me square in the face. “Mr. Dallas. I said no shagging.”
I laugh, wiping saltwater out of my eyes. “Don’t say things like that then. I’m a man. Our minds are filthy.”
Her cheeks flush, and she points to the beach. “Go get your ball,” she says, her voice flustered. I inwardly chuckle to myself, thinking I could make that comment just as dirty.
“Okay, stay there.” I take heavy steps toward the beach and then remember she told me to shuffle my feet so I don’t step on a stingray. When I step onto the white sand, I hop on the hot surface. I grab my bag and jump to the wet sand, blowing out a quick sigh of relief.
Holy shit, that’s hot!
“How are we going to play football if I’m still in the water?” she asks. I pull the football out and hold it in the air, throwing my bag up onto the beach.
“We’re going to throw it.” Her lips twists as she comes closer to me, staring at the brown ball with brows cinched.
“What kind of football is that?” Palm up, she stretches her hand out. I give it to her and she wraps her other hand on top of it so it doesn’t fall. She inspects the ball as if she’s never seen one.
“I thought you said you’ve played before.”
Her eyes meet mine. “I have. How do you kick this?”
“Kick?” Her confusion clicks and I chuckle at the misunderstanding. “American football,” I clarify. Her freckled nose wrinkles. “You’re thinking about soccer, with a round ball. You kick it into the goal box?” She nods. “Have you never seen an American football game?”
“I guess not.”
I take the ball back and hold it up. “This is a football. We throw this instead of kicking it and someone runs it into the end zone for a touchdown, rather than a goal. There’s a lot more, but that’s the gist of it.”
“So, in America, the football I know is called soccer?”
“Yes.”
“Weird. But okay. How do you throw it?”
“Take your ring finger and put it on the second lace and then your first finger should hit the stitch line. Don’t grip it too tight. There should be a little air between your palm and the ball.” I lift my hand to show her. She eagerly watches. “So when you throw it, it’ll spiral out of your hand.” I throw it up on the beach, not too far. Her eyes widen at the perfect spiral.
“You’re good at that.”
The best. Her compliment makes my ego balloon, although she has nothing to compare it to. She runs up the beach to grab it. Gripping a football while wearing a skimpy red bikini is a wet dream come true. I’m glad I’m deep enough to hide my semi. She remains there, following my instructions on how to throw it. When she launches the ball toward me, the wobbly football lands at least ten feet from me.
“You could have caught that,” she teases, walking toward me.
“Hold up. Stay there,” I instruct while grabbing the ball. Catching might be easier when she’s not knee deep in water. When I throw, she catches it. “You’re a natural.” I beam with my arms out. She does a small curtsy. The next few throws, her technique improves with each pass.
“Woo-hoo!” she boasts when the ball spins in a somewhat tight spiral.
“Good job, Whiskey.” I spin away from her to give myself a moment. Watching her play my game, her excitement over it, makes my cravings for her intensify. I glance up to the blue sky and pull in a deep salty breath.
“Did I do something wrong?” She calls out from behind me. I shake my head and blow out a ragged breath. Definitely did nothing wrong.
“I’m going long,” I say over my shoulder, swimming further out. The shallow end of these beaches go on forever. But that’s okay because I need space.
“That’s a little ambitious,” she screams at me, making me laugh.
I stand up, a good forty yards away from her. “Are you ready?”
“To swim for it,” she teases. “Sure.”
I cock my arm back and snap it. The perfect spiral launches through the air, straight for her. Her eyes widen and she readies herself to catch it.
She catches this and I’m marrying her.
I squeeze my fists, not able to look away. Not even as something brushes against my leg. I jump up as the ball lands in her arms for the perfect catch.
“Yes!” I snap, surprised as hell. But then my feet hit