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She purses her lips at me. I don’t know this woman well, and nothing else on her face changes…but I see she’s not pleased. “Does it happen more often when you’re tired?”
“What are you getting at? I was beat and I didn’t feel like talking.” I hear myself getting defensive and I realize I’m being an ass. But I don’t want this woman seeing my vulnerabilities. Hell, I don’t want anyone seeing them.
“Look, my master’s degree is in speech pathology. What you’re experiencing following repeated trauma to the brain is not uncommon. Have you ever heard of Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy?”
I put my fists on my hips and resist the urge to back away. “Of course. I played for the league for a dozen seasons. I know what the players who came before me say they’ve endured after repeated hits to the head. But I’m not depressed, impulsive, moody, or aggressive. I don’t lose my memories.” Just blip out in conversations once in a while. “I’m not emotionally unstable. And don’t have tremors. I don’t have trouble seeing or smelling or walking or talking.”
“But you are experiencing intermittent problems with your speech. Have you had a brain scan?”
She sees right through my denials. I let out a breath and look away with a shake of my head. “What do you want?”
“I’m sorry if I’m upsetting you. I just want to help. It sounds as if you’re experiencing some apraxia of speech. It’s a motor speech disorder where the messages from the brain to the mouth are disrupted. Do you feel as if you can’t move your lips or tongue the way you need to form words sometimes?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I can’t afford to. Okay, so it’s partially a macho thing. I hate the idea of looking weak in her eyes. But it’s also my second career on the line. I can kiss my chance of being a football commentator good-bye if word gets out that, at random times, I can’t speak a word.
“I know it’s frustrating.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“I’ve never had the condition personally. You’re right,” she goes on as if I didn’t just refute her. I can’t miss the empathy in her voice…but it still rubs me wrong. “I’ve heard you speak, so I know the muscles you need to move your mouth aren’t weak. So you seem to have some aphasia, which is a speech disorder as a result of neurological damage. How often does it happen?”
I press my lips together. “I’m done talking. Do you want to fuck or not?” Now that she knows I’m broken? I scoff. “Of course you don’t. I’m going to bed.”
Before this conversation goes further south, I turn away and head for the house. I suspect I’ll be spending the night with my cock in my hand, thinking about Harlow. My head was already banking on the fact that I’d be getting horizontal with her and my dick certainly didn’t need convincing that sex between us would be spectacular. Now I’ll have to resign myself to pointless jacking off. Goddamn it.
“Noah?”
At the sounds of splashing, I turn to find Harlow emerging from the pool, walking up one step at a time, dripping, swaying with every step, and completely blowing my mind. Her long hair clings to her pretty breasts, flirting with her plump nipples. Her waist dips in, then flares out to a pair of hips I want my hands on. She’s sleek and sexy and stunning.
I can’t find words for an entirely different reason than before. She leaves me speechless.
“Can you hand me a towel from over there?” She points to the patio table.
On autopilot, I back toward the surface, never taking my eyes off her. When I bump into the glass, I grope behind me until terry cloth fills my hand. Then I race toward Harlow. “Need anything else?”
She takes the towel from me, and we’re standing so close I can smell her scent mixed with a tinge of chlorine. “A shower. Then an orgasm or two, preferably that you give me.”
Did I hear her right? “You sure?”
Harlow nods, her gaze tangling with mine. “I want to fuck.”
It takes a split second for her declaration to sink in. I was convinced she wouldn’t want me after she figured out I’m just a man with flaws. Then again, she was never looking to get laid from someone ESPN hailed as a football god. She just wants pleasure.
The way she holds my gaze singes me with heat. It sizzles across my skin, burning the flesh under my surface. I can’t quite breathe.
I have a feeling she’s going to be trouble—and I don’t care.
“Let’s do it.” Taking the towel from her grip, I jerk it until it unfolds, then wrap it around her back, covering the dripping ends of her hair. Then I tug her against me. Her skin feels cool pressed to my overheated chest. I don’t dare kiss her now. The way I want her, I’ll lay her out on the first available surface, and I’d rather save my knees the agony of looking for the leverage to fuck her properly on a chaise lounge.
Digging for restraint, I drag in a rough breath. If I’m already having trouble resisting her, how bad will the craving be once I’ve had a taste?
I shove the thought aside. “I won’t go easy on you.”
“I never thought you would.”
“I won’t be gentle.”
“Good. I may be small, but I’m not fragile.”
