The Player Next Door (15 page)

“Honey, do you mind getting me that book on Egyptian cat motifs you mentioned the other day?”

Tori frowned at him. “Which one? I have dozens.”

“Just pick the one you think I’ll like best.”

“But—”

“I trust you.”

She frowned at him, but in the end, she went inside. Mike watched her go, his mind on the fact that she’d obviously
not
locked her front door when they’d left earlier. And then Mr. Williams turned to him.

“That’ll keep her busy for a while.”

He turned back. “Sir?”

“Look, I know you’re neighbors and all, but I just have one thing to say to you.”

The man stopped speaking, and Mike was left with a question and a creeping sense of dread in his stomach. In the end, he had to ask. “Sir? What did you want to say?”

Mr. Williams pulled his attention back from an annoying moth that was drawn to the front porch light and focused back on him. “I like watching you play.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“But if you hurt my daughter, I’ll send the picture to the internet.”

“What picture?” Though of course, he already knew.

“Oh. Right.” He pulled out his phone and thumbed it on. Two excruciating minutes passed as the man worked to find the picture and then finally passed it to Mike. And there he was, pink handcuffs and all, as Tori was busy unlocking them.

As pictures went, it wasn’t that damaging, though his teammates would have a grand time ribbing him about it. The angle didn’t show his unbuttoned shorts, and since he had on his shirt, there was nothing scandalous there by today’s standards.

What startled Mike was something else in the picture. It was the look on his face as he was watching Tori. She was bent over, clearly fitting key to cuff, so she couldn’t have seen it. But the camera did. As had Tori’s father.

Mike looked totally enthralled. Infatuated. Besotted. Pussy whipped.

All those words filtered through his mind, not to mention a few more graphic terms that were less than complimentary. He knew he wasn’t being led around by his dick. Truthfully, Tori was too distractible to be manipulative. But the look on his face scared him.

That was the look of a man whose world centered around a woman. Not his career, not basketball, not even the normal ebb and flow of life. He had the look of a man in far too deep with a woman, and it terrified him.

He pushed the phone away, panic beating tightly in his throat. “I have no intention of hurting your daughter, sir,” he said, barely keeping himself from running back to his house. Not the one next to Tori, but his condo in New York. Jesus, he’d only known her a couple weeks. How the hell had he gotten in so deep so fast?

“Good to know.”

Mike waited a moment—a couple heartbeats out of politeness—to see if the man wanted to say anything else. Then he just shook his head. “I think I’m going to call it a night. Got therapy early in the morning.”

Her father tilted his head. “You’re seeing a psychiatrist? You probably shouldn’t say that too loud. Not with reporters—”

“
Physical
therapy,” Mike ground out. “For my shoulder.”

Mr. Williams blinked then flushed. “Oh, right. Sorry.”

Jesus, the whole lot of them were bat-shit crazy. Meanwhile, Tori came back, her arms filled with five different tomes. She could barely see over the stack.

“Dad, I really don’t know which one—”

“This one is great, honey,” the man answered, pulling the smallest one off the top. “Thanks.” Then he leaned down and gave her a kiss. “I gotta get home. You know how your mother worries when I’m gone.”

“Dad, you just dropped her off at O’Hare, remember? She’s not home.”

“She knows anyway. I’m not sure how, but she knows when I’m out late. And when I don’t remember my pills.”

“You never remember your pills.”

“Exactly.”

Then he turned and shook Mike’s hand in a firm grip just as if he hadn’t just threatened him with internet exposure. “Great meeting you, son. Be careful with that shoulder. Lots of people like watching you play.”

“I will—”

“Good night,” he said, then he turned around and meandered back to his orange of a car. Mike watched him go, trying to settle the roiling emotions inside him. Damn it, he liked the guy. And he liked the man’s daughter. But he couldn’t be the Mike in that picture. He couldn’t be that out of control.

And so he turned to Tori, meaning to tell her
—
again
—
that they were done. But she beat him to the punch.

“You can’t spend the night, Mike.”

Again with the sucker punch to the gut. “What?”

