Fast and Loaded: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (18 page)

As the class progresses, so does the difficulty of the moves.

The welcome crew of ladies throw side glances in my direction as they contort their bodies with ease into the positions that Mandy calls by name.

“I’m not so good at this,” the lumbering Devlin says after noticing the awkward position his body forms.

I whisper a laugh.

“It’s all right,” I continue in a low voice. “The point is to relax a little.”

Mandy places her body on the floor then lifts her lower half above her head and into the air.

My shoulders drop in defeat, and I look over at Devlin.

We are the only two still standing.

I try to hold a straight face, but he bursts into laughter and I join in shortly after.

The welcome crew shoots an ugly glance in our direction.

I tiptoe so I can whisper in his ear, though my legs are so tired that I lose my balance. I fall an inch and catch myself on his chest. God, it's solid. Strong. Perfect. I shake my head to clear my thoughts and stand back on my own two feet. “Let’s go get some tea.”

He slips a hand around my waist, pulling me closer to the warmth of him.

“Let’s do that.” He smirks.

C
hapter 8-Devlin

I’ve heard the saying that you never miss a good thing until it’s gone, but didn’t know that it could apply in reverse. I didn’t know to miss a good thing until I found it. As a businessman, I find it important that I am taken seriously, especially being the youngest in the brood, so I don’t laugh much. I know how to charm when I need to, but playing is not an option. In the last hour with Ayron, I have laughed more than I have in the last month.

To my chagrin, after the failed class, we shower separately in our gender-appropriate locker rooms and dress in casual clothing. The tights and flowy tunic ensemble she emerges in more than demands my attention. No matter what this woman slips over her body, I want to take it off, and I know that I won’t be satisfied until I do.

We decide to leave her car at the yoga studio and I drive us to a coffee shop.

"Nice car." She trails a delicate finger along the door of my sleek, grey sports car. If she's impressed, she doesn't show it like most of the other women who'd gone for a ride in my car. I hold the door open and let her settle herself gracefully into the passenger seat.

"What kind of car is this?" Ayron asks.

"You don't know cars?"

Ayron laughs.

I shift into high gear as we hit the main street. Ayron squeals and presses her hand against the door. I smile at her, and she nervously smiles back.

"It's a Porsche Panamera," my hand slides the gear shift down, the motor thrumming beneath my palm. I glance at Ayron's thighs, wishing I could slide down there, as well. Instead, I throw her a cocky smile and say, "I only drive a Porsche, and I only drive fast."

People who buy sports cars and drive like they are taking a Sunday stroll annoy me. My time is important. Time is money, and I don’t play about my money. Many men have made the mistake of assuming that because my father is wealthy that I don’t understand the value of a dime.

In boarding school, Kevin never washed or even had his clothes dry cleaned, he simply bought new things. He bought clothes a month at a time and had whatever he didn’t wear shipped away. When he attempted to tease me because I had worn a shirt three times in a month, I had all of his deliveries rerouted to the city children’s shelter. Shortly after that, we became friends.

“Are you sure you’ve tried yoga before?” I question the beautiful woman by my side as we travel the distance to the place she requested. She was totally hopeless in the class.

Ayron reveals her nearly perfect teeth with a wide smile.

“You weren’t much better.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to catch me,” I tease. She nearly toppled over performing several poses.

“True,” she concedes. “You win.”

“So, are you better at picking tea than you are at yoga?”

“Let’s hope so,” she answers.

We enter the quaint shop with a few patrons and a strong aroma of coffee beans. I think of a small café that I frequent in Seattle, the rustic wood and metal décor a naturalist’s haven.

“That was fun,” I say to her when we take our seats face to face at a small table near the window after ordering.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she says.

“I enjoy being with you,” I tell her.

My father once told me that I have an addictive personality. I don’t necessarily agree with his assessment. However, I like what I like and if I like it, I want it.

Thinking about Ayron, I conclude that I still like her, more now than yesterday.

“Smooth,” she says, batting her eyes. “But I feel like there’s something that I need to confess.”

She takes in a deep breath.

I brace myself because there are many secrets that women can keep that can be devastating.

“I feel like there is a possibility that we could spend more time together, and I don’t want to lead you on,” she says, biting her luscious bottom lip.

“I prefer that you’re honest with me,” I respond with a lifted eyebrow.

I have experienced liars, women who clutch on to secrets in order to keep a man around and then let the craziness explode once they feel they have a man trapped. The lesson—never get trapped. I’ve been down that road, and I never want to go there again. Gisselle, my ex, was a woman for the unwell, for those who didn’t like sanity.

The waiter brings our drinks.

“Thank you,” Ayron says to the portly woman who wobbles away with an empty tray.

I take Ayron’s free hand.

“You can talk to me,” I assure her.

“How important is it to you that we be intimate?” she asks quietly.

I clear my throat. Every time I look at this woman, I remember her thick ass pressed against my dick on the dance floor. Fuck the cute words. Intimate? I don’t want to be intimate—I want to fuck the shit out of her until she falls over, but I can’t say those words out loud. Ayron doesn’t strike me as the bitchy type, but there is a certain level of respect commanded by her presence. The straightness of her back when she sits, and the graceful tilt of her head. Her poised posture is elegant during the day, but then there is the wild woman that escaped the night we pushed our bodies against each other all over the dance floor. I am ready to meet that wild woman again.

“Can I be real with you?” I scoot forward in the chair, nearer to her.

“Please,” she says.

