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She gave me a taste, and now I need to swallow her whole.
What she doesn't realize is, I'm Lake Decker. If I want something, I'm going to go get it. Am I entitled? Maybe, but only because I work my ass off for what I want. And what I want is another night with Dylan.
I'll play along with her for the time being. She wants to be a professional. Sure, I get it. I'd never do anything to jeopardize her career, and I meant it when I said that. But that's not the only thing holding her back from me. She has her secrets. Dylan has something ugly in her past that keeps her there, and I'm curious enough to get to the bottom of that.
I knew she'd leave early that next morning. It wasn't just to catch the flight. I knew what time the flight was leaving. No one is that punctual. She wanted to get out of there and not have to deal with the awkwardness of facing me the next morning. Too bad I made sure she'd have to face the inevitable so soon. I love awkward. I relish it.
Seeing the shock on her face when I boarded that flight was worth the cramped leg room. That kiss was worth the cramped legroom. Fuck, that kiss. Those lips. I couldn't help myself. I was starved for her, and knowing I couldn't have it made me want it more. She has no clue what I'm willing to do to get those lips on mine again. What lengths I'll go to keep them on me. I'd say they were my new bad habit, but there's nothing bad about it. Kissing Dylan is nothing but good.
Now I'm back in Chicago in my highrise, looking out onto the vibrant lights of the city below with my coffee in hand, already missing that damn girl.
I pull out my phone, answering messages from my agent, before sitting back on my leather sofa to begin my internet search of the mystery woman who’s got me fucked up. A knock on the door interrupts me.
“Open!” I yell from the couch.
Candy walks in with a bucket of chicken on his hip and a bag on his other hand, with what looks like bottles of Gatorade hanging from it. He sits down on the sofa next to me as I continue typing away on my phone. Grabbing the remote, he changes it from ESPN to Netflix, promptly findingFriendsand picking an episode.
I glance up at him from my screen as he gets comfortable on my couch, picking the bucket off the coffee table, setting it in his lap, and bringing a piece of fried chicken to his mouth.
I glare at his ability to make himself at home. In my condo.
“So...where'd you go?” he asks with a mouthful, eyes still on the show.
“What?”
“You missed the flight. Where'd you go?” he asks again, before laughing at something Rachel says to Chandler.
I pause to think. “Just wanted to get in another session while I had the time, space, and therapist.”
His head finally rolls over to me, and the smirk on his face is already getting under my skin. He stares for a second before dropping his chicken into the bucket, placing it on the coffee table and turning to face me, one elbow on the back of the couch, brows wiggling.
“Tell me more,” he sing-songs.
I scowl.
“Oh, c'mon Deck,” he says. “I know better than anyone how dedicated you are to getting back on that field, but there ain't enough dedication in the world to make you miss a private jet. I saw from the headlines. You rode coach! Not even first class?”
Apparently, someone posted a picture they took of me while I was signing autographs on the flight. Someone also snapped one of me helping that old woman into her seat. I don't mind that publicity. It benefits me. Luckily, no one snapped a photo of my tongue down Dylan's throat.
“Hey, I'm humble enough to ride coach, Candy. We weren't all spoiled little rich brats like you and your sister.”
“Ha!” he laughs. “Leave Aniyah out of this. She's a ho.”
A cough leaves my chest that turns into a laugh. Candy and his sister are like oil and water. Polar opposites. I love when he talks shit about her, solely because I know deep down he really does love her. Makes me yearn for that kind of relationship in my life. That bond. He can call her a ho, but the second any of the teammates even think about talking about her? Well, he’d end them in a heartbeat. Doesn’t help that she's a six-foot-tall fashion model who’s insanely gorgeous. It’s his Achilles heel.
“I just wanna know if it was worth it. Was the sex fire or what?” he asks with excitement in his eyes, leaning in.
“It's not like that with her,” I retort, looking down at my phone again and seeing her name in my search tab with the cursor blinking behind it. “Not at all.”
He scoffs, rolling his head back against the couch.
“Then quit holdin’ her hostage from the rest of us, ya greedy fuck.”
His phone buzzes and his head snaps to his pants. Grabbing it from his pocket, he starts scrolling through it with his thumb, grinning like an idiot.
“But, if that's indeed the case,” he begins, still looking at his phone. “Then you won't mind if these lil’ honeys downstairs wanna come up?”
He leans over the couch, showing me a picture of two attractive women with their breasts sitting high, their long blonde and brown hair hanging down, and their makeup that looks to be done for a goddamn wedding. Beneath the photo are the words,We're downstairs! Let us up!
