Baller Made (Bad Boy Ballers Book 3) Page 11

  “YOU’LL NEVER KNOW.” I pursed my lips together, imagining Calder’s firm mouth against me.

  “Wish me luck for the game tomorrow?”

  “Good luck.”

  “How about a kiss to go with that?”

  “I need to get ready for bed first.”

  “I like what you’re wearing just fine.”

  I glanced at his groin, the blankets lifted higher than before by what had to be a gorgeous, thick and throbbing erection. “I can see that.”

  His hand fell to his lap, and he curled his palm around the obvious hard jut of flesh.

  Heat flashed through every part of my body, and my voice lowered. “I’ll be right back.”

  Calder’s slow smile and rumble of laughter followed me from the room.

  I took my time, brushing my hair, cleaning my face. I did my teeth, sighed as soon as my breasts bounced free of my bra. I kept the sexy thong on, and pulled another shirt I’d stolen from Calder’s dresser over my head. The warm white thermal almost swamped me. It fell to midthigh but clung to my hips and tits. My hard nipples rubbed against the cloth.

  As soon as I got back to Calder’s bedroom, silver fire lit his irises and his whole expression sharpened.

  “That’s another one of my shirts.” He pulled back a corner of the blankets.

  “Yes.” I slinked toward him.

  “I’m beginning to think you like feeling me against you.”

  I slipped under the covers, pushing against his hot, hard body. “I’m beginning to think you’re arrogant.”

  My belly brushed his abs, my smooth legs twined with his hair-roughened ones, and that ovary-exploding cock kicked against me.

  “Christ. I want you.” His hands delved into my hair.

  Mouth descending, he ravished me in a never-ending, soul-stealing kiss. The heat of his lips, the wet thrust of his tongue, the straight-up howling need shivering from his groans to my whimpers. I pressed against him, just as greedy, crying out when he bit at my bottom lip and went back to attacking and tonguing and licking until every single part of me burst into flames.

  My neck craned back in his hold, I gasped when Calder parted wetly from my lips. “I’m not stopping you.”

  Exhaling with a groan, he bent his forehead to mine. “If I don’t stop I’m gonna come in my shorts or come inside you.”

  “I’m not stopping you,” I repeated, sliding my fingers down the carved landscape of his back.

  Calder flipped over, his arms folding me close. His lips brushed my cheek. “Are you sleeping in here?”

  “If you’ll have me.”

  “That was never really the question, Reggie.”

  ****

  Massive sexual tension mounted between Calder and me—sleeping together but not fucking—made every nerve in my body sing every single time I saw, talked to, thought about him.

  I was wet—my pussy swollen and ready. He was hard—thick and rugged. And I wanted his cock inside me, goddammit. But I wasn’t about to do anything to put his final game of the regular season in jeopardy, especially when a win meant the Crush would make it to the playoffs.

  The next morning I woke to the sound of the shower, so, so tempted to slide in behind him, grab his unreal ass, and lick all the way down his spine.

  Instead I turned up the thermostat on my way to the kitchen. I saw he’d already started the coffee and set out two mugs side by side. After pouring a cup topped off by rich cream, I made a huge fluffy omelet, buttered hot toast, and sectioned some pink grapefruit.

  By the time he entered, wearing a dark blue suit, smelling like a slice of hot sin, I was already at the table.

  He dropped into his chair and started eating like a starved man before he picked up the napkin, wiped his mouth, and said, “I like you being here, Reggie.”

  “I like being here.”

  His eyes darkened, and a muscle at the corner of his jaw flexed. “I like you in my shirts.”

  “I like wearing them.”

  He shoveled in a few more massive forkfuls and downed some coffee. “You’re a good cook.”

  “You’re shitty cook.” I ate a triangle of toast.

  He barked out a laugh, loosening his tie with a finger. “True that. I can do eggs though.”

  Ovaries. Combusting. So not helpful. So not touching that comment either.

  Finishing a heaping helping then seconds before I’d even eaten half my breakfast, Calder took his plate and mug to the sink to rinse out before returning to me.

