Scoring the Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires Book 3) Page 2

  I’d be way too busy to worry about Winnie Winslow.

  Being in Miami for two straight days had made me more than thankful I lived in New York. The humidity was thick enough to choke on, and don’t even get me started on the heat. For the past forty-eight hours, I’d perspired more than the jocks I took care of. More than the geysers in our beloved Yellowstone National Park. More than one of those fake rain fountains Joey thought made a good decoration for his apartment on Friends.

  Lord Almighty, I’d even switched my preferred Secret deodorant out for an overpriced stick of Old Spice from the hotel gift shop. Smelling like a man was far more appealing than smelling like a sweaty foot. Plus, I couldn’t stand to contort myself under one more goddamn hand dryer trying to alleviate the growing wet circles rolling out from my armpits like a wave.

  Luckily for me—and my clothes—and likely by very calculated design, the Mavericks had played a night game under the lights versus an afternoon game under the blazing Florida sun. Early season like this, I would have ended up looking more roasted red pepper than golden goddess.

  We’d kicked some serious football ass, shutting out Miami with a score of twenty-four to nothing, and I made no qualms about claiming that victory as partially my own. I was new to the game, but I put minds at ease and provided temporary relief so minorly injured players could keep going. I was a very small cog in the Mavericks wheel, but there nonetheless.

  Quinn Bailey had played an impressive game, ending the night with three touchdowns and three hundred passing yards, and our defense fought tooth and nail every single down, preventing Miami from capitalizing on even a field goal. I was proud of these guys who were quickly, and quite surprisingly, becoming some of my favorite people. Concealing my squeal of excitement on the sidelines took concerted effort all game long, but I had a reputation to uphold. One that wasn’t off base in the slightest, but had become essential to my effectiveness as a leader of this team.

  Surrounded by a bunch of burly, rambunctious football players, it worked best to be the take-no-shit, tough broad who could run as one of the guys—but was smarter than all of them put together. And I had a feeling growing up as the little sister to four obnoxious, older brothers had prepared me for that.

  I was only six months into this role as the Mavericks’ team physician, but for the most part, I loved my new job. I loved the schedule and the fact that I no longer had to deal with crazy on-call hours at the hospital, and I even enjoyed the occasional travel requirements. And most importantly, thanks to clear expectations and familiar ground, I loved that I felt at home.

  In fact, the only thing that made me feel unsettled at all was a someone—Wes Lancaster.

  I couldn’t even say that the way he made me feel completely mixed up was all bad—or bad at all. God, if I was honest, the feeling was nothing short of good.

  But he was my boss, and more than that, he was probably the least appropriate man on the whole entire planet to be lusting over.

  Unreadable, cocky, confident to the point of goddamn annoying…and so opposed to a commitment with a woman with children, I’d paid witness to him saying it more than once.

  I just wish my body could understand the motherfucking slop mix of English-Spanish my brain had adopted since landing in Miami.

  No bueno, Winnie. Not this asshole. Comprende? it had asked as I’d caught myself staring at his veiny, tan, way too exposed forearms under the beating sun at the final practice.

  If the self-induced, Wes Lancaster-inspired orgasm I gave myself in the quick, lukewarm shower I’d just taken was any indication…no. It did not comprende even a little.

  Shaking off thoughts of unavailable men and all the complications of horndogging the fuck out of them, I hit Remy’s number on speed dial to check on my six-year-old daughter, Lexi.

  Rem was the oldest in our brood of five, and no doubt he was Lexi’s favorite uncle—though, I made sure to downplay his status when I spoke directly to him.

  He doted on her constantly and took every opportunity to babysit, which benefited me greatly when the Mavericks had me traveling to away games. It also helped that he was single and not keen on commitment—I seemed to be drowning in this particular subset of men—and generally worked from home as a day trader. He rivaled Cassie’s husband Thatch in the whole good with numbers and investments department, but he lacked in enthusiasm, and as a result, his bank account didn’t end in nearly as many zeroes. Then again, neither did mine—or practically anyone’s.

