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“Oh my God,” I groaned.
“I gotta go, but, uh, are you free tonight?”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Around six?”
Was he asking me out? My heart sank. “I have pra—uh, I have a prior commitment.”
“Saturday?” he countered.
I glanced at my calendar. We had an early rehearsal on the field until just after lunch. The Red Cocks would have their first preseason game a week later, so it would likely be my last weekend free for a while. “I can do Saturday. What’d you have in mind?”
“If memory serves, you promised to help me find a bed.”
I laughed. “Um, I said all you had to do was tell me what mattress you want for your new bedroom suite, and I’ll arrange for delivery.”
“And I think I would rather stand in line at the DMV than go mattress shopping. Why are there so many mattress stores anyway? Is there really that high of a demand?” A ruckus of male voices shouted in the background. “I think mattress stores are fronts for the mob.”
“So, your plan is to drag me along into mob territory? Gee, what a way to go for a first date.”
“Second date,” he chided. “Second date. Third, if yesterday counts.”
“I was working yesterday!” I said with a laugh. “You just so happened to come home early.”
“Then what counts as a date for you?” he asked.
I swallowed and lowered my voice. “I think we’re edging dangerously close to crossing professional boundaries again.”
“Your thorn is showing.”
“It’s the lion who has the thorn in his paw,” I said gently.
“We all have thorns, Little Bird. You just seem to have turned your thorns into a nest.”
“Tatum—”
“I gotta go, but I’ll see you on Saturday.” Without further ado, he ended the call.
* * *
The restof the week moved at the pace of a snail in quicksand. Tatum had gone radio silent on me. For some reason, that flooded me with more nerves than the date itself.
Had I agreed to go on a date with him? A proper date? Did mattress shopping count as a date? What the hell was I supposed to do while he tried out beds?
And how the hell was I supposed to not jump his bones if I was forced to look at his gorgeous face while he was sprawled out on a bed? My professionalism couldn’t be trusted horizontally.
After one orgasm from his talented fingers and another from the baseball bat in his pants, my lady cave expected more. My libido had decided, without consulting my brain, that my vagina was open for business.
And very, very desperate.
Had I ever felt that needy for Preston? Like I would die if I didn’t feel him thrusting inside of me? Like something was missing?
Preston was a missionary position, under the covers with the lights off kind of lover. The foreplay was minimal, and the satisfaction was non-existent. He was a refined lover. A boring, clinical fuck was all he ever offered—if you could even call it a fuck. Intercourse might’ve been more accurate. Or coitus.
I flopped back onto my unmade bed, contemplating how I’d wasted so much of my life with someone like him. Someone who made me feel absolutely nothing when he wasn’t making me feel awful.
According to Preston, being engaged to a dancer for a professional football team didn’t poll well with his voter base. Apparently, “shaking my ass for millions” every Sunday didn’t reflect positively on him.