  He set his hands on my shoulders, strong, long fingers caressing me. “Thank you for breakfast.”

  “You’re welcome.” I swiveled to the side.

  His eyes locked on my bare legs. He swallowed thickly. “That pass I gave you is for the rest of the season, you know. And don’t you have an appointment with Angela for your leg later?”

  “Have you been peeking at my calendar?” I asked.

  Calder—sweet man—had cleared it with Peyton. Arranging for me to get some physio at the Crush facilities with the head PT, Angela.

  “I’ve definitely been peeking at your . . . calendar.” Heat flashed across his eyes, flashed through my body. “So I’ll see you at the game later?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. You know that.”

  Lacing his fingers through my hair, he angled my face up. The kiss he softly teased against my lips made me moan with pleasure, made me curl my fingers around his blazer.

  A hot gasp escaped my throat when he pulled back. “And you’ll be here, home, after?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “That’s so not funny.”

  “Then why are you grinning?”

  “Because maybe you’re my good luck charm.”

  “Ahhhh. You finally figured it out.”

  ****

  Carolina Crush vs. the New York Dragons. The team who’d smashed through the Crush just weeks ago to take a win from Carolina. And this was the final regular game before the playoffs were decided. Two days before Christmas and just a day before our flight back to Nevada.

  The stadium in downtown Charleston was heaving. And I thought the Rouge women were crowd-pleasers? As I made my way down the arena toward what had to be some of the most expensive seats in the house, I smiled.

  Frankie was there beside my chair. He wore another swishy suit, so not-game-day attire, and his black hair peaked off his forehead.

  I sat down, stowing my purse between us. “Season tickets?”

  “Maybe.” Frankie offered me a hot dog and a beer. “You and Malone?” He niggled at the raw truth like he had before.

  “Maybe.”

  “He’s a good guy, ya know?”

  “Oh, I know. I always have.”

  “Then why the maybe? What’s stopping you?”

  “Family issues.”

  Frankie crossed one leg at the knee. “Bet it don’t take a genius to know I had those too. Coming out as gay in the Burelli family meant my dad kicked me out. Except he sent his consigliere to cut me off.” He tipped a flask toward his mouth. “Good thing he didn’t kneecap me, madon.”

  Tucking my fingers around his forearm, I bent my lips toward his ear. “I can already tell you’re a good man, Frankie. And you deserve a good man of your own.”

  “How’d you get so smart?”

  “I have battle bruises of my own.”

  “Bet you do.” He passed me his handkerchief before I even realized tears shined in my eyes. “Careful now. You’re creasing my suit.”

  “Calder has some weird friends.” I dabbed my eyes.

  “You’re about to find out just how fuggin’ freaky they are.” He pointed to the field.

  “Oh my God. What the hell is that?” I watched the Crush cheerleaders prance to the forefront in time to The Black Eyed Peas “Let’s Get It Started”.

  Calder Malone right in the middle of the formation, the big center unmistakable when he nearly busted his buns through the spangly booty shorts.

  “Guess you ain�
�t heard about the throwing competition. Looks like Malone lost this week.”

  “You know about this ritual?”

  “Hush, doll. It’s just getting started.”

  Holy hot damn, it was.

  Calder punched his hands to the air then threw a cheerleader into the air before catching her, going down on one knee before he spun her up and shook everything he had.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  “Hot, right?” Frankie passed me the popcorn. “Why do you think I really come to these games?”

  The song went rap heavy and total badass. Calder whipped his head around, shamelessly shaking his ass.

  “Screw the popcorn. I need a stiff drink,” I muttered.

  “Or a stiff dick.”

  “Damn.”

  “Right?”

  Calder Malone in that itty-bitty outfit swiveled, swished, and pumped his hips. His muscles gleamed, and he better not touch another cheerleader because I was about ready to jump the barrier to jump him.

  I’d never seen him have so much fun.

  I was pretty much in love.

  I almost fell off my seat when he kissed his fingers and pointed them straight at me.

  Oh, he was getting it started all right.

  “Dancing’s my gig,” I whispered.

  “Not anymore, doll.” Frankie wolf-whistled with two fingers between his teeth.

