Page 8 of The Game Plan (Game On #3)

Dex

What is it about Fiona Mackenzie that makes me say things I shouldn’t? Do things I wouldn’t? She sees right through me with

her grass-green eyes.

We’re walking through maple trees, now scarlet and carnelian with their fall foliage. Fi’s head barely reaches my shoulder.

I’m a giant next to her, my feet hitting the walkway with dull thuds. Against my chest, Leo snuggles, a warm but light weight.

I rest a hand against his little butt as we walk over a footbridge.

“Why do you play football?” Fi asks, her voice soft in the quiet of the garden.

“The pain,” I answer without thinking, and then wince. Shit. Again, she has me confessing.

Her doe eyes peer up at me as her lips twist in a frown.

“Aggression, release,” I feel compelled to add, somehow struck with verbal diarrhea after one glance from Fi. “It’s a way

to go outside of my usual self. To perform on a physical level.”

I hold a hand out to guide her over the stepping stones dotting a pond. She takes my hand—though I know she doesn’t need the help—and I don’t let it go once we’re back on the path.

“A center doesn’t just cover the quarterback and create lanes. A good one reads the game, what each player, both offensive

and defensive, is planning. He anticipates, adapts, protects.”

“Perfect for you,” she murmurs.

New warmth floods my chest. “Yeah.”

Most girls I’ve been around are divided into two camps: those who want me because I’m a football player. I could be ugly as

a mole and a total asshole, and they’d still want to fuck me. Then there are ones I’m interested in who, ironically, don’t

get what I do and don’t really want to.

Amy was like that. A fellow fine arts major, I’d fallen hard for her during the beginning of my junior year. She hadn’t reciprocated.

To her, I was a big oaf obsessed with a violent sport.

Fi has outright told me she doesn’t date athletes. But she’s here now. And she gets me.

I like her. Always have. She’s honest in a way that’s never cruel, only pure and unfiltered. It’s so refreshing. I find I can truly

breathe easy around her.

Her hand in mine is slim, the bones delicate and so easily breakable. I hold on to her carefully, let my thumb stroke her

wrist. And though I’m the one stroking her, a shiver of awareness runs along my arm and straight down into my cock. Because

I’m touching her, and she’s letting me.

I want to run my fingers all over her small, curvy body. My gut tightens with that need, my heart pounding against my chest.

I’m royally fucked up. I don’t know what to do with women—I’ve avoided getting close to them for years.

Which flat-out sucks for me now.

Fi notices I’ve gone quiet, and glances up at me. “Get out of your head, Ethan.”

“I live there,” I say, trying for lightness. “Not that easy to escape.”

She gets me enough to understand that about me, but I’m happy she doesn’t know why I’m stuck in my head.

“Last night,” she says in a conversational tone, “I went to sleep wondering how your beard would feel between my legs.”

I stumble over a paver. The baby snorts, but I right quickly.

Fi isn’t even looking. She’s walking a few steps in front of me, her voice light and unaffected. “I wondered, would I feel

its tickle if you sucked on my nipples?”

Heat floods my lungs. I can’t breathe. My cock is a throbbing shaft in my jeans.

Maybe I make a sound because she turns, glances at me over her shoulder. Whatever she sees in my expression has her smile

fading and pink washing over her cheeks.

Her steps slow, but mine don’t. I stalk forward, keeping my eyes pinned to hers.

Still flushing, she backs up. I think I grin. I’m not sure. My goal is clear.

I shepherd her toward the bench set beneath the curtain of a weeping willow. My hands easily span her waist, and it’s nothing

to lift her up. She stands before me on the seat. Her breath comes in soft, audible pants, her pert breasts at my eye level.

She doesn’t say a word as my hand slips beneath her sweater. Satin-smooth skin greets my palm. I slide it up, over her flat

belly, past her ribs—watching her eyes the whole time. I love the way those eyes grow wide, the shock and the heat that glow

in them.

She doesn’t say a word when I run my fingers over the swell of her breast and catch hold of her lace bra, tugging it down.

A small sound escapes her, though, as I slowly lift one side of her top.

“The baby—”

“Is asleep. Don’t wake him.” I’m so close that I can see the flutter of her pulse against her neck. Her warm scent floods my nostrils, woman and sweet green tea.

The soft cashmere slips over her breast, freeing it with a little bounce, and my dick surges against my jeans. I swallow a

groan. God, she’s beautiful. Creamy, firm flesh, a rosy-brown nipple the size of a quarter.

“Hold your top.” My voice sounds guttural.

But she does what I demand, her breast shaking a little with each quick breath. My hand shakes too as I cup her warm skin,

plump her sweet tit for the taking.

Then I kiss her nipple, grazing the tip, tickling it with my lips and beard.

“Ethan...” Her hand lands on my shoulder, holding tight.

I’m so hot, my skin burns. I kiss her breast like I would her mouth, licking and sucking, nipping the stiff bud, brushing

my lips over it. And do it all over again. I get lost in the act, fucking worshipping her breast the way it ought to be.

Small, needy whimpers leave her mouth as she clutches my shoulders with both hands now, her sweater sliding a little and falling

onto the bridge of my nose. I don’t care. I drag the flat of my tongue slowly over her nipple, savoring it. And she groans.

Long and loud. The sound is a hard tug on my cock.

My free hand finds her hip, pulls her forward.

Leo wakes with a squeak and a little cry of protest.

Instant bone kill. I yank my head out from under her sweater and take a step back, careful to keep my hands on her hips so

she doesn’t fall.

Closing my eyes, I take a breath, then another. Jesus, I’ve never done anything like that, never let myself not think and just take what I want. And I want to do it again, and again, lose my mind on pleasuring Fiona Mackenzie.

I’m almost breathing normally as I turn to sit on the bench so I can see what Little Man wants.

Next to me, Fiona rights her clothes and jumps down. Keeping her back to me, she runs a hand through her hair. When she finally turns, she doesn’t look embarrassed or regretful. She simply helps me change the baby’s diaper as if nothing happened.

I don’t know if I should be grateful or disappointed. Right now, I’m going with disappointment.