“You good, baby?” he rasps, gently cupping my cheek, the pad of his thumb trailing the curve of my bottom lip. And it’s his words, the baby, and the tender tone that has my racing heart tugging in my chest.
I manage a nod, unable to find my voice or words to respond.
With a knowing smile, Brookes dips down, his lips pressing against mine. And although I can taste myself, this kiss is more than just a kiss. This kiss might just be a little bit of everything.
CHAPTER 30
BROOKES
Like a fourteen-year-old who discovered porn for the first time, I came twice in my pants last night. Twice. And, as if that isn’t pathetic enough, I then jerked off in the shower. Who the fuck even am I?
Even now, halfway through the back nine, day one of the Frisco Classic, all I can think about any time I line up to take a shot is Poppy and her perfect fucking pussy. Because of course she just so happens to have the prettiest cunt I’ve seen up close. All soft, pink, and so fucking tight, not to mention wetter than any pussy I’ve ever had before. Not to be a dick, but I’ve been with enough women in my time to know what I’m doing. But the way Poppy reacts, how receptive she is, it’s an ego boost, that’s for sure.
I wanted to keep going—hell, I could have gone all night and well into the morning—but I knew I needed to get at least a couple of hours sleep if I was going to make it through eighteen holes today. So, I had a shower, and then when I came out of the bathroom, I found Poppy fast asleep, curled up into a ball. I contemplated going back out to the couch, but a) fuck that couch, and b) I got this overwhelming and totally foreign need deep in my chest to slide into the bed behind her, coax her out ofthat ball she sleeps in by pulling her in close and holding her. And against all better judgement, that’s exactly what I did.
When my alarm went off this morning, waking us both, I think Poppy was just as shocked as I was to find herself in my arms, her head on my chest. But it wasn’t weird or awkward, and there wasn’t a sliver of morning-after regret to be found, no sudden movements to put space between us. When I looked at her, how naturally pretty she was first thing in the morning, I had to have her pussy one more time. And seeing her fall apart, her soft body writhing, bathed in the early morning light, it was all sorts of fucking hot, but it also felt—dare I say—right?
“You good, Brookes?”
I snap my head to the side, finding Max standing there, holding my putter out for me. And it’s only then that I realize I’ve been so caught up in the memory of last night, I didn’t realize it was my turn to putt.
“Do we need to get Poppy back out here?” Max asks under his breath, head down to hide his lips from the cameras.
Poppy was out here with us earlier, but I could see she was tired after not only experiencing her first ever orgasm last night, but two more on top of that. So, with a kiss to her forehead, one that made her cheeks turn pink with the sweetest flush, I sent her back to the club house to relax.
Today is a good day. I’m paired up with Kaiji Shimitzu, who is possibly the nicest, most unproblematic golfer on the entire tour. We’re already at the thirteenth green and I’m on a fifty-fucking-two. Today is a fucking amazing day. Sure, I’d love to have Poppy here with me because she’s fun, and in that cute navy golf dress she was wearing, she’s kind of nice to look at too, but I’m okay. In fact, I don’t want to jinx anything, but I almost feel like a touch of the old Brookes is back.
“I’m good.” I shake my head, accepting the club from Max. “What’s the slope?
“Less than one percent.” He shrugs a shoulder.
With a nod, I walk across the green, the gallery clapping as Iapproach my mark, and reading the lay between my ball and the hole, I line up and chip it slightly left, rewarded with the satisfying pop as it falls perfectly into the cup for yet another birdie.
The crowd cheers and the trio of guys toward the back of the gallery, the ones who have been pissing off the marshals all day with their un-golf-like behavior, start to sing the“Guess who’s back”part from Eminem’s “Without Me” completely out of tune, which causes everyone to laugh and a few of the others to cheer. They’ve been doing it at every hole, and I love it. And although I can’t do what pre-rehab Brookes would have done, which is to run over there, high five them, and maybe even take a swig from one of their beers, I offer them wink and a nod on my way back to Max, waving politely to the rest of the crowd.
“Brookes, fantastic round out there today,” a reporter says from somewhere. I’m not paying attention. My sights are set entirely on the pretty brunette with the midnight eyes that match the dress she’s wearing, smiling at me from where she’s standing at the back of the room.
“Has the old Brookes finally decided to make an appearance?”
Snapping out of my trance, I clear my throat, scanning the sea of reporters before finding the one responsible for the question waiting eagerly for my response.
I lean closer to my mic, offering a simple, no-bullshit response. “I think so, yeah.”
“Brookes, that shot off the first tee shocked everyone,” another reporter begins, looking down at her notes. “When most golfers usually ease into the first round, you came out and smashed it out of the box with a four hundred seventy-six yard drive.” She looks up at me. “What do you think helped with your performance today?”
I nod slowly, processing the question, but then my gaze flitsto Poppy again, and another filthy image from last night flashes through my mind. Her soft thighs wrapping tightly around my head, her body twitching, hips bucking, searching for more. And I know I shouldn’t—I really,reallyshouldn’t—but I just can’t seem to stop myself as a smirk tugs at my lips.
“Um,” I rub my stubbled chin, biting back the cocky grin that threatens. “I don’t know...” With a shrug, I lock eyes with Poppy as I say, “Breakfast of champions, I guess…”
Poppy’s mouth falls open, cheeks flushing, and her gaze blazes at me from across the room, but I bite back my laughter, maintaining my most PR-approved smile while trying so hard to play it cool as the throng of thankfully oblivious reporters fight for the next question.
“I cannotbelieveyou said that!” Poppy murmurs through a gritted teeth smile as I wrap my arm around her on our way out of the media room, nodding to a few of the reporters hanging around outside.
I bite back a chuckle. “It’s the truth.”
“It wassoobvious,” she hisses.
“Let’s go get some food.”
