Roman (Raleigh Raptors 2)

Roman flashed me a smirk, tucking me into his side as we stopped at our friend’s table. “Later,” he whispered the promise into my ear, and my pulse spiked.

How could he do that? Make it to where nothing else existed outside of him. All I wanted to do was haul him into the nearest private room and show him exactly what he did to me.

“Damn, Teagan,” Savannah practically meowed as I sat my small clutch on the bar-height table they were crowded around.

“I second that,” Liberty said, raising her hand as they both smiled at me.

Usually this was the time I’d shamefully look away, worried about my body, my curves, the attention it might draw.

Not tonight.

Not now.

I extended my arms and did a little spin for my girls. “You like?”

“Love!” Savannah said after taking a sip of her champagne. She eyed Roman. “Can’t believe you let this bombshell walk out of the house looking so smoking, Padilla,” she teased.

I swallowed hard, knowing Savannah wouldn’t understand the tension in the joke. Wouldn’t understand there had been several occasions where someone hadn’t let me out of the house wearing what I’d chosen, but instead made me change under threat of embarrassing him.

“Something this beautiful can’t possibly be kept in a cage,” Roman said, smoothing his hand up and down my spine. “Besides,” he continued. “She’s her own woman. If she’d wanted to show up in her favorite Nirvana T-shirt and paint-stained sweatpants, she’d still be the most gorgeous woman in the room.”

My heart melted at his easy declaration, at the pride in his voice, the love there.

“God, whipped much?” Hendrix teased from Savannah’s right but flashed me an approving wink. I returned his smile, internally questioning where his usual entourage of hopeful blondes were hiding. The man donned a royal blue suit that made his crushing blue eyes pop, his dark blond hair unkempt and wild like he’d just left one of his prospect’s beds.

“There is a huge difference between adoration and whipped, Hollywood,” Roman fired back, a laugh on his lips. “You’d know that if you ever stopped bed-hopping for a second.”

Hendrix cocked a brow at him. “Speaking of whips,” he said, and Savannah groaned.

“God, not another one of your sexscapade stories, please. We haven’t had enough drinks for that,” she said.

Hendrix shifted his gaze down at Savannah, a wolfish grin shaping his mouth as he eyed her black sequined romper that showed off her mile-long legs. She’d opted for a pair of black stilettos with metal spikes protruding from the back over her normal moto-boots tonight, and part of me cringed at the thought that she might impale Hendrix with one of those heels, depending on what came out of his mouth next.

“From the look you chose tonight, Savannah,” he said, his voice low. “A whip in your hand wouldn’t be too far off—”

“Hendrix,” Nixon snapped, then sent a playful glare to Liberty, who had snort-laughed.

Heat bloomed on Savannah’s cheeks, but she shifted to face him fully, her chin tilting up ever so slightly as she stared up at him with unflinching confidence. “In your case, Hendrix, I’d opt for a chain.”

Roman had a coughing fit that startled even me, but I couldn’t take my gaze off the two—they looked like they might tear each other apart right there. We’d lose our best wide receiver because my money was absolutely on Savannah.

Hendrix huffed a laugh. “Been dreaming about me again?”

I gaped at him. At the boldness in the tease. Sure, we were all friends, all close as family, but Savannah was the coach’s daughter, and she was as off-limits as they came. Even in this innocent, joking form.

Nixon’s eyes narrowed, but Hendrix didn’t seem aware that the rest of us were still very much here, listening to every word they said. Kind of hard not to hear when we all stood around the same incredibly small table.

“You wish, Hollywood,” she said, appraising him with the same look he had her. “Trust me, if I were to dream about anyone, it wouldn’t be a man who has to switch sheets more often than he washes his million-dollar hair.”

Roman choked on another laugh, his hand snaking around my hip to draw me closer as a waiter with a platter of champagne flutes stopped by our table. “We’ll need another tray of these,” he said, handing me a flute before taking one for himself. He glanced at Nixon, who was glaring at Hendrix, who hadn’t broken eye contact with Savannah, who continued to glare up at him. “Make that two platters,” he corrected, and the waiter hurried off with a nod.

Hendrix motioned to Savannah with his half-drank flute. “People like you are the problem,” he said, and I flinched at the quick hurt that flashed in her eyes. It was gone in a blink. “People who judge, who think I’m a man-whore just because I enjoy sex.” He shook his head. “Everyone I sleep with knows what they’re getting into when they climb on my lap—a good time, once. Maybe twice. No more. I never lie. I never cheat. And I sure as hell never give them false expectations.” He tossed back the rest of his champagne before sitting his empty flute on the table. “But please,” he continued. “Keep judging and joking like you have any clue what real pleasure is like.”