Scoring off the Field
by Naima Simone WAGS, #2 Publication Date: March 12, 2018 Genres: Adult, Entangled: Brazen, Contemporary, Romance, Sports Romance, Standalone
AVAILABLE NOW!
SYNOPSIS:
Tennyson Clark is getting a life. First step: quitting her job as assistant to Dominic Anderson, star quarterback for the Washington Warriors, her best friend … and the man she’s been secretly in love with for years. But since the gorgeous, if overprotective playboy has only ever seen her as his BFF, she’s finally ready to relinquish her tattered fantasy and move on. Enter steps two and three: new job and new man.
Football is Dominic's life, and with his contract soon up for renewal, all his focus needs to be on the game. But Tennyson—dependable, logical Tennyson— is making that next to impossible with her mysterious new job and her sudden interest in online dating. He doesn’t do relationships. But the thought of another man touching her sexier-than-hell curves has him suddenly wanting more from his best friend.
Indulging in hot, dirty, what’s-my-name sex with no strings and lots of benefits is simple, uncomplicated…until it’s not.
EXCERPT
“What the hell are you talking about now?” Dom barked. “Paying for your college tuition, getting you a job and apartment—I did all that because we’re family, not to control or manage you.”
“We are not family,” Tennyson replied, voice sharp. And those four words jabbed him in the chest, expelling all the air from his lungs. “I’m not the broken little girl from the foster home who you took under your wing anymore. No matter how much you still think I am.”
“Goddamn it,” he growled, getting up in her space. Anger shoved at him, ate at him. The hell he wanted her to be that eleven year-old with the wounded eyes and heart. It’d been his life’s mission to make her forget what betrayal, pain, and hunger felt like. And here she stood, accusing him of… “If you think I want that for you, then you don’t know me at all, Tennyson.”
“No, you don’t want me to be her, but you see me as that girl. You’re still trying to be my hero, my protector, my big brother. I don’t need to be protected, and I damn sure don’t want you as my brother. My life has revolved around yours for the last fourteen years. I’m tired of it,” she stormed. “You don’t respect me as an adult capable of making her own decisions—”
“Could you please stop for a minute?”
She complied, blinking up at him, probably shocked at his asking her to be quiet or the “please”—maybe both.
Anger licked at him, burning him in its flames. Anger, frustration…hurt. They all propelled him forward. Before he could question himself—reason with himself—he was moving, pinning her to the wall, thrusting his fingers through her thick, nearly black curls. Pressing his chest to hers, grinding his cock into the soft give of her stomach. She didn’t utter a word, just stared up at him, shock darkening her eyes, parting her lush lips.
“We’re not family? You don’t want me to protect you?” He hurled her words back at her, tightening his grip on her hair, pulling her head back just a little farther. Her lashes fluttered, and her breath caught, the soft gasp of air brushing his mouth. Oh hell. She liked that. Eyes narrowing on the flush that lightly colored her cheekbones, he tugged on her hair again, a little firmer than the last time. Once more, she gave another of those almost imperceptible pants, a small, hungry sound accompanying it. Her fingers curled into his shirt, her nails barely scraping his chest through the material. But he felt the light scratch all the way in his dick as if she’d drawn them down his already throbbing erection.
Fuck.
“Dom,” she whispered, her lashes lifting. Confusion shadowed her eyes. But so did arousal. And it was the heat there that had him pressing closer until she raised on her toes, another of those whimpers escaping her. Hell, he could make dragging that sound from her another career.
What are you doing? the rational side of his brain scolded. But he barely paid it any heed. The primal side of his psyche had taken hold. And screw it, he let it take over.
“Let me show you what I do to women who aren’t family,” he rasped.
ABOUT NAIMA SIMONE
USA Today Bestselling author Naima Simone’s love of romance was first stirred by Johanna Lindsey, Sandra Brown and Linda Howard many years ago. Well not that many. She is only eighteen…ish. Though her first attempt at a romance novel starring Ralph Tresvant from New Edition never saw the light of day, her love of romance, reading and writing has endured. Published since 2009, she spends her days—and nights— writing sizzling romances with a touch of humor and snark.
She is wife to Superman, or his non-Kryptonian, less bullet proof equivalent, and mother to the most awesome kids ever. They all live in perfect, sometimes domestically-challenged bliss in the southern United States.
Website | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Goodreads | Newsletter | Street Team | Amazon Author Profile
I don’t know what love is anymore.