“I’ve wanted to be inside of you since the moment I met you,” I tell her.

“Okay,” she says, sitting back. She withdraws her hand from mine. “That’s what I was worried about.”

I take her hand again and look into the pools of her brown eyes.

“I promise that I will take extra good care of you. There is no need to worry. I am a gentleman first.”

“That’s the point. I don’t want to be intimate,” she says.

I laugh again, a record for the day.

“Are you saying that you don’t want to be intimate with me?” I question with furrowed brows.

This is a first. Women usually fight battle-style trying to hop into my bed. I remember there was an employee at the shoe store who literally locked me in the storage room and started ripping off my clothes.

“At least not for thirty days,” she adds.

I blow my breath into my hands and sniff in jest. I then take a quick whiff at my armpits comically.

“What? Do I stink?” I question.

“No.” The sound of her laughter lifts a smile across my face. “Sex complicates things. It clouds my judgment and I want to make sure that I know you, learn about you for who you are as a person, and not just what your body can do to mine.”

I don’t say anything, but search her face for sincerity.

“I respect that,” I say finally and take a sip from my tea.

“Do you?” she says with more confidence than before. More like the woman who showed no shame on the dance floor.

“I do,” I say honestly. “But just to let you know, I don’t place any limitations on myself.”

She looks into her cup as though words could be found there, and then refocuses on me.

“Then this is the limit on our time,” she says, placing a kiss on my cheek.

“Ayron, wait.” I look at the unbelievably beautiful woman in disbelief. “Are you leaving?”

No woman had walked away in the middle of a date before. Ever. Had I ditched a few in the late hours of the night after a hotel tryst? Sure, but with that general understanding already established.

Her tempting body moves through the door with ease.

I look at my watch.

She can’t truly be leaving. She doesn’t have her car.

Through the window, I see her accentuated hips and remember that I haven’t sampled her yet. I like fine things; unique and complicated items that are difficult to find and can’t belong to everyone. I don’t spend excessively like Keith, flying people around the world randomly on private aircraft. I spend when and where it matters, for items that will benefit me in the future. The same rules apply for my time. Putting in time with Ayron, which I suddenly have an abundance of lately, will definitely be a worthwhile investment. I can’t let that get away yet, not without test-driving those curves first. If thirty days is what it takes to get a taste of her honey, I’m certain that the wait will be well worth it.

I catch up with her in a few steps and place a soft hand against her shoulder.

“I’m telling you the truth. Isn’t that what you wanted?” I insist, watching her eyes narrow against me. Her female bullshit detector is processing at high speed, but I continue. “At least let me take you to your car. I don’t want you walking away angry.”

“I’m not angry,” she assures me, folding her arms. “I just need your word that you’ll give me thirty days.”

“Thirty entire days and nights?” I question.

The glint in her eye lets me know that she isn’t playing, that she means every syllable leaving her perfect, pouty lips.

“Never mind,” she says, turning away from me, giving me a reminder view of her perfect ass.

I place a hand on her arm when I really want to place my hand against her backside.

“All right,” I concede. “But on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Let me have the phone?” I request, placing my hand in front her.

“You’re taking it back?” she inquires, as though the act would hurt her feelings. A few seconds ago she was so sure. Her body stays resolved, but her eyes soften enough for me to know that no matter what I say today, I will not have to wait the full thirty-day period. She definitely wants me.

She hands over the phone.

“Nope. I’m adding an appointment for day thirty-one, midnight,” I tell her with a wink. “By then, you should have those yoga poses down. Be ready.”

“And if you want to keep that appointment, I have conditions,” she says, placing a hand on her hip, her uncertainty disappearing.

“Are these conditions negotiable?” I push, hoping that she may waver.

“Sorry. Iron-clad,” she replies.

“Let’s hear it,” I tell her through a sigh, curious about what she may say.

No matter what, I get what I want. I like having things go my way, for the most part.

“You have to always be honest with me. Regardless of what you think, or how you think I may react…tell me the truth,” she says. Her brown eyes are open, honest, beseeching. I find myself wanting to agree to whatever she says, just to see that sunny warmth inside them, aiming its rays right at me.

“I’ve never had a problem speaking my mind,” I tell her.

Her eyes glide down the length of me as she wets her lips. I want to lick those lips.

“You know the terms. Are up for the challenge?”

“As long as I get to do this,” I say, pulling her close to me and taking in the warmth of her mouth. Spirals of electric heat descend me as I explore the warm softness of her mouth.

She smiles when I pull away.

“I’m all right with that,” she says.

“Deal,” I agree.

* * *

I
have only been away
from the building a few days and already it feels different. The first difference: my key card security access doesn’t work.

I swipe my badge across the magnetic strip attached to the back employee entrance and watch the light, which used to turn green, respond with a bright, blinking red. Locked out of my own company. This can only be Trevor’s doing. As Ayron and I were leaving the coffee shop, DJ Blast sent a shout out to my sister Dana Masters for her upcoming wedding. A wedding that would be taking place two weeks from now, when last week the pair hadn’t even set a date. I didn’t bother to go back to the yoga studio where Ayron’s car was. There was no time. I just brought her along with me.

I swipe the card again and get the same result before I let my fist come down against the irritating door.

“What’s going on?” Ayron asks, appearing next to me from the car, worry crowding her face.

“Nothing,” I lie. I may like her, but my family stuff runs deep, farther down than a minute conversation at the door.

“I get it,” she says, folding her arms. “You’re standing here slapping at a closed door because you enjoy it.”