Play By Play: Taking a Shot Part 42

Buried deep like this, he pulled back, looked into the beautiful blue depths of her eyes, watched her lids partially close as her p.u.s.s.y clenched around his c.o.c.k, all that wet heat surrounding him.

And when she quickened the pace, rocking back and forth and grinding against him, he was going to lose it.

"Come for me, Jenna," he whispered, licking her earlobe as he held on to her b.u.t.t and pulled her tighter against him, grinding himself along her c.l.i.t.

"Oh, G.o.d, yes, that's going to make me come so hard," she said.

When she dug her fingernails into his shoulders, he knew she was ready, and he thrust deep, holding her there while she fell apart. He felt her, felt her walls convulse around him as she came. She bucked against him in a wild frenzy as her climax tore her apart.

He couldn't hold back as the roaring freight train of his o.r.g.a.s.m slammed into him. He jettisoned his come inside her, emptying everything he had and holding her tight while he poured over and over until there was nothing left.

Christ, that had been intense. It had always been that way with Jenna, and now that he held her again, it was as if the world had turned right side up again, and everything that had been wrong had been corrected. Something hadn't been right ever since that night he'd walked out on her. He'd pushed it all to the back of his mind because he'd had to concentrate on playing hockey, but his first thought had always been Jenna.

Work would always be work, but his first priority would always be the woman he loved, the woman he intended to make a life with. And now that he held her again, now that he could breathe in that unique scent that made her who she was, he realized he'd never be whole without her. That's what love was. He'd spent his whole adult life wondering what love was about, and now he knew. He'd never chased it, never wanted it, but it had found him anyway.

He lifted her off him and set her on the bar.

"Your coat," she said.

"Is fine. I want to look at you. Your body is flush and pink and beautiful."

He traced his tongue between her s.e.x and hip.

She giggled. "What are you doing?"

"I think right here would be a perfect spot."

"For what?"

"Your next tattoo. I can envision a script pattern."

"Of?"

"My name, of course. Right near my favorite spot of your body."

She was quiet for a few seconds, then said, "Done."

He lifted his head. "Yeah?"

"Of course, as long as you get Jenna tattooed on your arm."

"You got it. Make an appointment with your tattoo guy next week. I want your name on me."

"Really? You'd do that?"

He stood. "I'm going to marry you, Jenna. I wasn't kidding about the forever part."

She leaned forward, threw her arms around him, and kissed him, then searched his face. "But ink really is forever."

"And so am I."

Jenna sighed as she looked down at Ty, reading the truth on his face.

This was all real. Him, the new club, her new life.

Facing her fears had given her some of the greatest gifts, the most important one this amazing man.

She'd put all her dreams on hold for so long. But now, thanks to Ty, his love, and a lot of courage, all her dreams were coming true.

KEEP READING FOR AN EXCERPT FROM THE NEXT PLAY-BY-PLAY NOVEL BY JACI BURTON.

PLAYING TO WIN.

AVAILABLE SOON FROM HEAT BOOKS.

COLE RILEY HAD BUILT HIS REPUTATION ON BEING tough, especially on the football field. He didn't yield, and when he had the ball in his hands, there was only one thing on his mind-the end zone. He was hard-headed and single-minded, and he liked to win.

Same thing with women-once he had a target in mind, he went for it until he scored.

So even though this was a target-rich environment, and more than half the s.e.xy women at the party tonight were giving him the once-over, he hadn't hooked up with anyone in the few hours he'd been here.

Which was unusual for him. He liked the ladies. The ladies liked him. No ego on his part, he just enjoyed women. He loved being around them. They were sweet, fun to be with, they smelled great, and they made him feel good. There was nothing bad about that. In return, he showed them a good time, spent money on them, and never lied to them or tried to be anything other than who he was.

Women liked honest men. His mother would slap him sideways if he ever lied to a woman. He might be a little on the wild side, but he wasn't dishonest. He never promised a woman anything he wasn't willing to deliver.

Which meant he steered clear of women looking to hook a husband. He gravitated toward the party girls, like the hot redhead and the statuesque brunette who'd been hovering near his radar all night. Those were the women who wanted to have the same kind of no-strings-attached fun he did.

So why did his focus keep drifting to the cool blonde sitting all by herself at a table in the corner? She wasn't his type at all. She wasn't wearing a skin-tight spandex dress that showed off a lot of t.i.ts and a.s.s. She wore a simple, short-sleeved dress that went to her knees, though she did have killer legs-legs he'd like to see a lot more of. She just wasn't showing off her a.s.sets.

She was beautiful, sure, with a face that would stop traffic. And the way she was dressed screamed money and high society. Maybe she was related to the team owner. But he hadn't seen anyone come within ten feet of the table in the past two hours. She was no wallflower, but she wasn't giving off vibes that said "Come talk to me."

Wasn't his problem. He didn't know her and he intended to have fun tonight. Team parties were always a blast, and media free. He could hang out with his new teammates, down a few drinks, chill with the ladies, and just have a good time.