Well, that’s not entirely true, but I’m going to tell you a little secret: I’ve lost the spark.
You know the kind of spark I’m talking about?
Where butterflies take flight in your stomach from two hands innocently colliding. Or catching your breath when you first meet someone attractive. Yeah, that spark.
Except I haven't felt that feeling in forever; there is nothing left inside of me.
Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem--but I’m a writer on a serious deadline, and my editor is breathing down my neck for a romantic, Nicholas Sparks type love story. No pressure, right?
That's how I find myself flying across the country to crash a wedding in the name of research, dress and heels stuffed into my small suitcase.
It should be the easiest book research ever. Drinking some free champagne, basking in the love of two strangers, and tapping into my romantic side. That will be a breeze. I'm a pro. I can handle this.
Until I mistakenly end up in the wrong hotel room, naked as the day I was born, with the sexiest human I have ever met staring me down, wondering what I'm doing taking a shower in his bathroom. I don't think calling it research will get me out of this pickle.
Chills scream their way down my arms and legs, my nipples pucker, and just like that, with one word, all humor vanishes from our little conversation and awareness of this all-consuming man wrapped around me hits me hard.
Gathering myself, I say, “Tell me something Chris and Justine know about you.”
“Hmm.” His thumbs hook under the waistband of my shorts, playing with the lower part of my hipbones. His touch spurs on my pelvis, needing to rock, begging for him to go lower. My toes curl in my sandals and my back slightly arches, reaching for more. “Something they know about me.”
His mouth doesn’t stray from its position against my ear, and his hips start to slowly move underneath me, his legs tangling with mine. Involuntarily, one of my hands hooks the back of his neck as I hold on tightly to him, feeling like I need support from the onslaught of sensation I’m feeling.
I hear him say something, but it doesn’t register in my brain, which has turned to mush as his thumbs stray from my hipbones to right above my pubic bone.
There is no denying how turned on I am, how wet I am from his mere touch, how much—despite my reservations—I want this man.
With each stroke, my head turns farther and farther to the side until our noses are touching, Beck’s head bends forward to meet me halfway. My eyes flutter shut for a brief moment before I open them and am captured by those flecks of green and gold.
The air stills around us, our breath mixing, swirling between us, our lips so close.
One swipe of this thumb.
Another one.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t focus.
Another swipe, my head leans even closer, my tongue wetting my lips.
One more swipe . . .
My heart hammers in my chest, my skin prickling with awareness.
Beck brings his mouth even closer, only a whisper away now, and he waits.
Holding still.
His breathing feeling erratic beneath me.
One.
More.
Swipe.
And I’m gone.
I bring my mouth to his, slowly parting my lips ever so slightly, just enough to maneuver my mouth across his.
A low, provocative moan escapes Beck as one of his hands snags the back of my head and holds me in place, almost as if he lets go, I’ll disappear.
Needing more, I shift on his lap so I’m straddling him once again, my hands on his bare chest, feeling the powerful sinew that holds him together.
Our lips press and mold, mingling, taking, begging . . .
Desperate.
Beck’s tongue runs against my bottom lip, eliciting a moan from deep within me, lighting a fire so hot, so wild, my hands start to travel up his neck to his cheeks where I grip him, positioning his head so when I open my mouth, I can expertly dive my tongue onto his.
He groans, his lap shifting against mine now, his hard-on pressing against my wet and throbbing center. I match his rocking, using my position on his lap to take advantage of his length I can feel through his board shorts.
This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen, but God, am I happy it has. Maybe I really should live in the moment, maybe I should take advantage of the opportunity, maybe I should…
Born in New York and raised in Southern California, Meghan has grown into a sassy, peanut butter eating, blonde haired swearing, animal hoarding lady. She is known to bust out and dance if “It’s Raining Men” starts beating through the air and heaven forbid you get a margarita in her, protect your legs because they may be humped.
Once she started commuting for an hour and twenty minutes every day to work for three years, she began to have conversations play in her head, real life, deep male voices and dainty lady coos kind of conversations. Perturbed and confused, she decided to either see a therapist about the hot and steamy voices running through her head or start writing them down. She decided to go with the cheaper option and started writing… enter her first novel, Caught Looking.
Now you can find the spicy, most definitely on the border of lunacy, kind of crazy lady residing in Colorado with the love of her life and her five, furry four legged children, hiking a trail or hiding behind shelves at grocery stores, wondering what kind of lube the nervous stranger will bring home to his wife. Oh and she loves a good boob squeeze!