  The song amped even higher, Crush cheerleaders surrounding Calder. He led them across the field in hip-shaking hilarity, glittery eyelashes and all.

  Stomping to my feet with the rest of the crowd, I shouted at the top of my lungs.

  Frankie jumped up beside me, raising his red foam finger. “I think they oughtta start calling him Baller, not for nuthin’.”

  The cheerleaders ended in pyramid formation, Calder pretty much balancing two women on his arms, his chest pumping, thighs braced.

  “You don’t know the half of it.” Unf. Girth Brooks or not, Calder had it going on.

  “Lucky broad.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Get Started

  Calder

  I’D BEEN INTENTIONALLY IGNORING the facts I’d lost that motherfucking throwing competition and my debut as a Carolina Crush cheerleader coincided with our last game of the regular season. Aaaaand Reggie had the sweet seats right next to one Frankie Burelli to witness my humiliation. Embarrassment-by-booty-shorts much?

  I tried to rock that tight tiny uniform, but my cock goddamn hurt. Twerking? What the fuck was that? I didn’t do any backflips or splits, but I played my part, almost wishing the ground would open up and swallow me whole . . . until Reggie jumped to her feet and started catcalling at me.

  The Black Eyed Peas weren’t really my thing, but fuck it, if Brooklyn Holt could swish his ass onto the field to dance with the cheerleaders so could I. And by the time the song ended, everybody in the stadium pumped to their feet while I held two of the cheer girls on my arms.

  Wished it was Reggie in my arms instead.

  Did not wanna face the dudes in the locker room, though. Because I knew for a fact I was in for the nut-busting, ego-ripping, emasculating razzing of my life.

  And I was right. Everyone else was suited up and game ready while I was wearing a practically plastered-on cheerleader replica that nearly shredded apart at the seams.

  I yanked off the fucking short shorts, throwing them aside. “Christ. I feel like my cock was all the way up my throat in that get-up.”

  “My balls have never been the same.” Buckley grinned, cupping his crotch.

  “Yeah. You even sounded like your testicles hadn’t dropped yet for a few days after that shitshow.” Rafe snuck a mock punch to Buckley’s midsection. “Then again . . . you haven’t proved you’re out of your teens yet.”

  “Eat me.”

  “I don’t like sausage.”

  “So you admit I’m a man.”

  “Not until your voice drops along with your scrotes.”

  I about busted through the tiny top to wrangle it off my shoulders, laughing with the other dudes as Rafe and Buckley—the two guys with the biggest beef—fucked with each other.

  To keep the ribbing off me, I mentioned, “Think about how Girth Brooks felt.”

  Brooklyn flipped his middle finger in my direction. More chuckles. I wiped a wet towel over my face and hair then quickly rubbed thick black marks on my cheeks before gearing up in hard cup, pads, pants, jersey, socks.

  “But you looked so pretty as a she-man.” Bunyan—the second biggest linebacker—wasn’t about to let it go.

  “Bullshit,” Akoni entered the fray. “He’d be the first contestant to get kicked off RuPaul’s Drag Race.”

  All eyes swerved to the big Hawaiian with the even bigger heart.

  “RuPaul?” Bunyan asked.

  Akoni shrugged shoulders the size of boulders. “She makes me laugh. Besides, she sings too. And you all are bigger drama queens than the queens on his show.”

  “Guess I can’t argue with that.” Rafe beckoned us all into a tight circle. “We ready to win this thing? Make it one step closer to taking the trophy home?”

  “Fuck yes!” came back the resounding call.

  I bounced up to join the group after lacing my cleats.

  “One. Two. Three!”

  “CAROLINA CRUSH IT!”

  All laughter ebbed when we raced into the stadium just as pyrotechnics lit the field in blazing fiery reds.

  Hazing officially over.

  One of the most important games ever officially on.

  And one good thing? All that goofy shit had loosened me up. I was ready, more than ready to take the turf after Akoni and Bunyan’s first move. The New York Dragons may have beaten us last month, but this time we were out for blood and glory.

