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“Hall of Famer, for sure.”
“So my agent assures me.” I shrug. “I’m trying not to linger in the past. I still have a lot of life to live.”
She splashes around a little more. “I don’t know. You’re practically ancient compared to me.”
Is this woman going to rib me about everything? Probably. And I still think it’s oddly adorable. It’s way more entertaining than the bowing, scraping, and yes-sirring I’ve been hearing for years. “How much older?”
“Almost nine years. When you were graduating from high school, I was starting junior high. These days, do you need vitamins before sex or a little blue pill?”
Now she’s laughing, and I find myself smiling in return. “Fuck you.”
“Thatisthe idea…”
“Come here, baby.”
Her eyes sparkle under the moonlight, and it’s all I can do not to jump in after her, clothes and all. I want my hands on her now.
“Why don’t you drop trou and come in after me?”
“You’re all wet.”
She purses her lips together, and I know she’ll make one hell of a sexy bad girl. “Don’t you want me that way?”
The way I feel now? Every day, all day. “Just your pussy. That should be juicy and swollen and ready for my cock. The rest of you shouldn’t be wet unless I’m making you sweat in pleasure.”
“You sweet talker, you…”
I’m wondering if I’m really going to have to take my shorts off and jump in after her when she finally kicks her way to the steps of the pool and shoves the noodle toward the deep end. I wish the moonlight were a little brighter or that the surrounding deck had better garden lighting. Yeah, I can see her vague shape under the shallow water, which looks damn fine. But it’s all shadows and dusky grays in the dark. I want some damn LEDs out here so I can really see her.
I put that on my mental list of home renovations.
“If it gets you out of the pool and into my arms, I’ll keep talking.”
Harlow smiles. “It just might. But in all seriousness, I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
I haven’t seen this woman be serious yet, so I’m expecting her to ask about my condom size or lasting power. That’s not at all what I get.
“How many concussions have you had over the course of your career?”
I rub at the back of my neck. It’s a sore subject since it’s the reason I was forced to retire. “Five officially. But a couple more in practices, peewee, and high school leagues. I’m better now.”
Well, getting there. But some days I struggle more than others…like today.
“And your last one was in January? During the NFC championship game two weeks before the Super Bowl?”
“Yeah. Why the interest in my medical history? You want my blood tests, too? Find out if I’m sexually-transmitted-disease free?”
“Are you?” she asks as if her question is a passing curiosity. I’m not sure if she actually wants to know or is downplaying her nosiness.
“Of course. I’ve always been careful.” Meticulous, actually. I met a lot of women in the NFL…many of whom had made the rounds. I wasn’t keen on my bare junk rubbing against some chick who’d been banging my teammate the week before. “You?”
“Practically a monk. I haven’t had sex in at least six months. But that’s not where I was going with this. Your concussions… You often have those verbal fogs? Lose track of the conversation? Find yourself tongue-tied?”
Her words feel like a bullet, fast and unavoidable, nailing me right between the eyes. I try not to stagger back at the impact. But she definitely scored a direct hit, and I’m trying to figure out how to answer her without sounding defective.
“I was just tired,” I hedge.
