump on the shoulder. “Always appreciate the support for the cause.”

“No problem. Always willing to lend the support. You and Tabitha do it up right.”

Ken nodded, then looked at her. She stood, because that seemed to be what people were doing when he reached them.

After a brief hesitation, Ken held out a hand. “Thank you for coming, Cassie.”

“Of course.” It wasn't the warm welcome she'd hoped for. But what was she expecting? A kiss on the cheek? A hug?

Not yet, she chastised herself. Not yet. Just a few more days, then everyone could move on past this awkward “I don't know you” stage in public.

The knowledge that that time would come with media scrutiny and attention she'd never wanted made her stomach cramp.

An hour later, while eating the dry chicken with two hundred donors and sponsors, Cassie watched as her father took the stage to thank everyone for their support, and talk more about the organization.

He spoke about the importance of keeping family together, about promoting harmony in the family unit. On working hard to make the unit as strong as possible, not turning your back on the ones you loved.

Cassie felt a sharp pain in her palm, and realized she'd dug her fingernails into her skin. She shook her hand out, then looked around the room.

Every other face looked enraptured by Ken's speech. She saw some nods, some mouthed agreements, a few claps after a particularly intense sentence. And then her gaze landed on Mellie.

With everyone else's attentions focused on the speaker, nobody but Cassie witnessed Mellie miming a gagging motion.

Cassie stifled a laugh, coughing politely into her napkin.

But when Ken ended his speech by bringing Tabitha and his daughters up to the podium with him—
his family, his heart
, he'd said—Cassie stood abruptly. Burt, the coach to her right, started to stand as well, but she waved him down with a fake smile.

She did her best to walk as slowly as possible to the coat check, then out to the valet. As she handed the ticket to the attendant, a young man of maybe twenty-one, he smiled. “Is it over already?”

“Not quite yet.” She wrapped her borrowed shawl—from Tabitha, of course—around her shoulders and plastered on the same smile she'd given to Burt. “Things are still rolling. I just needed to take off.”

“What's it like in there? Did you meet Coach Jordan? Were there any other Bobcats? Was it awesome?” The younger man looked so hopeful that she'd been close to greatness, she couldn't quite disappoint him.

“I met him,” she said through her teeth.

At this point, she wasn't sure if she regretted it or not.

She drove. Because there was nowhere else to go. She had no real “home.” And driving past the McMansion to get to her tiny pool house would hurt too much. Especially as it sat empty, with the only “family” she had in the area somewhere else entirely, being a family without her. There was no Anya to drive to. No best friend for a hug and a chick-flick marathon with a bottle of Skinnygirl White Cranberry Cosmos and high fat, extra-butter popcorn. No mom . . .

Maybe she could pull over and call her mother.

No, because she didn't want to give her mom anything to worry about. Nothing to signal life wasn't going well out here. She'd been playing the “all is well” card for the past few weeks, for her mother's sake. The last thing her mom needed on top of the stress of chemo recovery was worrying she was all alone out here.

Which left . . .

She pulled up to Trey's house before she even realized she'd been heading in that direction. It was a magnet, driving her car without thought. His lights were off, and Stephen's truck—or what she'd assumed had been Stephen's truck—was no longer in the driveway. At this time of night, he might be asleep.

Cassie glanced behind her, then at the house again. She could throw it in reverse and pretend she hadn't just driven here like a needy chick who wanted her non-boyfriend to solve all her problems for her. Because she wasn't that girl. She was a mature woman who could solve it all on her own.

Before she could grip the gear shift, Trey's front door opened.

So much for the get-away.

He walked out in a white T-shirt, royal blue mesh athletic short, and bare feet. She watched those bare feet cross the lawn as he walked toward her. Why was that so sexy? A man's bare feet in the grass? Weird.

He knocked on the driver's side window, and she thought for one flat second about gunning it back down the driveway anyway. Then reminded herself she wasn't
that
insane, and rolled the window down. “You order a pizza?”

He smiled. “I didn't, but you look good enough to eat. I'll take one of you instead.”

A smile tugged at her lips, and she gave in to her desires and unlocked the door so he could open it for her.

* * *

Trey wondered if he'd conjured her up, when he saw the headlights flash across his living room windows. He'd passed out on the couch after eating leftover spaghetti and watching Sports Center. Because that's what loser bachelors did when their friends went home—under strict orders to make no stops along the way—and they weren't sure the woman they wanted with them would return a phone call so soon.

At first, he'd assumed it was a wrong turn. The car never turned off, but never left either. After waiting for them to make up their minds, he'd stuck his head out the front door, and was shocked to recognize Cassie's Escape idling in his driveway.

Looking like she was about to bolt.

