Page 35 of Playboy Pitcher

Look away, Willow… No! Away! Not down!

Too late.

I think I blackout for a minute. I’m not sure; everything gets quiet as I settle my eyes on God’s gift to the female gender—gray sweatpants.

I’ve seen this man nearly naked, but that was different. I don’t care how big a guy’s dick is, a jockstrap in a sweaty locker room doesn’t do it for me. Call it an unfortunate by-product of growing up around twenty-eight grown men who gave zero fucks about an eight-year-old girl running in and out of the team locker room.

Maybe that’s why I fit in like one of those square pegs in a sea of round holes as a teenager. While other girls giggled and obsessed over penises, I couldn’t care less. I’d long become desensitized and frankly bored with their appeal.

If you’ve seen one dick, you’ve seen ’em all.

But standing on Benson LaCroix’s doorstep, staring at a pair of tented gray sweatpants, I’m eating those words like a bag of Skittles.

Thanks to our locker room encounter, I found out first-hand his nickname wasn’t just a baseless rumor. Big Ben definitely earned his title. However, it’s one thing to argue with a man when his cock is all nestled in a jockstrap, but it becomes a whole different ball game when you show up at his house to find it doubling as his own personal compass.

And apparently, he’s headed due North.

“Willow?” Woozy and dick drunk, I reluctantly drag my gaze up, only to collide with two raised eyebrows and a wide grin. “Is there something you want?”

My heart is thumping so fast, it feels like my veins are filled with pure adrenaline. “Did I, uh, did I interrupt something?”

“Nothing I can’t finish later.” His grin turns wicked as he shifts those hypnotic blue eyes to the left, where I’m currently white-knuckling the doorframe. “Unless you want to give me a hand.”

Oh my God.

The hair. The flush. Theerection.

Was he…?

And I rang the doorbell before he could…

Oh God.

“I-I can come back,” I stutter, backing away as if his dick is going to leap from the top of his sweatpants and…

And what, Willow? Jump into your mouth?

Jesus Christ, I have to get out of here.

“No,” he says, grabbing my wrist. “You obviously came here for a reason.”No, don’t look at him. Do. Not. Look.Sliding his hand up my arm, he grips my bicep and tugs me toward him.Fuck.A low chuckle skates over my skin as he moves closer, bending his knees until he’s looking straight up at me. “A reason important enough to con Hoyt into giving you my address.”

Ooof. Busted.

Glancing down, I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to look apologetic. Ben lets out a hearty laugh, and I peek out of the corner of my eye to see that infamous panty-dropping smile.

Huh.It seems I suck at faking orgasmsandremorse.

Rising to his full height, he tips my chin with his forefinger. “Never play poker, Puddles. You’ll lose your shirt.” Pivoting, he takes one step inside, when he suddenly stops and looks over his shoulder. Salacious eyes lick a heated trail across my exposed cleavage. “On second thought…”

“Ugh…” Scrunching my face, I push past him. “You’re such a pig.” Once inside, I spin around and plant both hands on my hips.

“Please,” he says dryly, closing the door behind him. “Come in.”

“Are you even capable of having an adult conversation?” I hold up a finger. “One that doesn’t involve, mention, or allude to sex?”

“Sure.” He grins. “But then I’d be you, and unlike some people, I like having friends.”

Why do women fall all over this man? I mean, sure, the package is pretty, but once you open it up, it’s a complete bait and switch. Kind of like finding a razor blade in your apple at Halloween.