“Funny you should ask that, bestie,” he drawls.
“Oh fuck.” I groan, tipping my head back and blinking at the ceiling. “What?”
“Miriam.”
Miriamagain. He has my attention. Lowering my gaze to him, I scrutinize him. Notice any traces of humor have fled, leaving behind a rare seriousness that those intrusive reporters’ cameras never catch unless he’s on the court.Fine, sue me. Since we’ve become friends, I’ve gone back and watched some online footage of him playing.
The man ismagnificent. Beauty and animal grace in action. Only to myself—and then in the darkest of hours when just the shadows of my bedroom stare back at me—do I admit watching him on that screen sent heat and smoke spiraling through me. Those same powerfully cut muscles that had flexed under taut skin ... the same exquisite controlthat had allowed him to leap in the air, snag basketballs out of the air, and fly down a court ... the same intensity and concentration tightening his face, narrowing his eyes ...
That same body, that same strength and domination had covered me, moved against me, been inside me. So fucking deep inside me.
Looking at this man do what he loved most was foreplay.
Dammit, what am I doing? And now I can’t glance at him with those images trucking through my head like semis on a long-distance haul. On the pretense of getting ready to shut it down for the day, I start clicking out of programs on my computer. Anything to corral my thoughts and get my face—and vagina—under control.
Besties.
He called us besties. Because that’s what we are. Get with the program, and stop campaigning for a repeat that’s never happening, you shameless hussies.
And why yes, I am having a conversation with my nipples and pussy.
Sigh. This is what I’ve been reduced to.
“Miriam.” He repeats my name, and because itismy name, I stop shutting down my computer and risk looking at him. Hoping,prayingmy face can keep its mouth shut. Or its face shut. Or ... hell. However that works. “I need a favor.”
“Yes.”
His big frame stiffens, and he blinks. “You haven’t even heard the favor.”
“Okay.” I shrug. “But yes.”
He’s never asked me for one before. Ever. So for him to come to me, it must be important. At least to him. So it’s a yes. Because he’s important to me.
A soft chuckle escapes him, and Jordan shakes his head. “Miriam ...”
“Oh, just ask it already, and give me the details.”
He rubs his hands along the length of his powerful thighs, but that’s the only sign of his nerves, his agitation. Yet it’s enough. My heart inches toward the base of my throat, mingling with my pulse. A cacophonous rhythm thrums in my head, and I’m nearly rising from my chair.
“Jordan ...,” I whisper.
“I need you to go out on a date with Daniel Granger.”
My ass plops back into my seat, my knees transforming to the consistency of my sister’s watery-ass turkey gravy. Relief? Shock? Both?
What. The. Fuck?
“Excuse me?” I rasp.
Exhaling a breath that echoes in the room like a boom, he tunnels his fingers through his long hair, dragging the thick strands away from his face. A couple cling to heavy scruff like a lover reluctant to relinquish their hold, and my fingertips itch to brush them away. To take their place and discover if that hair is coarse, silky, or somewhere in between.
He’d been clean shaven that night we ...
Focus, bitch.
Right.
Date. Daniel Granger.
