Not Daddy Material (Billionaire's Contract Duet 2)

Oh my God.

Oh my God! Yes! “Yes,” I breathed out, feeling so happy. I couldn’t believe this!

I grinned like crazy when he took the ring out and brought it to my ring finger. I couldn’t believe he’d just proposed. He pulled me in for a kiss, and I was already lost in our passion.

I was already lost in him.

Charles Talon, the man who I thought would be my enemy, would now be my partner for life. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Dirty Play

Copyright © 2016 by Violet Paige

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

1

Wes

I was a god. And not just any god. I had an arm that could throw a lightning bolt a hundred yards, with two seconds left on the game clock, and score. They should have called me Zeus. I could run faster than any damn lineman trying to knock the shit out of me. I could read the defense faster than the whistle blew. I could call plays and execute before the defense could say their own names. I was a fucking god out on that field, and everyone knew it. The coaches. My teammates. The fans.

Hell, I had known it since I joined the pee-wee league when I was six. That’s what kids do in Texas. Kids that have dads who want them to be competitive assholes before they can read. And that was me. Born to play football. Born to dominate. Born to win. Molded and coached into the best fucking quarterback to walk the planet.

And I did win. I won state playoffs in high school, I won our conference title in college, and I was on our way to taking our team to the Super Bowl. Nothing stopped Wes Blakefield. Nothing.

I could fuck any woman I wanted. I could gamble. I could party after a game. All of it. Because I won. The American Football Association wasn’t going to stop me. And neither was my team. I brought them millions. As long as I won, they would look the other way.

They didn’t give a shit about the women or the bets. As long as I put a W in the column every Sunday, they stayed off my back. I was a walking cash machine for those bastards.

Until everything came crashing down.

2 months earlier

“Blakefield, you want me to pick you up tonight?”

“Like a damn date? No thanks. I’ve got a driver.” I slapped my wide receiver on the back with my towel.

Practice had been light today. We ran some drills and I worked out a new route with the receivers. I stood in front of my locker, shoving my clothes in my bag, and picked up a water bottle.

“I guess you’re not planning on going home alone?” Stubbs grinned.

“Do I ever?”

The locker room was almost clear. Most guys had showered and were headed to the Dean. It was a tradition among the Wranglers that the rookies threw a party as a gift to their teammates. We didn’t like to call it an initiation, but we all knew there was hell to pay on the practice field if the party sucked. The name stuck after the first rookie, Larry Dean, threw one hell of a party. I didn’t know what was in store for the night, but I was hoping it involved a pair of big tits and a tight ass. The guys knew my type, and I expected them to deliver.

“See you there.” Stubbs waved as he exited the locker room.

I threw my bag over my shoulder and headed out after him. I didn’t expect to run into Coach in the corridor.

“Wes.”

“Hey, Coach.”

Coach Howell was in his mid fifties, but the poor bastard looked like he was pushing seventy. That’s what coaching in the AFA did to a man. It shaved years off his life.

“I heard tonight’s the Dean.”