Hell no.

He grabbed onto the door as she opened it, just in case she had any ideas of slamming it and taking back off. “Come inside, Cassie.”

After the briefest of hesitation, she gave a half grimace, half grin, then said, “Okay . . . but don't laugh.”

“Why would I . . .” The breath left his body as she eased from the driver's seat. First one foot, then the other in high strappy black heels, quickly covered by the long, shimmery black material of a dress. The material clung and swayed with her movement as she ducked back in for her bag. Her hair was up in some bun thing, with strands falling loose here and there. And her eyes looked bigger somehow, her lips a shade deeper than before.

“If I'd known this was going to be a formal get-together, I'd have dressed up.”

She huffed out a breath and closed the door of her car with a jerk of her arm. An arm left completely bare but for the thinnest strap, before dipping low over her breasts.

“I had a thing to go to before this. I didn't really think before coming over, or I would have made myself drive home. I look stupid.”

“You look gorgeous,” he corrected, then kissed her quickly before she could evade him. When she let him, he took it a step further and swooped her into an elaborate old Hollywood dip before kissing her deeper. When she stared up at him in surprise, he said, “The dress seemed to call for some smoother moves.”

“Those were smooth all right. Let me up, Casanova.”

He did, but he slid a hand down her arm to link fingers before she got any ideas of walking away again. Then he simply walked inside and closed the door behind them. “Are you going back to that ‘thing' tonight?”

“Nope. Totally off duty.” She swiped a hand out, as if literally brushing the evening's events away. “But I wouldn't mind maybe a change of clothes. Just, you know, to get me through until I take off.”

If he had any say, that wouldn't be until morning. “Sure. Come on up.” He led her upstairs and into his bedroom. The walk-in closet, which led to his master bathroom, had plenty to choose from. But he assumed she didn't want to play sexy secretary and wear one of his button-down shirts. “T-shirt and shorts?”

“That would be great.”

He handed her a shirt from college, a size smaller than he could really wear comfortably now. He kept it only for nostalgia. The shorts, he wasn't as sure on, but he grabbed a pair with a drawstring and hoped that would suffice. He handed them over and started to step out to give her some privacy when she put a hand on his shoulder.

“Hold on. I need some help.”

Of course. Zippers and whatever. He waited while she set her bag down on the dresser, along with the shirt and shorts, and did a little half-turn to present her back. Scooping the few tendrils off her neck, she looked over her shoulder and pointed. “It's in the middle there.”

His mouth went dry. Just that little bit of tender skin had him mentally going back to the first time they'd made love. The first time he'd had the chance to bite that delicate nape and make her moan in anticipation.

Cool it, Owens. This is just a zipper. You don't want to scare her away with your horn dog routine.

He stepped up like it was nothing, let his fingertips roam a little for the hidden zipper.
How were women's clothing so much more delicate than a man's? A zipper was a zipper . . . why did it have to be the size of a needle?
When he finally found the hidden flap and moved it aside for the clasp of the zipper, his palms were sweating.

As he pulled down slowly, so not to catch the fabric, the dress parted to reveal a lacy black corset thing underneath. His mouth went from dry to salivating in an instant, and it was all he could to keep his fingers from tracing the line of skin just inside the lace. With each inch, the dress dipped lower, until she raised her hands to catch it at her breasts so it wouldn't fall off. As the zipper hit the end of its track, he stepped back an inch and put his hands behind him.

“Anything else?”

She let the dress fall around her feet without looking back. She wore matching black lace panties, that just skimmed over the top of her cheeks. No hose or garters, just the heels. “My corset's too high in the back. I can't reach the first few links. Could you undo it for me?”

Oh, sure. Why didn't she just put the Holy Grail of temptation in his hand, then expect him to give it back without bolting out the door with it?

But he simply grunted a yes, and slid his fingers beneath the top lace border to undo the first hook. Her skin was warm against the backs of his fingers, soft and utterly tempting. “Is that enough?”

“A few more, please.”

He undid the corset halfway. “Is that far enough?”

“Can you just do the whole thing? Saves me the trouble of wrenching my elbow around.” Her hands came up again to cup the corset.

“Yeah,” he breathed, then finished undoing the material until the stiff fabric parted to reveal her tanned back. Her skin bore the lines of the boning and faint marks of the lace. He wanted to smooth his palms over them until they faded. “Does that thing hurt?”

“Uncomfortable, but not painful.” She glanced over her shoulder, big brown eyes watching him thoughtfully. “Thank you.”

“Uh-huh.” His eyes wouldn't leave her back.

“Trey?”

“Hmm?”

