me a look, but she likes the compliment—I see it in the way her cheeks redden. “I’ve just never slept with a guy I don’t know much about. It just feels a bit”—she shifts on her feet, looking down, and lets out a breath—“strange.” Her eyes come straight back to mine. “I don’t mean the sex was strange. The sex was incredible. Best ever. When you went in the bathroom, I was just thinking and realized I only know your name, age, and that you’re from America. I guess I freaked a little bit.”
I’ve had sex with women and not even known their name before, and it’s never bothered me. But then I’ve never been in a relationship before. I don’t want her to feel weird. I want her to feel good.
She wants to know some stuff about me? Fine, I can tell her stuff. Just not everything.
“What do you want to know?”
Those small shoulders of hers lift again. “I don’t know … just like … where in America are you from? Not that I know tons of places in America, but I might know where you’re from.”
“I grew up in DC.”
She moves to lean back against the wall, taking her farther away from me, which I don’t like. “Washington, DC?”
“Yeah. But I live in Baltimore now.”
“Not heard of it.”
“It’s in Maryland.”
“Like the cookies?”
“What?”
“Cookies. Back home, we have cookies called Maryland cookies.”
I shake my head. “Never heard of them.”
“Guess they’re not named after there then.” She laughs softly. “What’s your job?”
“Sports.”
“Sports, as in …”
“Football. I play football.”
“My football or yours?”
“There’re two kinds?”
She gives me a look. “Don’t be facetious; you know there are.”
I lean back on my hands and raise my brow. “Oh, you mean, soccer.”
“Football. Yours is American football. My country and the rest of the world—”
“Except for America.”
“Call it football,” she carries on without acknowledging what I said. “So, I’m taking it, you play American football?”
“Yes, I play football.” I grin, knowing I’m annoying her and really enjoying it. It’s a turn-on, watching her getting flustered and pissed off with me. And I’m also enjoying the fact that she’s more concerned with being annoyed over the football/soccer terminology than she is with the fact that I play football. Back home, when a woman finds out I play for the NFL or she realizes who my father is, she’s more interested in that than who I am as a person. Which generally works for me because I’m not interested in any woman knowing the real me or me knowing her.
Yet here I am, telling Dillon things about myself because she asked and I’m finding myself curious to know stuff about her.
“Are you a quarterback?”
I chuckle and shake my head. “Fucking TV and movies have everyone outside of the sport thinking it’s the only player that exists on the team. Nope, I’m not a quarterback.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault that your American movies and shows only talk about quarterbacks. So, what position do you play?”
“I’m a wide receiver.”
“I have no clue what that means.”
“It means, I can catch like a beast, evade like a ninja, run like a motherfucker, and pass like the star I am.”
“Beast, ninja, motherfucker, and star. Sounds … modest.”
She grins, and I chuckle.
“Just telling you like it is.”
“Uh-huh. So, I’d ask what team you play for, but it would mean zero to me.”
Good. I’m not sure I want her to know. But then she’d only have to Google my name, and everything would come up. Who I am. Even outside of football.
“What about you?” I ask, deflecting the conversation from me to her.
“What about me?”
“Where are you from? I know you said your accent is Yorkshire.”
“I’m from Hull.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Not many people have.” She laughs. “It’s in East Yorkshire. At the end of the motorway. You only come there if you live there.”
“What do you do for work?”
She sighs and looks down at her feet. Her toes are painted a pale pink. I have the sudden urge to get down on my knees and lick a path from her pretty pink toes all the way up her leg to her pretty pink pussy.
“I was, uh, working as a receptionist for my ex’s family’s company. That’s how I met him.”
Ah.
“How long were you with him?”
I see a slight wince to her expression that makes me curious. “Um … six months.”
“And you were getting married?” I can’t stop the surprise that comes out of me.
I couldn’t imagine getting married, period. But marrying someone after six months of