Wildcard: Volume One

Her fingers trail down to my crotch, and she smiles at my erection. “Because I’m really hoping for the latter.”

“You don’t mess around. What if I’m not that type of guy?”

She laughs and shrugs off her jacket. “I think we both know that you are.” She reaches behind her back and unzips her dress. I raise my eyebrows. I’m so fucking turned on by her confidence. She knows what she wants, and how to get it. She’s like a female version of me.

“I’m not interested in dating you, Ryder.” She wraps her arms around my neck. Leaning in, she whispers in my ear, “I’m only interested in riding you.”

I smile, my hand creeping around her narrow waist. I pull her toward me and press my mouth hard against hers, caressing the back of her head. My fingers rake through her dark tresses. She smiles and pulls away from me, rolling her tongue over her lips as she reaches behind her back to unclip her bra.

I watch, amused, as she tosses it to the floor. He breasts are perfect, just like the rest of her. They’re round and perky, and I admire them as I run my finger around the outside of her nipple. She smiles, a moan escaping from her lips as my finger trails down the centre of her stomach.

“Were you this wet while you were watching me during the press conference?” I tease her as I trace my finger along her bare pussy. My other hand curves around the back of her neck as I pull her toward me. She exhales, her eyes widening as I plunge two fingers inside of her. She is so fucking wet that my fingers move inside her with ease. Her back arches as I kiss her neck, my throbbing cock pressing against her thigh.

This was supposed to be all about her, but right now all I can think about is being inside her tight, wet pussy. Fuck being a gentleman. I’ll make it all about her for the next one. Turning her around, I position her over the back of the couch. She moans as my fingers continue to tease her. I reach into my pocket and pull out a condom, then I unbuckle my pants and shrug them down.

My cock springs out, hard as fuck, and I’m ready to go. I roll on the condom and push her a little further over the couch, spreading her legs in the process. She’s moaning as I gently touch her arse.

Lining up, I thrust myself inside of her. My fingers grip her shoulder as I push her back against me. She gasps and lifts her leg so it sits on the top of the couch, allowing me to drive even deeper. I close my eyes as my cock slides in and out of her pussy. She’s so damn wet. Grabbing her arm, I spin her around. Her eyes widen as I lift her onto my cock. I turn and slam her back against the wall.

Her thighs clench as she moans. I lift her arms above her head and grip them with one hand, my other hand supporting her weight. I’m so fucking close. I groan, pounding into her as I come. My whole body is shaking and I can’t even think straight. Her body slides down against mine until her feet touch the floor. She’s panting and her cheeks are flushed. I chuckle and reach out, my finger circling her erect nipple. She smiles and pulls me in, her arms wrapping around my neck as she kisses me.

“Holy fuck.” She shakes her head. “Now I see what all the fuss is about.”

I laugh, thinking how wrong it would sound if I said those words to her. But, I’m known for whoring myself around and I’m okay with that. Especially when it lands me great sex with hot journalists.

She sighs again and walks over to the entry, where she picks up her discarded clothes. I smirk, watching her dress.

“I hate to fuck and run, but I have a meeting,” she says as her dress slips down over her nakedness.

I bite my lip as I watch it pass her bare pussy. “I’m feeling used,” I tease. I walk over to the bar fridge and grab a bottle of water.

“I’m sure you’ll cope.” She grins and shoves her underwear into her purse. “I had fun. Call me.”

Chapter Two

After she leaves, I order a room service meal of steak and chips, which I eat while watching the TV. My press conference comes on and I laugh as the journalist I’d just fucked the hell out of appears on the screen.

I set my plate down on the coffee table and stand up. The steak was overcooked, and the chips cold, but I’d been so hungry that all that is left is a thin layer of sinew. I shower again and dress casually in a pair of jeans and a fitted black shirt. I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror and I’m satisfied. My dark hair is cropped short and falls naturally into place. I run my hand over the light stubble on my jaw and wonder if I should shave. I smile, my deep brown eyes narrowing back at me.

Nah. Fuck it.

Most of the tennis crowd hung out in the same circle while on tour, and several of the more exclusive clubs pulled some major strings to get us players into their venues. I’m talking about things like V.I.P. access, free drinks, and in some cases “special attention” from women hired to make sure we were entertained. Of course there weren’t too many players who liked to party as hard as I did while still in a tournament. Most were pretty respectful to the sport they dedicated their lives to.

It isn’t as if I don’t respect the game—I do. I just see more to life than hitting a ball around. For me, tennis is a career. That doesn’t mean I want to live and breathe it.

I strut confidently through the foyer of the hotel, not oblivious to the attention I’m receiving from the opposite sex. Whether they recognize who I am or not, I always command attention. I know I’m attractive. My tennis keeps my body in fit, tight shape, and my boyish good looks seem to go down well with the ladies.

I smirk at a pretty blonde dressed in a black suit and heels, who stands near the door. She blushes and smiles back, lowering her head while still eye-fucking me. Maybe she’ll still be around tomorrow night.

Outside, I wave down a cab and climb inside.

“Revolution, over on Montague, please,” I murmur, hoping he speaks English. He nods, and I relax. One thing I love about the French is their blatant disregard for the pervasiveness of the English language. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been told “You’re in France. Speak French!”

I whip out my phone and scroll through the several missed calls I have from Matt. A message from Josh pops up, asking me where I am headed tonight. I laugh. He knows me too well. I text him back.

Revolution. I’ll save you a seat.

I shove my phone back into my pocket and enjoy the rest of the ride through one of the world’s most beautiful cities. Paris. The romantic in me—and yes, there is one—can’t deny how sexy this city is. And don’t get me started on the women. Something about the way my name rolls off their tongues as they’re reaching orgasm . . . Ah, I can’t explain it, so I won’t bother trying.