Page 4 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)
Max
I’ve scored a hot kiss in a ladies’ room plenty of times in what the press refers to as my wild and wicked past. Got a piece of ass there, too, once or twice. Cleat chasers are into that shit. Though, with Natalie in the picture full time, those days are behind me.
But this right here? This is not the same.
Even though this woman is playing coy and only gave me her last name, she’s not as assertive as some I’ve met.
She may be trying to win a bet with her friend, but I’m not positive she even knows who any of us guys are.
What I do know is I’ve been imagining her smooth lips on mine since I first walked down this deeply carpeted hallway in search of an intriguing woman with a mass of untamed curls framing her beautiful heart-shaped face.
Somehow, I knew she’d be different— real, as opposed to the Barbie doll type —and my game sense paid off. Then again, the straining of my cock against my zipper is pretty fucking real too. It’s a high leverage situation right here, but I’m known for making the big play under pressure.
Her fingers at my neck weave into the waves that brush my collar. I haven’t had a haircut since opening day over a month ago but we’re still in the front half of the season, and what can I say? We all have our superstitions .
“You like that, don’t you, Palmer Girl?” I like it. I also like the way that nickname slips from my tongue.
Dark eyes dancing, she bites her lip— Bites. Her. Fucking. Lip— before letting it pop free .
“Yeah, I like that.” She reaches for the hair falling over my forehead and shoves it to the side. “I like this, too, bad boy.”
Fuck. Me.
Her hands glide over my scalp until my head is trapped between her palms. A bit of a role reversal, but I could get into this. Her thumbs rotate over my temples, soothing my skin and making me wonder what she has planned.
Or, here’s an idea . . . I could show her what comes next. Yeah, I like that idea better, and press my way through her hold until our mouths are fully fused.
Fuck, I knew her lips would be soft. Her hands are still in my hair but her concentration seems centered on kneading my mouth with her own.
Into making these little mewling sounds that turn my dick to stone.
I politely tease the seam of her lips with my tongue and she obediently opens for me with a slight gasp.
Girl isn’t wasted, but I taste the faintest hit of vodka.
Makes me want to dribble the bottle of it over her naked body and lick it off.
Her hands have released my face and they’re taking turns grasping and clawing at my collar, digging under the folds of fabric until they reach skin. I tense, but this girl isn’t planning to mark me with lethal acrylic nails as some badge of dishonor.
How can I be so sure of that? Fuck if I know.
Except, I can sense the essence of this girl. After only a short while in the restroom of an unfamiliar but uber-sophisticated event space, this person is not a stranger.
She breaks the kiss and eases back, her breathing heavy and her eyes cloudy, as if she’s confused and processing our actions of the last several minutes. Believe me, I have some processing of my own to take care of.
Her smile is regretful as she pulls out of my arms and reaches down to the floor to pick up her purse.
She straightens to full height with only one slight sway and swipes her finger at first one corner of my mouth, then the other.
When she draws her hand back, her fingertip is pale pink and glistening.
Her lip gloss. You’d think I kissed it all off by now.
Maybe next time I’ll be the one wiping the remnants of her shiny lip color off . . . my cock. My dick stirs in my pants. He approves of the idea.
“You’re the best bad boy I’ve ever kissed, Murph. I think I’ll remember this day for a long while to come.”
Wait. What? I capture her wrist in my hand. “You playing a game with me, Palmer Girl? You got the assist and now you’re chasing off the devil?”
Her chuff of laughter is immediate. “Hah, I chased off the devil years ago. This was meant to be fun, big guy, and you did not disappoint.” I let her arm fall free.
She opens the door, steps into the hallway, and glances down the corridor and into the ballroom.
“You better get back. Your boys are going to be wondering if I kidnapped you.”
I follow her out—I’m not some perv staking out the ladies’ room, after all—all while some emotion I don’t understand makes me wish she had left her mark on me.
“Just so we’re clear,” I say, and she spins and shushes me, so I lower my voice. “We’re not through.”
She stops, her back to me, and raises her hand to stop me before she slowly pivots again to face me. Her eyes are narrowed as though she—or maybe it’s me—is missing something important.
“Just so we’re clear”—she tucks in the fingers of her raised hand till only one remains, and it’s pointing straight at me—“You’re good, but I have a feeling you’re trouble.” Then she’s walking away.
Ooh, this girl is good. I nod to myself and call out after her, “It’s like you already know me.”
Palmer’s steps slow and she faces me for one final split second. But I catch the quick movement before she turns back and strides across the room to her table.
She winks .
That’s all it takes for my dick to award her a standing ovation.
Greedy jerk forgot he got to party just the other day.
Standing in the hallway, I lean against the wall with my foot kicked back.
I seldom search out the benefits of out-of-town hookups, mainly because there’s another young woman in my life who I need to protect from unscrupulous reporting and salacious sound bites.
Getting off with a booty call in St. Louis means a few other things got neglected, though. Socials, for example. And emails. Not nearly as sexy or fun, but business doesn’t take care of itself. I pull out my phone and give my johnson a moment to repent.
I scroll past the various ads and news blogs, and skim a reminder message from my agent about an upcoming fan event to benefit Camp14, my own foundation that supports youth sports as well as training for coaches.
I’m only half paying attention to Flynn Nichols’ concern over a lack of volunteers, so I flag the email and continue scrolling, my mind wandering back to the feel of Ms. Palmer’s soft curves in my hands and under my lips, when my brain takes a stumbling halt and I click on a message from Natalie’s school.
They’re probably looking for signed merch for some auction or another.
That’s common, and an easy ask. I’ll lob the request to Flynn to handle.
They’re not looking for donations. What. The. Hell.
I drop my foot, as if that’ll make their message easier to understand.
Natalie cheated on an assignment? No fucking way she did that!
And even if she was caught up in some misunderstanding, wouldn’t that warrant a telephone call?
I click to compose a reply but pause since the only words I want to use start with fuck.
I can only imagine how that would be received at her fancy-ass academy.
Dear Fucking Headmaster,
Fuck you.
Signed,
Max Fucking Murphy
Yeah, that’ll go over big.
I read their email over again, this time with greater comprehension and without the blood-red sheen blurring my vision. Apparently, another student was involved as well, and we’re all scheduled to meet tomorrow morning to discuss their transgressions . I can’t fucking wait.
I pocket my phone and head back to our table.
As I approach, it looks as though the children have moved on to their next round, and are a good way toward lit.
Tripp is here again, too. He’s switched to what looks like Coke and he’s got his phone to his ear, quiet but studying me closely.
Bear lifts his glass as if proposing a toast.
“The bet is between Samson and me whether you nailed her out on that little patio in the back or bent her over the sink in the bathroom.”
Back in the day, when I was young and reckless, I’m ashamed to admit I would have laughed and played along, but today, my stomach instantly sours and I scowl at the whole table.
“Knock that shit off.”
They’re just stupid kids, but this conversation—no matter whether it’s about Palmer or any other woman—is wrong . As a team leader, I’ll get that point across.
Palmer and her friend have already taken off, and I’m ready to call it, too. I swipe up my jacket from the back of my chair and slide it on.
“What, you’re leaving?” Bear looks crestfallen.
Tripp playfully wraps an arm around him in a hug. “Yes, young cub. Papa Bear is leaving the den.”
Bear scoffs and shakes him off, and this time, my laugh is genuine.
“Now, nobody get jealous, but it seems I get to go ruin somebody’s week.” Amid hoots and a low chorus of ooohs , I give Tripp a look and he returns a slow nod. He’ll make sure these knuckleheads take a rideshare home.
Me, I have a few questions for my fifteen-year-old daughter.