Down & Dirty (Lightning 1)

“You called me sweetheart!” she all but spits at me. “That negates your very lame attempt at an apology.”

“Really? Because I kind of thought it made the apology. There are a lot of women in the world who’d do anything just to hear me call them sweetheart.”

Her mouth drops open at that, and as I stare at the plump pink lips that are currently forming a perfect O, I can’t help thinking about how good they’d look wrapped around my dick. Or about how good she’d look on her knees in front of me, my hands twisted in all those red curls as I fuck down her throat.

It’s probably not what I should be thinking right now—especially considering the way her blue eyes have gone all dark and dangerous. But what can I say? I live for danger. Besides, everything about this girl screams red-hot sex and I’d have to be a monk not to notice.

And a blind monk at that.

Since I’m not, and because fantasizing about her is taking my mind off my reason for being here, I reach into my back pocket and take out my wallet. Then I pull out a hundred-dollar bi

ll and hold it out to her. “But if my words weren’t apology enough, let me pay for your dry cleaning. It’s the least I can do.”

I don’t expect her to take the money, figure instead she’ll try to work this whole scenario into a dinner invitation like every other woman I meet these days. Which is exactly what I’m angling for here. I certainly won’t mind spending a couple of hours across the table from this little sweetheart as long as it ends with me spending a couple more hours between her very toned thighs.

I don’t normally make the first move anymore—I don’t have to—but she intrigues me enough that I’m about to save us both the whole song and dance when she reaches out and snatches the money from my hand. “Damn right, it’s the least you can do. Asshole.”

She shoves the money into her purse then pulls the door open so hard and fast that I have to take a quick step back just to keep from being hit by the thing. My hand snaps out of its own volition—call it reflex or shock or just pure intrigue. Whatever it is, I slam my palm into the edge of the door and shove the thing shut again.

“Did you just take the money?” I ask. I know I sound shocked, but come on. No woman ever takes the short and easy route. Not when she has my attention. And definitely not when she thinks she has a shot at a whole lot more.

“Of course I took the money,” she answers with a sneer. “If you didn’t want me to, you probably shouldn’t have offered it. Sweetheart.”

Fuck, she’s got a mouth on her and fuck if I don’t like it. Besides, sparring with her is so much better than getting lost in my own head. Which is why, when she reaches for the door again, I keep my hand where it is, pinning it closed—and this time I actually put some muscle into it.

“Are you serious right now?” she demands, tugging hard at the door handle. “I need to go inside.”

I keep my hand where it is. “What’s your name?”

She rolls her eyes. “I thought you already figured that out. Sweetheart, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t really suit you, does it? And since you didn’t seem to like it much, I figured I’d ask what you prefer to be called.”

“Well, isn’t that magnanimous of you. Too bad it’s my policy never to tell my name to strange men with deplorable manners.”

“Aw, come on now. I’m not that strange.” I flash her my most charming grin, the one that got me my nickname at that first Monday Night Football game nearly a decade ago. “And I’m working on improving my manners.”

“By barring the door to my workplace and making me even more late? Great job, there.” She tugs at the door again.

I still don’t let go. How can I when she looks like she just rolled out of bed after a marathon sex session—all bright eyes, flushed skin and messed up hair. She’s the hottest woman I’ve seen in a long, long time (which is saying something considering professional cheerleaders practice their routines less than fifteen yards from me on a regular basis). She’s also completely intriguing in a way I don’t see a lot and I’m not about to let her walk away without at least giving me her name and number.

She has other ideas, though, because just as I pull out my phone, she grounds the heel of her red pump down on the top of my foot. Hard.

Chapter 3

Emerson

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a great deal of satisfaction watching Hunter “the Golden Boy” Browning hop around on one foot as he tries his best not to whine like a baby. I’m not normally a sadist, but come on. I’ve had my fair share of pain today—at least half of which is his fault. The least I can do is spread the wealth.

And if a sore foot keeps him from performing his best in Sunday’s game, well then, so much the better. It’s the least he deserves for that lame-ass apology and calling me sweetheart in that condescending tone. Maybe he’ll actually learn something about how to treat women who have bigger plans in life than the easy ride that comes with being arm candy for some dumb, conceited jock.

I still can’t believe he actually expected me to throw myself at him—even after he’d soaked me with that ridiculous small penis overcompensation device he likes to call a truck. Seriously. What kind of women is this guy used to? Oh, right. The kind who are dumb enough to think fucking a football player will actually give them a shot at the brass—no, make that diamond—ring. I know the type well, courtesy of my mother’s four failed marriages and innumerable relationships.

But now that his death grip on the door has finally lifted, it’s not like it matters anyway. I’ll never see him again—thank God. While I like football as much as the next girl (and maybe even a little more), arrogant, Super Bowl–winning quarterbacks I can definitely do without. Even when they look like Hunter Browning. Especially when they look like him, all bronzed and buff and too beautiful for his own good.

Not that I’m deliberately paying attention to how he looks, but it’s not like that shit is easy to ignore. You would think I’d be immune considering that, like the rest of the world, I’ve seen him on TV and online and in magazines hundreds of times since his rookie season nine years ago. And he’s absolutely gorgeous every single time, no doubt about that.

But seeing all six foot five, two hundred sixty pounds of him up close (not that I know the stats for every member of the Lightning’s starting lineup or anything) is different. Because it’s not just about his shaggy dark hair, bright green eyes and laser-cut jaw perennially covered with several days’ worth of stubble. No, now it’s about the sex appeal that rolls off him in waves, the charisma that makes it impossible to look away from him no matter how annoying he is.