"Fine. How about that dinner you owe me?" I ask instead of trying to explain what I actually said to the interviewer. I already know she won't accept it, not right now. She has that same look in her eye that Hattie always gets when she's going to be unholy stubborn about something.
It's sexy as hell on Sophie. It's also more likely to cause actual damage. Sophie isn't tame. She isn't sweet or delicate either. She's a badass, all the way to her core.
Something about that is so fucking sexy to me. Women have been throwing themselves at me for years. They all want to becaught and kept, to be perfect little trophies who bagged an athlete. I'm rude as fuck because I'm not interested in being someone's show pony.
Sophie is different. She doesn't throw herself at anyone. She isn't interested in being kept. I'm not entirely sure she's even interested in being caught. The more people ask when she's going to settle down, the less she seems to like the idea.
I fucking love that she defies the rules and does what the fuck she wants. She doesn't bow to the world or its expectations. She forges her own path.
"Are you kidding me right now?"
"Do I look like I'm kidding?"
"I don't have the patience for this," she growls, crossing her arms to glare at me. I'm not entirely sure she's talking to me, though. I think she's talking to herself. "God gave me grace, not patience."
My lips quirk. "He gave me both."
"And yet, he didn't give you a lick of common sense," she says, trying to slide past me. "What an absolute tragedy."
"You saw the article."
"You mean the one where you said that ballet isn't a sport and it's insulting to compare ballerinas to actual athletes?" She rolls her eyes. "Oh, I saw it."
Damn. It sounds even worse than I remembered.
"Why do you think I blocked you?" She bats her lashes at me. "You didn't need little ole me and my Not-an-Athlete self distracting you from your big, manly game of sportsball. What would yourrealathlete friends think?"
So…she's big mad, then.
"Unblock me," I growl.
"Sure." She takes a step toward me, so close, I feel her tits graze my chest. Precum spills into my boxers, and I want topress her up against the wall and grind my cock against her until we're both ruined. "As soon as hell freezes over."
I try to grab her, but she moves like a dream. Before I can even react, she's got the heel of her shoe digging into the top of my foot. One perfect hand presses against the inside of my thigh, her knuckles grazing my shaft.
The fucker throbs, cum spilling into my boxers. There's no stopping it. She's touching my cock, and I'm just done.
RIP to my dignity.
"Fuck," I groan, swaying on my feet. And then she turns pleasure into a goddamn firestorm by grabbing a handful of thigh muscle and squeezing. Hard. A jolt of pain goes all the way to my foot.
My knee buckles so fast I damn near hit the floor.
I'm left standing there, doubled over, cum still spilling into my boxers, my goddamn thigh muscle cramping, praying I don't actually end up on the floor at her feet.
I probably look like I've lost control of my body. And there's nothing I can do about it because I have actually lost control of it.
My leg is cramping. My dick is a traitor. She's smirking like she's never been more satisfied with herself than she is right now.
And I've never wanted to kiss someone more in my entire life.
I should have seen that coming, though. I really should have. This is the woman who slapped her prick of a dance partner in the face on stage for insulting her. She's also the one who has occupied every damn space in my head for the last four months straight.
Yeah, I'm fucked. So thoroughly, it's laughable.
"Oops, my bad," she lies, sliding right past me with a wicked laugh I feel in my balls. "It's wild what happens when people try to touch me without my permission, isn't it?"
I'm not sure what's worse: the fact that I just came all over myself because she touched my cock…or the fact that Briggs is practically on the floor a few feet away, wheezing with laughter.
