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We finally exited the footpath through the gardens, and I got a glimpse of what we’d been heading toward. There was a colonial style mansion sitting atop a gently rolling grass hill. Windswept oaks and endless manicured lawns surrounded the property. Everything was tastefully lit, including a tennis court that was hardly visible through tall, wall-like hedges.
I arched an eyebrow. “Did you ask me to dress up to challenge me to a tennis match? Were you hoping I couldn’t still whip your ass in heels?”
Damon shook his head, pointing. “I thought it might be a treat for a tennis enthusiast to watch two of the best up close.”
I frowned, then heard the telltale pop of a ball being served. Years and years on the court had trained me to judge the speed of a hit from the sound alone, and I knew immediately there was a professional in there. “Who is that?”
“Trevor Castle.”
I paused. “The same Trevor Castle who you nearly killed in Savannah?”
Damon gestured for me to follow him toward the courts. “Lesson three. There’s no such thing as a burned bridge if you bring your ‘A’ game to the negotiation table.”
“What’d you offer him, your left nut?”
“Why would he want that?”
I chuckled. “I keep forgetting you have the sense of humor of a wet rock.”
“Ah. So the wet ones aren’t as funny as the dry ones?”
I grinned. Damon smirked back.
Inside the court, Trevor was rallying against Edgar Warren, another top ten player. I felt a little silly walking toward the cozy little lounge chairs for spectators. Trevor and Edgar’s coaches were wandering around behind the baseline, occasionally feeding balls in for the men to rally with. It felt like I should’ve been wearing a skort and carrying my bag to be here. My heels and short dress felt completely out of place, but I was willing to deal with it if it meant watching this up close.
Trevor noticed us. “Ready for the match?” he called to Edgar.
Edgar gave a thumbs up.
For the next hour, we sat in the perfect evening air watching a private showing of amazing tennis. Neither player held back, and I even forget I was sitting next to Damon a time or two.
I did keep catching him stealing glances my way. I grinned, then bumped my knee into his. “Pretty proud of yourself for this one, aren’t you?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
Trevor swore under his breath and spiked a ball into the net in front of us, drawing a laugh from Edgar.
“It depends on whether this worked.”
“Well,” I said, tilting my head toward him. “I need to know what your goal was before I can say if it worked.”
Damon, paying no mind to anyone else, slid a hand up my knee to my inner thigh. My insides practically exploded with need. I pressed my thighs together, putting my hand on his and checking to see if anyone had seen. “Damon!” I whispered.
He didn’t take his eyes from my legs for a few long, heart-pounding moments. When he looked up, I thought he was about to tear my clothes off right there. “I’m tired of waiting.”
“It has barely been twenty-four hours. How impatient are you?” I asked.
“For you? About as patient as my brother at a Broadway play.”
“Chris isn’t a fan of Broadway?” I asked. I was stalling. A very distinct part of me still wanted to absorb every second of tennis that was playing out in front of me. Another part of me wanted to buy time—to think. But thinking when his hand was between my legs and his eyes were driving straight through my soul was a little easier said than done.
“Chris once asked if we could bribe the director to fast forward to the third act.”
“So what you’re saying is you want to bone me. Badly.”
“Those aren’t the words I’d use.”
“Which words would you use?” I asked. God, I felt so embarrassingly turned on. I could’ve almost—almost—been convinced to try to kiss him, just because I was craving more of his touch that badly. Except I’d been permanently scarred with my middle school boyfriend in seventh grade. He’d held my hand in the hallway and the dean had yanked our hands apart before yelling, “P.D.A.!” Of course, everyone laughed their asses off at us, and I swore on everything holy that I’d never engage in a public display of affection again.
“Which words…” Damon’s eyes looked heavy. Hungry. They skidded across my features and his full lips parted. “I’d tell you that I want to fuck you until you feel me all day tomorrow. I’d say I want to mark you. I want to kiss your neck until it bruises so nobody else has to wonder if you’re taken. And I want to taste you again. Every fucking inch.”
“I see,” I said, gulping. “I guess that’s a little more descriptive than saying you want to bone me.”