“I’m still weirded out by my dad seeing you in handcuffs.”

“You took the key with you.”

“I know. It was totally my fault. But I can’t shake the image of Dad standing right there with you…well, you know.”

Yeah. He knew.

“I’ll have forgotten it by tomorrow, but for tonight…” She gave a shudder. “Besides, I have to draw up some plans for my rock garden.”

He looked over at the collection of stones by the side of the house. Sometime in the last few days they’d changed positions and had added two medium-sized orange ones.

“Um…”

“It’s a work in progress.”

Certifiable. They were all nuts. “Yeah, okay, Tori. I wanted to spend the night alone anyway.”

If he expected her to feel hurt by that, he was sorely disappointed. She cocked her head to one side, her blond hair slipping down her shoulder, and she gave him a dazzling smile. Enough that he was momentarily distracted until her words hit him.

“Well, that’s good then. We’re each on our own tonight.”

Was it? Was it good? His brain said yes; his body definitely did not. But it was too late. She stretched up on her toes, gave him a swift kiss on his chin since she couldn’t quite reach his mouth, then spun around and bounded back into her house. And while he stood there, he was both pleased and annoyed to hear the snick of the lock. Sure, she’d finally remembered to bolt the door. But he was outside with only the vague scent of ponzu sauce and lemon to keep him company. That and a burning desire to punch something.

“Bat-shit crazy,” he muttered as he stomped over to his house. “Totally, completely bat-shit crazy.”

Of course, he had no idea if he was talking about them or himself.

Chapter Twelve

Tori shut her front door and immediately let her too bright smile fade from her face.

WTF was she supposed to do now?

She’d seen the look of panic on Mike’s face. She had no idea what her father said to him, but it was clear the big bad basketball star was freaking out about something.

Jesus, why did men have to be so touchy?

Normally, she’d just ignore it. That had been her modus operandi with Edward. If he got in a snit, she would just make herself scarce until he figured it out. Which is why she’d made up some excuse and shut the door on Mike.

She was done with waiting for a man to get his act together, right? Which meant she either had to have it out with Mike or wash her hands of him altogether.

Shit, she could kill her father for showing up right then. She’d been all set for a night of hot sex and sweet snuggling when dear, dopey pater had to ruin it.

She dropped her head back against the doorway and let herself slide to the floor. But once there, she noticed all the dirt in the hallway and the paint she wanted to change. She had a busy life right now. An entire house to renovate before fall.

And yet, what she really wanted to do was spend every summer hour she had with Mike. She’d already watched every one of his games on YouTube. He was poetry in motion on the court, and she’d taken the time to learn some of the team’s favorite plays. Basketball was a complicated game when it came to measuring one play against another offense. It had been too much for her to process in the short time she’d had, but she was learning quickly.

And right there should be a warning sign to her. When had she ever buried herself in research of a man? Jesus…did that mean…? Could she…?

She couldn’t even think the word. After all, she’d thought she was in love with Edward but years later, she could barely think of the man without a sneer. Her other male companions didn’t even rank that high. In high school, the boys were too immature for her, and she was too bookish for them. And her college partners were simply sexual explorations that left her cold.

Which meant Mike was in a class all by himself. But was that lo—? Oy. She couldn’t think it. To feel that way about a man who was terrified by her father made no sense whatsoever. And yet, she couldn’t deny the deep yearning inside. Even now, she was a half breath away from running over to his house. She didn’t really want to talk about his panic
—
or hers
—
but she wanted to hang out with him. She wanted to drink beer with him. She wanted what came after the beer, too.

So this was lust, she told herself, even though what she felt was so much deeper, so much scarier than lust.

“I need to go to bed,” she said loudly. As if the echoing sounds would reinforce the need.

Maybe it did because she stood up and headed for her bedroom. Ten minutes later, she was stretched out on her mattress watching that YouTube video of a slo-mo Mike as he dunked a basket. Shirtless. Powerful. Wonderful.

She was in love.

Damn it.

...

Mike was going through his nightly shoulder stretches when his phone rang. He wasn’t going to answer it. He was too busy stewing about the evening and that damned picture when his shoulder twinged. Shit. He was pushing it too hard.

