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“It’s not your choice to make,” I said defiantly, though his words made my heart skip right off into dreamland territory.
Could he guess that I started watching football just so I could ogle him?
I scrolled through my mental photo library. Champion and his handsome face framed by his Lonestars helmet. Champion’s piercing blue eyes shining bright behind his tinted visor. Champion confidently striding up to his offensive line, his jersey stretched by his wide shoulders, the ends of his golden-blond hair that he had let grow out this season peeking out. Champion bending over for the snap, and how amazing his ass looked in his tight pants. To the world, he was a Greek god who ruled the gridiron, but he also played the leading role in my fantasies.
“Let’s agree to disagree on that part.” A grin tugged at his perfectly sculpted and oh-so-kissable lips. “Because your words say one thing, but your eyes say another.”
“They do not,” I sputtered. They probably did, the traitors.
“But you are right about one thing,” he said, completely disregarding my feeble protest.
“What’s that?” I asked, curious.
“I don’t chase.”
“Women chase you, is that it?” I arched a brow. Why did I find even his arrogance sexy?
He nodded.
“Well, I’m not most women.” My mouth pursed as I thought about the legions that undoubtedly pursued him.
Champion Valentine had been voted the sexiest player in sports by a leading magazine several years in a row. Seeing him up close and personal, I understood why he won that spot. My body hummed being connected to his, and my mind whirled. I badly wanted a chance to explore every chiseled, contoured inch of him.
With our bodies pressed together, I’d only gotten a tease of the deliciousness his sleeveless tee and shorts concealed. But that tease had been enough to conclude definitively that Champion Valentine was more irresistible than I could have imagined.
“I get that. Truly.” His gaze slowly drifted over me, settling on my mouth, making his focus my focus too.
What would his sensual lips feel like pressed to mine? I desperately wanted to know. But I didn’t want to stop there. No, I wanted to experience his full body without any clothes on.
Champion was the epitome of a physically fit premier athlete. His thighs were powerhouses. His biceps were at least eighteen inches around, and the solid forearm he had draped over my legs was equally impressive. He wasn’t only my personal fantasy—he was every woman’s.
“It’s not every day I come across a beautiful woman dancing in a tree.”
His gaze glimmered like the surface of the ocean reflecting the sun. I blinked, realizing he was flirting with me.
In my bed late at night, I’d imagined that and more. At home, I spritzed my covers with his signature Champion Valentine cologne, scented with sharp pine, rich leather, and crisp mint. Diving my hand under my sheets, I found it never took long to bring myself to climax. But now that I’d experienced the hard, thick length of him, pretending was going to be a major disappointment.
“Well, I guess there aren’t many trees around the football field.” I lamely tried to downplay his compliment, which was difficult to do with my mind tripping over the fact that he thought I was beautiful.
“Let’s revisit the tree bit again.”
He swept his gaze over me, and his eyes darkened with passion. He seemed to appreciate what he saw, but I dismissed the idea that he could be as into me as I was him.
“Is dancing something you do for a living?” He tilted his gorgeous head.
I almost sighed out loud watching the silky strands cascade over his wide shoulder like a golden waterfall.
“Something like that,” I muttered evasively after a tellingly long beat that revealed my distraction.
The truth was that I lived to dance. Once upon a time, I would have answered his question in the affirmative without embarrassment. But that was before I started stripping.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” His brows pinched together in confusion.
“It means it’s none of your business,” I snapped harshly as dark thoughts tried to crowd my mind.
Sucking in a quick breath, I reminded myself that the accident wasn’t my fault, and anyway, I had reinvented myself. I was an entirely different person now. My coping strategy wasn’t what the therapists had recommended, but it was what worked—mostly worked—for me.
“You’re hot and all.” I stared down the length of my nose at him, pretending I wasn’t damaged, and further that I had the upper hand with him. “And I’m sure you’re used to having your way with women. But you can’t have me.”
