“You should. I wondered.” He lifted a shoulder. “Even after I got the diagnosis, I tried to convince myself I was wrong, that my dad was a unique case. Deep down, I knew I was fooling myself. I only needed something to push me into realizing it.”
Realization dawned. “Your friend. The one you walked for.”
“Dean.” He put the frame down and gestured at the other photo, the one of him and his goddaughter. “When the reporters asked why I was retiring, I said I feared players’ head injuries weren’t being managed properly. The press went nuts, especially since my dad’s death was so fresh. There were already rumblings of the class action coming.” His words were halting. “I know the league was my employer, not my friend. But they spend all this time—the coaches, the media, my teammates—they tell you you’re part of a family. And it was like my family turned on me. My coach said I walked ’cause I couldn’t handle the pressure. Our quarterback said I was a traitor, that I’d left the team when they really needed me. I went from the Charm to the Curse.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that.”
“I’m sorry.” She wondered if anyone had seen much of this brooding, dark side of Samson Lima. Words didn’t feel like enough, so she wrapped her arms around his waist. “That must have been painful.”
He held stiff for a minute, then relaxed, putting his arms around her, engulfing her in his body heat. “I loved the game. I loved my family more.”
She lifted her chin so she could look up at him. She opened her mouth to say something. What, she wasn’t sure. Something smart and clever and kind. But the next thing she knew, his lips were on hers.
His hands slid over her back, to her butt, and rested there for a second. She pressed tighter against him, taking the kiss deeper. The energy shift between them was seamless, from comforting and pained to needy and lustful. The adrenaline that had fueled her flight to his place returned in a vengeance, channeled into lust. He pulled away to speak. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“We don’t have to think.” Better to think later. Putting her brain on a small time-out was necessary right now.
Let the anger and fear transform into mutual greed.
“I like that plan,” he muttered.
Her clothes were easy to remove. She only had to slide her yoga pants down her legs and yank off her hoodie and shirt. One of the plus sides of athleisure.
When she was naked, he surveyed her. She hadn’t worn a bra today, and her nipples peaked when he ran his gaze over them. His big hands reached up to cup her breasts and they both shuddered.
He was far too overdressed. She attacked the button on his jeans, struggling with the stiff denim. He tried to help, but his hands were more in the way than anything else. “You do your shirt,” she ordered, trying to concentrate.
She had to stop when his T-shirt cleared his head. Their hurried interludes in her car hadn’t given her enough time to appreciate his body. Not at all. His chest was so wide, the perfect size to curl up on and take a nap or pet or bite or lick . . .
Bottom line, she could do a lot to that chest.
“Bedroom,” he said, in a guttural tone, distracting her from her plans to world tour his upper torso, and she placed her hand in his, happy to comply. Their foreplay had lasted weeks now. She wanted his body driving inside hers.
They could forget, like they’d forgotten for that night in Cayucos. Forget about who she was and who he was and all of the baggage that made up Rhiannon Hunter and Samson Lima.
He tugged her into the bedroom. The sun was setting outside, but the blinds were pulled in this room, making it dark and cool, the only light spilling in from the living room. She shoved the comforter down and got in the bed while he undressed.
She might actually break her final rule and solicit pics of this dick. Pretty indeed.
Rhiannon tried not to lick her lips for fear it might come across as too lascivious, but her mouth watered when he walked over to the nightstand. He pulled a fresh box of condoms out of the drawer and ripped it open.