  The Dragons won the coin toss, but that shit didn’t matter one single fucking bit after the Akoni/Bunyan double-teamed blitz on New York’s first play. The two huge defensemen must’ve shared a hive mind because their strong-armed, stanchion play forced a fumble. A fumble intercepted by none other than Deacon Cross, the warhorse of our team.

  Downing the football, Cross got us quickly in the game.

  The offense rushed onto the turf, and I grabbed Cross’s helmet in passing, getting in his grill with a mean grin. “Way to go, fucker.”

  “You better take it home now.”

  “Crush it, right?”

  The huddle was fast and dirty. Rafe “Mac Daddy” Macintyre was out to prove a point. The point was we weren’t about to get rolled over for a second time on home turf.

  In place, I called out blocks. Our offensive line shifted positions accordingly, knowing I’d taken my read of the Dragons defense.

  I leaned over, balanced on my toes and knuckles. Hamstrings stretching, I palmed the football.

  Deep in New York’s territory thanks to Deacon’s fumble recovery, I snapped back, straight into Rafe’s hands. I led with my shoulder, shoving the first lineman onto his back. I followed up with a ruthless tackle on the next man. Clearing a path for our running back to dance practically halfway to the end zone before he ate dirt, the football tucked in his arms like a newborn baby.

  Fast huddle. No time to think. This was Rafe’s show. He was out to own it for our team.

  Two more plays brought us closer and closer to a first touchdown, and in between moves I barely had time to breathe, let alone think.

  Energy sizzled from my hands on the ball to the balls of my feet, and every time I looked up to the stadium, Reggie was right there, cheering us—cheering me—on.

  That first touchdown caused a dizzying roar. Whistles blew. Fans charged to their feet.

  Marquis caught the ball on the tips of his fingers, and I saw him mouth to Brooklyn, “Velcro, muthafucka.”

  The Dragons had finally met their match, and this time they were going down in flames.

  That was five minutes in. A mere motherfucking five minutes.

  We raced to
the sidelines where Coach D touched each of our helmets like he was blessing us like a Catholic priest. But to us he was more than a priest. He was a fucking god of football, and to get his benediction meant the world to me and every one of the other men.

  By the end of the second quarter we were up a total of 21 to their 7. Call Carolina Crush stadium the slaughterhouse.

  Akoni. Bunyan. Cross. They blazed up the field on defense. Rafe. Brooks. Marquis. They completely owned the offense.

  I blocked. Saw every defensive move from the Dragons before it happened and made sure it didn’t happen.

  And every time I sprinted to the sidelines, I sought out Reggie. Her cheeks flushed. Her soft brown hair swept over her shoulders. Her gaze pinned on me. And Frankie Burelli right next to her. I wondered what secrets he’d been sharing. But at least he was gay, so I knew he wasn’t after my girl, and I was glad she had a seatmate.

  One who could potentially do lethal damage against anyone who dared cross her.

  Lethal damage. Exactly what we were committing against New York.

  After halftime, we steamrolled through the third quarter. Only problem with our spirits running so high, we started getting a little sloppy.

  The point margin narrowed significantly at the start of the fourth quarter when the Dragons managed to strangle two touchdowns out of us while stopping our O-line from scoring.

  Coaches D, Frank, Sam, and Mark just about rammed their fists down our throats when they reamed us a good one during our final timeout on the sidelines. GM Lou was probably shitting bricks up in the Sky Box. And I didn’t even wanna think about what Peyton would do to our collective hides if we lost. With the score at 35 to 28 we still had the lead, but by the skin of our teeth, and anything—anything—could happen in the final seconds against a team as determined as the Dragons.

  Rafe got in my face the next time we closed in on the end zone. “What do you think?”

  Fuck. This was the second time he’d asked my opinion. The first time, against the Ravens, the only reason we’d come up golden was because I’d recovered a fumble for a TD.

  “Shotgun formation. Spread wide,” I uttered.

  “Nice.” Rafe agreed.

  Glaring at the hulking blocker who crouched down in front of me, I got in position to hand off the football at Rafe’s call while he stood a good five yards behind me.