Page 61 of Forever Offsides

It’s so strange to me how neither of us knew about the other. How detached Russel was—or still is—from his father. I know that didn’t come from Rhett.

“No. Not really. My place was near the medical school, and he lived downtown. We never talked about living together. I was too busy with school, and he didn’t like my place. It wasn’t flashy enough for him.”

He smiles and rubs his jaw. “He said something similar to me the other night.”

My house is expensive. It’s a full townhouse in a luxurious part of Boston. I had endorsements after I won gold that paid me a lot of money. Plus, I have family money. Even before football, my dad had money since he was part of a world-famous boy band as a teenager and had deals from it. His wealth only increased with his career, but that’s not how I was raised. Certainly not how my mother is.

But even though I have a trust fund and an expensive house and make a good living, even as a resident, my place isn’t ostentatious. I don’t wear a lot of designer clothes, and most of the time, my nails are chipped if they’re painted at all. I like heels and dresses, but I don’t look like a model, and I have no clue how to pose for photographs. I’m a snowboarder at heart and have a bit of grunge in me that I like. Even when I get dressed up, I still have that vibe.

Crew used to call me Sporty Spice, which I always found amusing.

Rhett is seventeen years older than me, but I feel like he’s the first man to actually get who I am and like it. I don’t see him trying to change me the way Russel used to. Russel would make comments that I didn’t take care of myself the way his teammates’ wives did. They also weren’t medical students.

“I should get going,” he says after a beat. “I need a shower and some coffee.”

“I’d offer you both, but that’s probably not a good idea.”

He chuckles. “Definitely not.” He pushes off the counter and stands before me. His knuckles swipe along my cheek as his blue eyes hold mine. I swallow a lump in my throat, my face tingling at his touch. He’s quiet, but it doesn’t feel that way. It feels loud, especially with my pulse banging in my ears. His hand sweeps along my jaw, where his fingertips take over and glide down my neck.

My eyelids flutter, and my breath hitches. It’s like I’ve never been touched before with how hard my heart is beating. He traces the lines of my clavicle to the base of my throat, where my aortic arch thrums for him. I’m afraid to move. Afraid to breathe.

“Am I still the last man to touch you?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

He growls and nibbles on my neck, his hot breath making me shudder. “No one else, Quinn.”

“You can’t make me promise that, and you know it.”

“No man is safe if he comes near you.”

“Then make it so they don’t.”

He bites into me hard enough that I squirm. “Two seconds. Each and every goddamn time I’m near you, my resolve crumbles in two fucking seconds.”

This isn’t smart, and we both know it, and any second he’ll come to his senses and stop. Or perhaps I should come to mine and make him.

But I can’t.

I want it too badly.

I want his touch everywhere—on my breasts and between my legs and every place in between. His lips part and his chest moves up and down, his breathing growing heavier.

We both want this. Even if we know we shouldn’t.

He pulls back, his face in front of mine, but I can’t make myself look at him. Instead, I’m locked on his chest as his finger continues to move on my skin. I’m so turned on, and I know he can tell. I know he likes how I react to him.

This is wrong. But god, it feels so good.

His hand continues south until he runs a finger in a swooping motion along the neck of my tank top that hovers a few tiny centimeters over my sports bra. I have a peek of pressed cleavage, and his finger catches it.

My eyes close. Oh god. Keep going. Don’t stop.

“Quinn,” he rasps, and his voice gives me chills, but just as I go to sink into the heat of his body against me, it’s gone. He’s back at the island with space between us, his expression etched in pain and guilt, his fists balled up at his sides. “This can’t happen. It’s wrong.”

I swallow and nod. Even if it hurts. “I know.”

“Fuck!” he yells, and without another word, he leaves, slamming my door behind him.