Scoring the Billionaire (Billionaire Bad Boys 3)

I had agreed with Wes one hundred percent when he’d said we shouldn’t let sex happen between us again. I knew he was right. I knew it would only complicate things, and it was vital that we maintained a professional working relationship.

Sex wasn’t something that allowed for healthy boundaries.

Sex made things messy.

It convoluted everything.

But good Lord, I shouldn’t have watched him working out with the guys during practice. I shouldn’t have watched the way his biceps flexed as he tossed the ball back and forth with Bailey. I shouldn’t have watched the way sweat dripped between his pecs and down his defined abs until it got lost in the faint happy trail that led to the one place I shouldn’t have been thinking about.

I’d spent several hours this morning talking myself out of answering his suggestive text message, telling myself that we were going way too fast down a dangerous, curvy as fuck road, and then thrown it all away in the blink of an eye because of one sexy display of athleticism.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I shouldn’t have been thinking about any of those things. And I sure as shit shouldn’t have been in his office after hours with the intention of seducing him into another amazing round of hot and sweaty and delicious—fucking incredible—sex.

But I was only human.

And horny, obviously.

I was a woman who spent most of her days prioritizing work and home life, always putting my daughter first, and very rarely doing anything for myself.

I was a woman who hadn’t had sex for an entire year before Wes, and I had given in to marathon sex in my hotel room in Miami.

Hell, up to that point, I had never had marathon sex.

There was a lot to be said for marathon sex, by the way.

But mostly, right now, what I had to say about it was that I wanted it. Again. And I wanted it from Wes Lancaster. He made me feel good without instruction or guidance, and I desperately wanted the freedom from being in charge. I wanted to not think. To just feel.

And if I was honest, it hadn’t been some instant craving spurred by watching him at practice today. I’d come to work prepared— dressed like a high-priced hooker underneath my simple, knee-length black pencil skirt and white silk blouse. Said premeditation also probably explained the fuck-hot stilettos I decided to toddle around the field in. I mean, no one in their right mind wore stilettos to a job that was spent on the football field or in a locker room ninety percent of the time unless she was trying to impress someone into screwing her brains out again.

Before I go any further, just remember the whole no-sex-for-a-year thing.

Also, don’t judge me by my hormones.

And, now, after all that effort, he didn’t think it was a good idea? Well, he could join the fucking club. But if I didn’t have control, he wasn’t going to have it either.

“Fine,” I ground out, trying to sound flippant and failing miserably.

“I’m sorry.” His hazel eyes softened around the edges.

Oh, gross. He was sorry. Fuck that.

“Let’s just forget it, okay?” I offered, and this time, I managed to sound unfazed. His eyebrows pulled together at the sudden change.

“Winnie—”

“We have different things to discuss anyway.”

“We do?” he asked, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. “Work?”

“Yes,” I confirmed.

“Okay, what’s going on?” he asked, shedding his shield and settling into the work with a tug of his tie. I almost smiled at how easily I’d managed to lower his defenses.

“I think Mitchell should sit out the next game,” I lied. “He looked like shit in practice.”

“You have got to be fucking shitting me,” he said on a near shout. Calm—gone.

Okay, so I was partially right on the fact that Mitchell hadn’t looked fantastic in practice, but he also didn’t look like his hamstring was bothering him one bit. And even though he was just coming off his second hamstring pull, I knew he didn’t need to sit out any more games. He had rehabbed his leg through aggressive PT, and his last MRI had shown a remarkable improvement.

So why was I acting like he needed to sit out again?

Strategy.

And downright nymphomania.

I hadn’t been diagnosed, but I was a medical professional. I was calling it.

Wes riled up generally led to an argument between us, and an argument between us generally led to some insane sexual tension.

My vagina was really hoping this time wouldn’t be any different. I wanted him angry. Preferably in his office. On his desk. Against the wall. Basically, anywhere. I wasn’t picky.

