Page 30 of Her Player

I stared at the ceiling of my own bedroom in my own estate and tried to remember the last time I’d shared a bed with someone without a logistical reason for it. A conference. A business trip where the hotel had overbooked. Not like this. Not lying in the dark next to a man who had spent the last hour making me laugh at something I couldn’t even remember now because all I could think about was the warmth coming off his arm where it almost touched mine.

Almost.

The Golden Girls episode changed. The laugh track filled the room.

And then Rhett shifted beside me.

Not toward me. Just enough to let me know he was awake, too. Just enough to put the question on the table. His breath caught somewhere in the dark, like he’d been waiting for me to do something, anything, and he didn’t trust himself to be the one to do it first.

Fucking hell, this man.

Three years of patience. Three years of showing up. Three years of changing my tires and watching Golden Girls with me and tucking my hair behind my ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. And he was still letting me be the one to choose.

In the kitchen earlier, I’d taken half a step toward him and stopped. I left the other half hanging there between us. Couldn’t quite figure out what to do with it.

Well. Apparently my body had figured it out, because before I knew it, I rolled onto my side and closed the rest of it.

My lips found his in the dark.

He inhaled sharply against my mouth, like he’d been holding that breath the entire twenty minutes I’d spent pretending to be asleep. His hand came up to cradle the side of my face like I was made of glass. And the second my body softened against his, he stopped breathing entirely.

Yeah.

I’d been the one keeping us both waiting.

And then I stopped thinking about anything at all.

The hungry growl that reverberated down the back of my throat shot goosebumps skittering across every inch of my skin. In an instant, his hold became possessive. His kind touch, commanding and deep as he curled those callused fingertips of his into the softness of my hips. His tongue flooded my mouth. Hot, and thick, and aching for more. I tilted my head off to the side, my mind falling silent and blank as our teeth clattered together with the force of the kiss.

I guess that’s one way to shut my brain off.

The second my body collapsed against his, the wall of his chest warmed my insides. His rock-hard muscles sat beneath a small layer of softness that made my toes curl. The Golden Girls episode we were watching faded into the background. Gone were the idiotic, emptyheaded phrases of Rose. Gone were the quips from Dorothy that made me feel more connected to a fictional character than I needed to be. Gone was the laugh track and the quips of Blanche trying to find herself the right kind of dick.

I had the right kind of dick right here in bed with me.

Fucking hell, where did that thought come from?

“Goddamn it, Miss C,” he growled down the back of my throat.

Our mouths clashed as I slanted my lips further against his. My head tilted off to the side, my thighs wiggling and knees spreading until his legs were between mine. Before I knew it, I found myself straddling him. Before I knew it, I found my hands cupping his stubbled cheeks. Before I knew it, I felt my tongue battling his for dominance.

And he fought me gloriously every step of the way.

“Fuck, Rhett. Please,” I begged.

I didn’t even know what the hell I was begging for.

But I knew I wanted it.

With a growl, he whipped me over, rolling us on the bed until my back was plastered against the silk sheets. His hot mouth pressed open-mouthed kisses down the length of my neck, nibbling along my pulse point. His hands pinned my broad waist to the bed. His legs frogged out, spreading mine even further as my silk nightgown slipped up my legs with ease. My hands dove into his hair as he pressed his face into the hefty valley of my bosom, yet another thing about my body that hadn’t quite bounced back after breastfeeding my daughter for an entire year.

And yet, I felt worshipped beneath his grasp.

“Rhett, fuck,” I hissed.

His teeth raked against my nightgown as he ventured downward. And when I felt him slither beneath my nightgown, his head tenting the fabric, my thighs quivered. His hands ran up the insides of my thighs, my softness jumping with every touch. And as his mouth hovered over my quivering slit, a thought occurred to me.

My God, I hadn’t been in this kind of position since my husband died.