The phone kept ringing so he reached out and grabbed it even though he knew in his heart exactly who it was. And maybe that was why he was answering because maybe she’d tried to rewire her microwave or something.

“Hello?”

“Hi Mike. It’s me.”

“Everything okay?”

Long pause that had him straightening up in alarm.

“Tori?”

“I’m sorry about whatever my dad said.”

He stifled his groan as he flopped down on the couch. “Your dad is fine. Don’t worry about it. I’m not.”

“Liar. I saw your face. You’re back on that whole system thing again.”

Shit. He wasn’t used to being with perceptive women. “I told you we’re—”

“I’m the one who wanted a rebound lover, remember? How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not going to tie you down? I’m not going to screw with whatever’s going on in your head.”

He looked up at the ceiling. How did he tell her she was already screwing with his head? “Tori, it’s late. I thought you wanted to just go to bed.”

“I lied. I wanted to give you space.”

He couldn’t help the smile that curved his lips. He’d thought he wanted space, too. But the sound of her voice brought an excruciating awareness of how much he wanted to be with her. Damn it, he didn’t want to long for her. That was so high school.

“Do you want me to hang up?” she asked, her voice small.

Yes. No. Hell. “What are you wearing right now?” And where the hell had that question come from? He glared down at his thickening dick. Duh.

“I’m…well, do you want the truth or do you want me to make up some black lace teddy thing?”

Jesus. The image of her in see-through lace had him lurching upward on the couch. He forced himself back down and then…and then…he slipped his nylon shorts down and gripped himself.

“Is it okay if I answer both?”

“Black lace then?”

“Ever had phone sex, Tori?”

“Um…I can’t remember.”

He blinked. “Really? How could you not remember?”

“This is me. If it wasn’t memorable…”

“I got it. You challenging me?”

“I’m…” He could just imagine her now with that look on her face. Part deviltry, part preoccupation. Her head would be cocked to the side while she bit her lower lip and looked up to the right. Thinking. Thinking. “Can I hear you come?”

He nearly choked. “W-what?”

“I’m usually so distracted when you come. I want to hear it. Please?”

She was full of surprises. And apparently, he was more than ready to fulfill her wish. “Um, only if I get to hear you.”

He heard her tsk and imagined her full lips pursed in a pout. “You get to hear me—”

“I won’t play if you don’t.”

Pause.

“Okay, but you first.”

He was already halfway there, picturing her in a black teddy, her tight ass perked up high enough for him to slip in behind. God he would palm her globes, kneading them as he spread her open.

Then her voice came over the line, husky as she spoke in a raw whisper. “Do you know what I was going to do to you earlier? With you handcuffed in my chair?”

He was pumping his hand slowly, taking his time picturing her bent over and open. All he had to do to touch her breasts would be to lean down and take them. He’d pinch her nipples while her backside writhed over him. He’d push slowly inside.

“I was going to go down on my knees before you. First I was going to lick your fingers
—
the ones that had touched me
—
while my hands pulled you out of your shorts. You’re so big that I need both hands. I love the way it looks
—
thick and dark
—
while my fingers spread over and around.”

Jesus. Now he had two fantasies competing in his brain. Her bent over while he pumped into her, and this new one. This awesome one of her on her knees before him. White hands, dark dick.

“Would you lick me?” he rasped.

“Not at first. I want to taste your tip. The salt and the wet. And I read about this thing to do with my hands. It’s a rhythmic squeeze of the fingers down the shaft. It feels like a roll, but I’ve still got hold of everything.”

God, he wanted her to do that to him. He wanted to feel all of it. His hand right now wasn’t enough to really get it right. It wasn’t her.

“First I’d roll my fingers, then I squeeze tight and push toward the base. It stretches you, you know? And I get to see you push through. I bet I can feel your heartbeat through my fingers.”

His hips were working hard now. He couldn’t stop it, not with the image of her working his dick, her breasts bobbing into his hands because in his mind he was fondling them. Her breasts. Her hips. Her anything he could touch.