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He saved my precious Fabergé eggs in the fire, did the interview with Clark Samson even though I wasn’t nice to him the night before, and stayed in our room with me even after I rebuffed his advances. Colby is giving me what I need.
It’s time for me to think about what he needs.
I order some Chinese food, picking it up in Quentin’s peach-air-freshener-scented Toyota Corolla. I asked him to switch cars with me for the rest of the day when he left at noon, and he was more than okay with driving away in my white Mercedes SUV. I still have reporters after me, and I can’t have anyone following me on this errand.
The little bungalow house on the east side of the city blends right in. The landscaping is okay, nothing special. The roof is somewhere between old and new.
After parking a few houses down, I raise the hood of a plain gray hoodie over my head and take the food inside.
So far, Colby seems trustworthy. But he can still never know why I come to this house at least once a week.
No one can.
I feel like a teenager again. My hormones are raging. After a quick lingerie shopping trip, I spent more than an hour doing my hair and makeup, trying to make both look natural and effortless.
Like Stuart Smalley, I have to look myself in the mirror and reassure myself that I can do this. My inner cynic doesn’t trust anyone. If I send Colby racy photos, he could show them to his teammates. I could be making myself into a joke.
But I’m not doing this for myself. It’s for him. Putting someone else’s wants before mine is a foreign feeling, and it’s scary as hell. But fear has never stopped me from doing anything.
It’s just after midnight. I had the game on earlier and we won 3–2. Colby texted me that he’s on his way to his room and will let me know when he gets there. I spent the past hour taking and deleting photos of myself, cringing and laughing at half of them.
No duck lips or fake, big innocent eyes allowed in my selfies. And no filters. This is me. He can either get off on it or not.
Though I’m waiting for a text, my phone rings with a FaceTime call from Colby. I jolt upright in bed, not sure I’m ready for him to see me.
But what can I do but answer? He knows I’m waiting for him.
“Hey,” I say brightly, my heart hammering.
“Hey, beautiful. How are you?”
I think he’s kicking off his shoes. I get a thrill that he called me as soon as he walked into his room.
“Pretty good. Great game tonight.”
“Hey, what are those straps I’m seeing?” He says, looking more closely at the camera and my exposed shoulders peeking out from under the bed covers.
I wrinkle my nose and shrug. “Just a ratty old T-shirt. Nothing to see here.”
He grins. “Bullshit. Show me.”
I take a deep breath, breaking out in goose bumps as I move the covers aside and show him the red corset-style lingerie I’m wearing.
“Holy shit…red is your color, babe. That’s goddamn sexy.”
I move the camera back onto my face. “I hoped you would like it.”
“I love it…hang on.”
He sets his phone down and I get a view of the hotel room ceiling as he undresses.
“Did you buy that just for me?” he asks from off camera.
“I did.”
He picks up the phone and points the camera at his face again, now shirtless. I hold my breath for a few seconds as I take him in, wishing I hadn’t decided to leave the road trip.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” he says as he lies down on his bed.
“Same.”
“Tell me.”
I smile sheepishly. “I may have some regrets about things I said the other night.”
“What would you do differently if we were together tonight?”
“Well…I wouldn’t order pizza.”
He grins. “Good start.”
“And I’d be less of a shrew.”
“Hey now.” He lowers his brows. “Don’t call my wife a shrew.”
“What would you do differently?”
“I’d kiss you the second we walked into the hotel room.”
My stomach flip flops at the thought. “You’re an amazing kisser.”
“Show me your outfit again.”
I move the camera down, a little less self-conscious this time. He groans softly.
“It’s a crime I can’t touch your tits right now. Do it for me.”
I obey, letting him see as I slide a hand over my satin-covered breast.
“Jesus, Mila. Show me your face.”
When I return the camera to my face, there’s a predatory gleam in his eye. I can tell by his uneven breathing and his facial expressions that he’s stroking himself.
“Touch your pussy. Imagine it’s me sliding my fingers inside your sexy little lingerie.”
All rational thought eludes me as I let him command me, sliding my fingers inside myself.
“Fuck,” he says, his voice strained. “You’ve had me worked up since the moment I saw you on our wedding night.”