  “Hey, hey, little sister,” he greeted on the second ring, outing himself spectacularly as the Billy Idol superfan he often tried to hide. “How’s Miami?”

  “Hot as balls.” I groaned, trying to silence “White Wedding” as it droned on uninvited in my head. “The Florida heat makes me thankful for the urine-dyed snow of New York.”

  He chuckled. “I’m guessing you’re only saying that because you’ve yet to step in urine-dyed snow this year.”

  He was probably right. I cringed as I thought about how soon that season would be upon us and added buying a new pair of snow boots for both me and Lex to my mental to-do list.

  “Looks like your boys played a hell of a game,” Remy remarked. “Lex nearly lost her mind when she saw Bailey hit the three-hundred mark for passing yards.”

  I grinned. Since I had taken the job with the Mavericks, Lex had become fixated on anything and everything NFL football. Her little brain had been relentless in its task of absorbing every single stat like a greedy sponge.

  Lex wasn’t your average kid—she was well above it. Diagnosed as high-functioning on the autistic spectrum, she was highly intelligent and advanced in things such as math and reading and writing. By the age of two, she had mastered the alphabet and could write out every letter. By the age of three, she had accomplished basic mathematics. By the age of four, she had been able to read. And now, at six years old, she could compute mid-level algebra better than most sophomores in high school.

  She had struggles too, but her willingness to compensate in order to overcome was humbling. There was no doubt about it; my daughter’s brain was an amazing thing.

  “So, how late did you let my daughter stay up tonight, Rem?”

  “Not too late. She was in bed by ten.”

  “Ten?” I questioned, knowing full well she wouldn’t have seen Bailey’s stats until after the game was over, which had most likely ended a little after ten.

  “Okay,” he answered with a smile in his voice. “Ten fifteen, tops.”

  I glanced at the clock on the hotel nightstand and saw 11:35. “You’re so full of shit. I bet you just finished reading her a book and tucking her in fifteen minutes ago.”

  He chuckled again. “I’m sticking to ten fifteen.”

  “Whatever, asshole,” I teased. “You keep letting my daughter stay up past eleven, and I’m going to have to let Ty watch her.”

  “Lex would never stand for it. She loves me the most.”

  I laughed. “Hmm…I don’t know. She’s been talking a lot about Jude lately.”

  “Shit. Maybe I should wake her up,” he grumbled.

  “Do that, you die,” I threatened, the antics of a brother-sister relationship only maturing slightly over the years. Those two snot-nosed kids were always inside us, waiting to whine about who touched whom first.

  “Did you make it back to your hotel okay?” he asked, ignoring my jab and falling straight into his role of playing the typical, overprotective big brother. Out of all four of my brothers, Rem probably tried the hardest to shelter me. With my combination of an absentee father, poor taste in men, and a special-needs child, he hadn’t been entirely successful—much to his chagrin.

  “Yes, Dad,” I teased. “I made it back about forty minutes ago. I’m showered and ready for bed.”

  “Good,” he responded. “I don’t want to read about you out partying with a bunch of horny football players in the paper.”

  “Oh, get over yourself.” I scoffed. “If I want to stay o
ut all night and take body shots off our offensive line, that’s my business.”

  “That’s not fucking funny.”

  “Rem.” I mimicked his disapproving tone. “I might be your little sister, but I’m also a grown-ass thirty-one-year-old woman. When are you ever going to realize that?”

  “Never. You’ll always be my little sister.”

  “You’re worse than the rest of them.”

  “That’s because I’m the best brother you have.”

  “You’re the most annoying brother I have.”

  “I’m your favorite brother.”

  “No way. Jude’s my favorite.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I laughed. “All right. I’m calling it a night. Have Lex call me in the morning, okay?”

  “You got it,” he agreed, and despite our teasing and my many minor complaints, I knew in the lottery of life, all four of my brothers were big ol’ winning tickets. “Love you, Win.”

  “Love you too.”

  I ended the call and decided that a quick trip to the vending machine was in order. A bag of Ruffles and a bottle of Coke had never sounded so good. Since I knew most of the team and staff had gone out for dinner and drinks after the game, I figured I didn’t have to worry about my appearance and lack of bra.

