Don't Promise (Don't 3)

Marriage is a joke.

And I don’t get the punch line.

At least the way I’d done things had always been upfront. Women knew what they were getting when they decided they wanted a night with me. It was never more than sex. And it sure as hell was never less. I played football like a rock star and fucked even better.

The DC Sharks were creatures of habit. We ate in the same restaurants. Drank in the same bars. Chased ass in the same clubs. Call us territorial bastards, but we liked to stake out our grounds.

As I walked into Catch, I was hit with the familiarity of a place I had spent practically every night after a big win.

The succulent smell of perfume and sex hit my nostrils. I breathed in deep, feeling my cock stir in my pants. Somewhere in a dark corner I heard the sounds of pleasure and my dick hardened. I fucking loved this place.

I made my way to my usual table and waited for the rest of the guys. I thought I would be the last one. The press conference with Coach was short and sweet. I wasn’t much for reporter questions. We won. What was there to talk about?

A cute little waitress saddled up to the table within moments. She looked young and innocent. Her uniform fit like a glove, tight in all the right places. Her breasts were pushed together, bobbing over the edge of her shirt. I could almost envision her on her knees with her mouth wrapped around my cock. My hands fisted tight in her pig tails while I fucked her mouth. It was as if this moment was supposed to happen—this girl was meant to help me celebrate my win.

She nervously tucked her hair behind her ear. “H-hi. Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.

I leaned forward. I’d never seen her here before. She looked out of place. Almost too good for Catch. Too good to serve me. It was the lightness in her eyes and the way her blond hair fell over her shoulders in waves. She was a good girl.

“A couple of beers,” I answered. My eyes trailed her throat. Damn, she was gorgeous.

She scribbled down my order on her waitress pad. “Anything else?” she asked.

“I guess you’re new here?”

She chewed her bottom lip. Damn, her nervousness was even sexy. “It’s that obvious?”

“Not many girls write down two beers.” I chuckled.

Her eyes fell to the floor. Shit.

“Sorry.” Her voice was soft and apologetic.

“No need.” I grinned. “I think you’re doing a fine job.”

Before I could tell her what else she could do for me, she turned and darted off toward the bar for my beers.

“She’s hot,” Joe said, slapping my back as he walked up behind me.

He caught me staring through her clothes as if I had X-ray vision.

“No shit,” I snorted. I wanted him to know I had first dibs on her.

He turned the chair next to me, straddling it. “You asshole. You always get the best ones," he said, punching my shoulder. I grinned and nodded, knowing it was true.

Maybe the guys deferred because I was the quarterback, or maybe it was because I had established how things worked on the team. I really didn’t care as long as they understood the system. I always walked out of here with the girl I wanted.

“Sorry, man. Did you see those fucking tits?” I shrugged my shoulders.

“You’d have to be blind to miss them,” he replied, studying her ass while she cleaned the table next to ours. “How’d you beat me here?”

My attention was on the girl. She was flustered. She knocked over a chair on her way back to the bar. The bartender s

cowled at her and said something out of the corner of his mouth. I didn’t like the fucking way he talked to the girls here. And something about this one pissed me off even more.

“Kane? Man, did you hear me?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I took a cab.” I didn’t look at him.