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She didn’t say anything.
Just nodded.
He stepped back. “I’m going to run home, shower, and get changed. I’ll pick you up at seven, okay?”
“Sure,” she said. “What should I wear?”
“Any dress you’d like. It’s casual.”
She nodded. “O-okay.”
As he walked out of her kitchen, he bent and swooped up his shirt and shoes on the way. “And Kass?”
“Yeah?” she asked, admiring his butt as he bent, because it was a fine butt.
“Just a fun little tip,” he said, winking. “You’ve never lived until you’ve gone out in public without a pair of underwear on. You should try it sometime.”
She choked on a laugh. “Will you be forgoing them tonight?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Before she could reply, he was gone, pulling his shirt over his head as he disappeared.
Chapter Eleven
All night long, she’d been on his mind. Even though she was right next to him, holding his hand or his arm all night, speaking to him, all he could think about was getting her home and getting her all to himself again. She was beautiful. Funny. Smart. Charming. He couldn’t get enough of her. To be honest, he was starting to worry he never would.
She wore a black dress that hugged her curves. The dress came together with a bow on her stomach, and she’d matched it with a pair of lacy black high heels.
He kept getting distracted by that bow, fantasizing about undoing it like he was unwrapping the prettiest present he’d ever received. Had she skipped the underwear like he’d teasingly suggested? If he tugged on that bow and let the dress hit the floor, would she be naked? Would goose bumps rise over her flesh, her thighs trembling as she waited for him to make his next move, her cheeks flushed and her lips parted on a breath?
The mere image in his head was enough to make his pants grow tighter.
Jesus. What the hell was wrong with him?
She glanced at him, a glass of wine in her hand as she smiled at something George Waverly said. He’d been talking about how many yards he’d scored in the Super Bowl back in the late nineties, and Kassidy, bless her, had been listening intently the whole time, hanging on every word the gray-haired man said. She actually seemed interested in Waverly’s endless stories about football.
Even more so than he was.
And he loved football. It was his life.
He’d never been with a girl who actually enjoyed football talk. Throughout dinner, she’d quoted a few stats that he knew for a fact were correct, showing an impressive knowledge about the game he loved more than life itself. It was sexy as hell, and when she told Waverly she remembered the score of that Super Bowl—correctly—it took every ounce of his self-control not to stand up, tell Waverly good-bye, and carry her out of the restaurant over his shoulder.
He needed her all to himself.
She could talk dirty to him all night about football, and stats, and plays, and he’d make her scream his name in return. Her laugh broke into his thoughts, and he ripped himself out of his fantasies. “Yeah, but he’s got time,” she said.
Who had time?
“Still—” Waverly started.
“He’s only five years into his NFL career, and he’s already been one of the highest scoring quarterbacks these past few years. Last year alone, he almost defeated Brady for most yards covered.”
Wait. Was she talking about him?
“Last week alone, he covered four hundred and twenty yards.”
She’d told him the other night she knew his numbers, but he’d figured that she was just trying to impress him. But she hadn’t been full of shit after all.