She turned until she was facing him, and his eyes were no longer on her back, but on her hands cupping the corset to her chest. Then she let the stiff undergarment fall to the floor and dropped her hands. And his eyes zeroed in on her breasts. They, too, had faint pink lines from where the material lay tight against her. He wanted to cup the soft flesh and trace each indented line with his tongue.

“I don't really feel like wearing your clothes just yet.”

“You don't, huh?”

She stepped out from the circle of the dress, away from the corset. Still in her heels, she easily reached his mouth for a kiss. “I'd rather slip under the covers with you, if you want some company.”

This would be what most men would call a no brainer. He bent low and tossed her over his shoulder. She shrieked, then laughed. Her breasts pressed into his back. He leaned forward to deposit her on his king-size bed. She sprawled there, still in her black underwear and those high, high heels. He hooked his thumbs under the waistband of the panties, then skimmed them slowly down her legs. A word from her would have stopped him, but she did nothing but watch. When he took care to peel them off over her shoes, she bent down to remove them.

“No. Keep them on.”

She raised a brow. “One of those fetish things men have?”

It was shallow, but he couldn't resist the attempt. “Let's just call it a fantasy checklist.”

“Far be it from me to stand in the way of your dreams.” She draped herself back, then reached out to him. “Come make love to me, Trey. I need you.”

* * *

I need you?

Why had those three weak, simple words come from her lips? She wanted him, yeah. She desired him, lusted after him.

Trey reached behind him and pulled his shirt over his head with one tug of his forearm.

Oh, yeah. Major lust.

But need? Girls who went to college to get their MRS degrees
needed
a man. Mature women who took care of themselves in the world and stood on their own two feet didn't need a man. They
wanted
them when they could get them. But needing and wanting . . .

“Hey.” Still wearing his shorts, he sprawled out next to her. “You went all serious on me. Everything okay?”

She palmed his face between her hands. “Everything's just fine.” Kissing him, she rolled over him until she had one knee on either side of his hips. “Except that you're still wearing shorts.” She
tsked
and tugged at the waistband. “Up we go.” And she pulled them off.

Just as she was about to toss them to the side, she noticed the Bobcats logo on the bottom of the left leg. The tan screen printing was faint and looked old, as if it'd been washed a few hundred times. A fan's tribute to their hometown team. The reminder that her little family experiment was going poorly nearly had her hiccupping back a sob.

But then Trey's hands covered her breasts, and he sat up to take one nipple in his mouth. Her hands went lax, and the shorts fell from her fingers. She speared those fingers through his hair, holding him to her. He rocked up, the length of his cock pressing against her core, and she tightened all over.

His touch slowed and his mouth turned from ravenous to gentle and coaxing. That was wrong. All wrong. She wanted it hard and fast. Wanted to use him, let him use her. Use each other and take the moment and let it stretch out in front of them like a shield to keep any negativity in the world away from them.

Rolling a little, she tugged until he was on top of her again. “Trey.”

He glanced up from her breast, one brow raised in question.

“Hard, please?”

He hesitated, and she was pretty sure he was about to use words to put her off. Talking about feelings or some crap. Feelings weren't allowed. Not right now. Not in this moment when she was using sex as a barrier. She scrambled to the nearest nightstand and opened the drawer. She found a box of tissues, some chargers for a phone or maybe a tablet or iPod, and—oddly enough—a Bible. Shutting that with a snap, she moved to the other side of the bed and opened its drawer.

“Yeah, sure.
Mi casa es su casa
. Look through whatever you want.”

She kicked at him with her foot, but barely managed to knock his knee. This drawer was a double bust. Nothing but the remote for the flat screen across from the bed. “Condoms. Where.”

He got off the bed and strode through the walk in closet to the bathroom. A drawer opened and closed, and he came back to toss the box on her stomach.

The unopened box.

She bit the inside of her lip to ask how old the box was. None of her business. But it warmed her from the belly out, thinking that at least she knew no other woman had come before her, digging through this particular piece of cardboard for a condom.

Feelings. Whoops, there she went again.
Cut that out, Wainwright.

Trey stood beside the bed, hands on his hips, erection jutting out at a comical angle. “Should I feel cheap and used?”

“Nope.” She tore open the box and grabbed the first foil packet her fingers touched. A quick rip and she sat up to roll the latex over his cock. His eyes closed at the pleasure of her hands wrapping around him, and she squeezed at the base, just for a little extra tease. “You should feel luxurious and used. You're my splurge, Trey.”

He narrowed his eyes at that, but pushed her back and covered her with his body. One knee nudged between her thighs, and his hand moved down to test her, tease her, open her. She was wet, his fingers sliding effortlessly through the folds of her core. “I'd rather not be a splurge, Cass.”