There were plenty of women here to have the kind of fun he was looking for. The blonde wasn't the right type. He could tell from the rigid set to her shoulders and the stick-up-her-a.s.s way she sat that she wasn't a partier. She surveyed the room and gave off definite "keep the f.u.c.k away from me" signals, which was likely why no one approached her.

Still, he hated seeing anyone sitting alone. He went up to the bar and nudged Grant Ca.s.sidy, the Traders quarterback.

Grant turned, then nodded. "Hey, Riley. What's up?"

"Do you have any idea who that blonde is sitting by herself over in the corner?"

Grant followed the motion of Cole's head, then frowned. "No. Who is she?"

"No idea. I figured you know everyone on the team. Is she related to the owner?"

Grant shook his head. "Ted Miller's daughter is a brunette. And she isn't here tonight. I have no idea who the blonde is. She looks mean."

Cole laughed. "That's what I thought, too."

He should ignore her and concentrate on the hot brunette or the s.e.xy redhead. But for some reason the lonely blonde in the corner kept grabbing his attention and wouldn't let go.

Maybe it was because she kept looking at him. Not in the way that other women looked at him-the take-me-home-with-you-tonight look. Her look was different. Cool and a.s.sessing, an occasional brief glance and then she'd look away.

He wasn't a game player. Maybe she was.

This was bulls.h.i.+t. He pushed off the bar and headed her way. She could throw off all the stay-away signals she wanted, but he was curious now. Someone that beautiful was alone for a reason.

He stopped at her table and her gaze lifted, slowly studying him. She didn't smile, but she didn't frown, either.

"You here alone?" he asked.

"Yes, I am."

Southern accent. It fit her. She was all peaches-and-cream complexion, full lips, and the prettiest eyes...like whiskey.

He slid his hand out. "I'm Cole Riley, wide receiver with the Traders."

She slipped her hand in his and finally gave him a smile, the kind of smile that made a man glad to be a man.

"h.e.l.lo, Cole. I'm Savannah Brooks. Won't you sit down?"

Bingo.

LORD HAVE MERCY, BUT COLE RILEY'S PHOTOS AND videos did not do the man justice.

In person he made a woman go weak in the knees. Savannah was glad she was sitting down, because now she understood the mystique she'd read about in the tabloids and all the articles about him as a lady-killer.

She certainly felt the heart palpitations when he slid his very large hand in hers and graced her with one look of his drop-dead-s.e.xy gray blue eyes. When he looked at you it was as if everyone else in the room fell away, and you were the only woman on earth. Which she knew wasn't true, because she'd studied him all night long, and there were at least twenty women focused on him like they were starving and he was meat.

He wasn't meaty at all. He was perfect and absolutely delicious. About six-foot one, two hundred and fifteen pounds of s.e.x on a stick would be her guess.

If she were out scouting for a man, which she most certainly wasn't, she'd pick him out of a crowd. He stood out, with his inky black hair and gorgeous, well-toned muscled body, even if he did wear his hair a little long and s.h.a.ggy. There was a certain presence to him. Arrogance, maybe, though she was surprised after reading his file that he wasn't standing on top of the bar or involved in a brawl or wrapped around two or three women in a dark corner.

Maybe the media had blown his off-the-field antics out of proportion. Maybe his reputation was more hype than anything.

"So, Savannah Brooks. Why are you sitting here all alone?"

"I'm observing."

He c.o.c.ked a brow, his defenses obviously up as he bent forward, perched on the edge of the chair like he was ready to take flight. "You're not a reporter, are you?"

She smiled at him. "No. I'm definitely not a reporter."

He relaxed and leaned back against the chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "Okay, then."

"You don't like reporters."

"Nope."

"And why is that?"

"They lie."

"About you."

"All the d.a.m.n time."

"What kind of lies have they told about you?"

"I don't want to talk about me. Let's talk about you. You have a beautiful southern accent, Savannah. Where are you from?"

Not at all what she'd read about him. That he was an egomaniac, that every conversation centered around him, his stats, his prowess in the bedroom, that he hit on women as a second career, pressuring them to go home with him.

Maybe the media did lie.

"I'm originally from Atlanta."

"But you don't live there now."

"No."

He smiled when she didn't offer any more information. He had an amazing, off-kilter smile that made her stomach flutter. She had to stop being such a girl about him. He might be flirting but she was here on business.

"Do you want me to guess?"

"Not at all. I live in Los Angeles."

"You don't look like the L.A. type."

She arched a brow. "There's an L.A. type?"

"Yeah. And you're not it. You're a Georgia peach. All southern re-fined, laid-back beauty. Not fast paced, get famous and noticed L.A."

"I have many clients in Los Angeles. That's why I live out there."

"But you travel-for your job? Is that why you're gone a lot?"

He listened. A good quality. "Yes."

"And what do you do for a living, Savannah?"

"I'm a consultant."

"Broad concept. What kind of consultant?"

"An image consultant."

"What does an image consultant do?"