He furrowed his brow when memories of conversations past overruled irrational panic. “Wait a second. You said he was doing well. Actually, I recall you saying his last MRI looked great and we didn’t have anything to worry about.”

I shrugged and slowly walked toward him. “I just don’t want to take any chances,” I said as I stopped right beside his chair and rested my ass against the edge of his desk.

Wes slid his chair back a few inches and turned in my direction, his jaw hard and his voice unyielding. “Cut the conservative crap, Win. He’s playing.”

Temperament manipulation—achieved.

Way to go, Win, my vagina cheered.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, I answered back.

Hopping up onto his desk, I spread my legs just enough that my skirt slid up my knees, revealing a few inches of my upper thighs. My pulse thrummed at double the speed of normal.

I’d never in my life done something like this. I waited for men to make their moves, took what I wanted when they offered it. But this was a demand—backhanded and manipulative, sure, but that was just the most effective form of negotiation when it came to Wes Lancaster.

Right?

His gaze followed the line of my legs, moving down until he took in the black stilettos covering my feet, and then it moved back up again, pausing on the few inches of skin revealed by the hem of my skirt for longer than an unaffected man would have.

I smiled internally and released my hair from my bun, the strands falling softly against my shoulders.

“What are you doing, Winnie?”

“I’m talking to you about Mitchell’s hamstring.”

“No. That’s not what you’re doing,” he argued, pushing his chair back from his desk and several inches away from me.

I let a tiny smirk curve just the corner of my mouth. “What do you think I’m doing?”

He considered me for just a moment before answering. “I think you’re trying to seduce me.”

“Well, that would be quite bold of me, wouldn’t it?”

“We’re in my office. At work.”

“Everyone has left for the day.”

“The cleaning staff is here.”

“The door is locked.”

“This isn’t a good idea,” he told me what I already knew.

“I know,” I said and unbuttoned my blouse until the lacy white bra underneath was revealed for his eyes.

His eyes homed in on my breasts. “This probably shouldn’t happen.”

Probably. His protests were weakening.

“I know,” I agreed again, even though I was hell-bent on seeing that it did, in fact, occur. Scooting my ass across his desk until I could rest my heels on the armrests of his chair, I caged him in. My skirt slid up even farther, revealing the white garters connected to my thigh highs.

“Fuck,” he muttered and couldn’t stop his hand from trailing up my leg. “This is such a bad idea.”

“Uh-huh.” I nodded and removed my blouse, peeling it back slowly, inch by inch, and then my bra, leaving my breasts bared for his now heated gaze.

His gaze caressed every inch of my skin until he was sliding both hands up my thighs and pushing my skirt up with their momentum.

“Fuck, Win. You wear shit like this to work all the time?”

I shrugged. “Sometimes.”

Never. But I’ll wear shit like this to work every day if it leads to you and me fucking on your desk.

I lifted my hips so he could move my skirt out of the way, until it was around my waist and my bare ass met the cool surface of his desk.

“Garters and a fucking thong?”

“Uh-huh.”

He groaned long and low. “You’re trying to kill me.”

I shook my head. “No. I’m trying to fuck you again,” I admitted frankly.

His eyes never left mine as he scooted his chair even closer, so close that his mouth was mere inches from where I throbbed and ached for him.

“Fuck, you’re wet. I can tell you’re soaked through your panties,” he whispered, the heat of his breath on my thighs making me shiver.

“Uh-huh.” I spread my legs even wider and kept them firmly placed on his chair.

“You want my mouth, sweetheart?”

“God, yes.”

“Show me.”

“Huh?”

He slid my thong to the side with his fingertips and stared up at me. “Touch yourself. Show me what you want me to do with my tongue.”

I moaned in response to his words.

“Don’t get shy now,” he commanded. You wouldn’t take no for an answer, so now, neither will I. He didn’t say the words, but with the way he was looking at me, he didn’t have to. “Rub your clit. Slip a finger inside your pussy. Show me what you need.”

Holy fuck.

“Do it, Win. Now.”

God, he was demanding. And hot. So fucking hot.