  Because, seriously, who wore a bra to bed? Not this chick, that was for damn sure.

  I tossed my still-wet locks into a messy bun, threw on a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top, slipped on my flip-flops, and headed out of my room with only my credit card—because I was notorious for never having cash in my wallet—and my room key.

  God bless the person who made sure vending machines now accepted credit cards. The only downside was the evidence of my gluttony when all of the transactions read out in a list on the statement at the end of the month. Funny how Visa never denied my card on the forty vending machine swipes for suspicious activity.

  “Hallelujah,” I shouted as I made it to the machine. It was fully stocked with Cheddar and Sour Cream Ruffles, and my excitement was a very real, tangible thing. They were pretty much a lock, but I never confirmed the answer as final until I had all the information. Snacks late at night, to me, were just as good as a chance at a million dollars. As I softly sang “Baby Mine”—Lex’s favorite lullaby—to myself, I tapped my fingers against the glass and perused my options.

  Pretzels? Nope. Not in the mood for salted cardboard.

  Skittles? Maybe.

  Pop-Tarts? Sounds like breakfast.

  Yeah, Cheddar and Sour Cream Ruffles it is.

  Three swipes of my credit card later, I had both hands full of chips and soda and a bag of Skittles for good measure. As I turned for the hallway, my advance was abruptly stopped as I barreled into a hard chest. And I knew it was a chest…a really fucking nice one. There might have been doubt in someone else’s mind, but not in the intimacy-starved recesses of mine.

  My bag of Ruffles crunched loudly between our bodies, and two strong arms reached out and prevented me from tripping over my flip-flops and tumbling to the carpeted floor by gripping my shoulders and steadying me back on my feet.

  My gaze moved up, up, up until it met an intense yet very familiar set of hazel eyes.

  Wes Lancaster.

  “You okay?” he asked, searching my face with concern. The veil he wore nearly constantly was gone, and his expression was at ease in a way I’d never witnessed. No ticking muscle in his jaw, no furrowed brow, just a man in his sleepwear out for a late-night trip to the vending machine.

  How…human of him.

  He didn’t seem nearly as intimidating like this—but his presence was still undeniably imposing. When Wes Lancaster was in a room, he was in it.

  “Yeah.” I nodded, making my lips move around the numb shock. “Sorry about that. I didn’t realize anyone was behind me.”

  How long had he been standing there?

  Hopefully, not long enough to hear my off-key singing.

  I watched him as he took inventory of my body, slowly moving down, down, down until he had pretty much full-on checked me out without shame.

  And with that simple action, all the unusual calm of our interaction was gone.

  God, he pissed me off. And turned me on.

  I wanted to smack him. I wanted to kiss him.

  I wanted to climb his body like my own personal pole. I was certain no man had ever evoked this type of bipolar reaction from within me.

  When his eyes met mine again, I raised a defiant eyebrow. “All set? Or do you need me to give you a little twirl just to be sure?”

  His mouth—his perfect, lush, obscenely kissable mouth—crested into a suggestively wry grin. “Do you want me to give a little twirl?” he asked and crossed his thick, muscular arms over his chest. “I wouldn’t mind.”

  I couldn’t stop myself—the exact opposite of out of sight, out of mind, thanks to his provocation—glancing down at his body and homing in on every perfect inch of his fit form, clad in a simple white cotton T-shirt and black knit shorts. Christ. And I’d thought Wes Lancaster made a suit and tie look explicit in the hottest possible way.

  Were those perfect forearm veins really necessary?

  They’d already gotten me once this weekend, and now again. Give me a chance here, Universe.

  Between his penetrating yet oddly seductive hazel eyes and his mind-blowing body, I wasn’t sure which part of him I enjoyed ogling the most.

  My brain practically slapped me.

  His ass, Winnie, it chided. Definitely his ass.

  I couldn’t deny his ass was downright bitable, and it wasn’t like I had a fetish for sinking my teeth into men’s glutes. But for Wes? I could easily make an exception—and maybe end up spiraling into the life of one of those people on My Strange Addiction.

