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“Why are you looking at me like that?”
He’s freaking me out. And getting me nervous. And making me swoon.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“For what? My bad kitty has already recovered, I swear.”
Dammit, when he smiles, his teeth are bright white and send sparkles dancing through my veins. I’m going to have to put a pillow over his sexy face.
“I’m sorry,” he says, waiting a little too long before clarifying, “for telling the entire Alabama football team that you could start a pandemic with your pussy.”
“And I’m sorry for punching your dick so hard, you could suddenly speak Japanese.”
We laugh, but why now? Why is he spreading post-coital bliss like butter over my heart?
Oh, I know.
Because I’m toast.
I don’t stand a chance when Beau looks at me that way, and I’m half relieved we have less than eight hours left together because we would never work.
The sex is too amazing. The trust is too strong. The laughter is too much. The attraction is genuinely disgusting, and the amazing life we could have together would be hell.
I’d even watch football for him, so I’ll be making an appointment next week to gouge my eyes out.
“So, are you gonna write a book about me now?” See,that’s why. Even his smartass smirk is lady-porn. “You can name my alien ‘Beau the Barbarian.’”
I laugh. “That name is already taken.”
“Not like I just took your pussy, it’s not. Come on. You gotta name a character after me now.”
“Alright.” I trace over his smirk, brushing over his sexy whiskers. It makes his lips tickle, which twitches his perfect nose.Is it check-out time yet?“I’ll name a character after you if you tell the news camera that you’re going to Equestria after a game. You know, like how football players say they’re going to Disneyland.”
He tosses his chin up. The laughter shaking his ribs is infectious. “First of all,” he says, “only the MVP of the Super Bowl says that. And second of all, where the hell is Equestria?”
I grin. “The magical land for My Little Ponies.”
He chuffs, “You’d make me look like a dumbass in front of millions?”
“You can do that all on your own.”
It flies out of my mouth faster than I can think and doesn’t land right. He tries to hide his wince, but I see it.
“I’m sorry,” I rush. “I didn’t mean it that way. Not about the Super Bowl or football or whatever. I’m the dumbass. It’s just; I’m so used to trading smackdowns with you, my mouth hasn’t gotten the ‘be nice’ message that my pussy has well received.”
He scrubs his tousled, short waves. “It’s alright.” Turning to stare at the ceiling, he says, “Every time I close my eyes, I see it. That interception. I really haven’t slept since the game.”
I don’t know what it feels like to lose a game with the highest stakes, one you’ve worked your whole life to play. When it’s not just your loss, many people and families feelthe loss, too. Fans, too, I guess. I don’t know how that feels. I work solo.
But I know how watching your dream slip through your fingers in slow motion feels. That’s my life lately. Like, I can’t catch a break either.
I drop my prized cock sheath. “Hey,” I say, turning to climb on top of him. It’s my turn to lift his heavy arms, and he lets me pin his wrists above his head. The posture makes his huge biceps pop and my heart somersaults. His muscles flex, their strength obvious, but his eyes stare at me like he’s giving up.
“I’ll name a character after you,” I promise, kissing his lips and really not wanting the damn butterflies he causes in my belly, too. “I’ll name him ‘Willulf the Wilder.’”
His brows shoot up. “You know my middle name?”
“Duh, it’s as unique as ‘Herpes Simplex 81.’ Who’d ever forget a name like that?”
