“I’m grubby. I need a shower,” she said, pushing to her feet to glance in the mirror.
The next image to take over his mind was stepping into a steamy shower behind Samantha. He blinked a few times and took a deep breath, hoping his thoughts wouldn’t inspire an erection.
“You okay? Were the boxes too much?” Her dark, chocolate brown eyes held concern.
He laughed. “You kiddin’? That’s nothin’. I take down guys ten times that weight in every game. Geez. What do you think? I’m a pussy or something?”
She made a face.
“Sorry. I need to clean up my words.” He sensed color in his face. He’d never had a girlfriend like Samantha Drake. She was smart, beautiful, and nice. She did volunteer work at the New Life Shelter for battered women and kids. But she wasn’t his girlfriend, only a friend. With no benefits. He sighed.
“My brother, Devon, talks like that too. You’d think football players never went to college.” She handed him a cold bottle of water.
He downed the liquid. “What’s next?”
She turned around in the room and sucked her lower lip between her teeth. “Bed, books, clothes, rocking chair. Hmm. How many boxes are still in the car?”
“Then that’s it. The place looks pretty empty.” She perched on the mattress, tucking her feet under her.
“You’ll have it furnished before you know it. Come on. I’m gonna bring those boxes up then take you out to dinner.”
“Thanks. Be right back.” Her thousand-watt smile turned his innards to jelly.
He sat in the rocking chair while Samantha washed the dirt off her luscious body. Or what he assumed was luscious. Sylvester “Bullhorn” Brodsky, known to his teammates as “Bull,” had the hots for Samantha Drake, and it was keeping him up nights. While he waited for her to want him back, his imagination ran through a half dozen things he’d like to do to her under the warming spray of hot water. She was a little slip of a thing, and he was huge. Six foot three inches tall and two hundred fifty pounds of pure muscle, the offensive lineman could lift her up with one hand.
1. Denial of their physical attraction crumbled in the dead of the night, when truth can’t be easily sidestepped. She’d noticed him the first time he’d passed in the hallway. Then the second time, when on a search for her brother, she’d spied Sly draped in nothing but a towel in the locker room. Embarrassment had filled her cheeks as she’d scurried outside to wait for Devon. The lineman had simply laughed, showing no modesty at all.
Sly Brodsky. Bull. Did she want him? Sam smiled to herself. Of course, she did. But she wasn’t about to tell anyone, especially him. She could barely admit it to herself. He appeared content to wait, which was fine with her. She enjoyed being in control. Still, to be honest, she wouldn’t make him wait forever. Only as long as she could stand to back away, even when she longed to lose herself in his arms and let him take her home.
“Maybe. Don’t you have a girlfriend?” She tilted her head back to make eye contact.
“Huh? I’m surprised. Thought football players had women crawling all over them.”
“Not the kind of women I want. I’m looking for a real woman, not a hook-up.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And what’s a ‘real woman’ like?”
“One-of-a-kind, like you.”