  “I guess I should turn around?” His question pulled my eyes back to his face. “I know how much you love staring at my ass,” he added cockily with a knowing—and anger-inducing—wink.

  Fucking shit. What, was it written on my forehead? Jesus, Winnie. Pull it together.

  I rolled my eyes and kept all of my hysteria where it belonged—inside where it could eat at me slowly until I lost my mind one marble at a time. “I do not love staring at your ass.”

  Obviously, I did. I totally did. But I wasn’t going to let him know that shit. When I thought about his ass, it’d be on my own, with a finger to my clit and teeth marks across the entire… Shit.

  I know. Believe me, I know.

  I sound like the horniest chick on the planet, but should I mention that it had been over a year since I’d had sex?

  Yeah. One year. It’s depressing.

  Cassie would’ve probably used the term “thirsty” to describe my current lack of sex. And God, I was thirsty. Thirsty for the tall drink of water that was Wes Lancaster. Hell, I wouldn’t have even used a straw. I’d have guzzled that fucker.

  Guzzle? Really? Could I be any cruder?

  Note to self: stop spending time with Cassie.

  He leaned toward me, and his lips barely brushed my ear. “Tell me, Win. Are you cold, or are you turned on right now?”

  “Excuse me?” I asked as I pulled away abruptly, confused and shocked and wondering what that had to do with drinking him up.

  His gaze made the slow circuit from my lips to my neck to my chest until it paused, right there, directly on the cotton material covering my bra-less breasts.

  Jerk. I didn’t even have to look to know what he was insinuating. Just because fantasies weren’t real didn’t mean hormones knew the difference. But for fuck’s sake, he could have ignored it. It was common decency.

  “Cold,” I answered, refusing to give him an inch or show him any inkling of embarrassment by hiding my now very obvious nipples behind my arms.

  His eyes met mine again, and I held his stare.

  “Are you sure, sweetheart?” He lowered his voice. “Because I think you’re turned on. I think you’re just as turned on as I am right now.”


  My mind whispered asshole, asshole, asshole, even though my body all but screamed, touch me, kiss me, fuck me. My eyes were busy fighting the urge to look down.

  “You want me to be turned on,” I corrected harshly. “There’s a difference between reality and fantasy, sweetheart.”

  “You want me. That’s the reality,” he responded without shame. His voice was all cocky confidence and self-assurance, and his eyes, well, they blazed. He looked like he’d taken a bite out of the sun.

  I thought Miami was hot, but his fucking rays were making me go crazy. With want. With need. With an embarrassing amount of desperation.

  We had been walking this line of give-and-take and push-pull for far too long. I felt like I had reached the precipice, and I couldn’t stand fighting this—whatever the hell it was—any longer. I just wanted him to put his hands on me. I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to tear my clothes off and mark my body with his lips, his tongue, his cock. I was undeniably attracted to him to the point of being primal. Instinctual. And it had reached the point of irresistible.

  “You want me, too,” I murmured.

  Our eyes danced their familiar game and refused to let go.

  His whispered, Come on. Give in. Do what you want, Win.

  Mine responded, Just one night. What could go wrong?

  Within seconds, the soda and chips in my hands had hit the floor, and we were kissing, my hands in his hair, him pulling me closer. Our mouths were entangled in a tug-of-war, each of us trying to overpower the other. I bit into his bottom lip as his strong hands gripped my ass and lifted me up, wrapping my legs around his waist.

  He pushed my back into the vending machine, grinding himself against me, proving irrefutably that I wasn’t the only one turned on right now. My hard nipples brushed against his chest, and the heat of his body scorched through both layers of measly cotton that separated us.

  He groaned. “You drive me fucking crazy.”

  “Yes,” I agreed on a moan. I did, and he did the same right back. I had a feeling it was something neither one of us had been able to stop.

  His mouth moved down to my neck, sucking and licking the sensitive skin until my legs gripped his waist tighter. Fuck, I wanted to feel him. Skin on skin. I wanted him inside me.