Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
15
GROUND RULES
Rafe
I detest lies. Perhaps Gunnar didn’t technically lie, but he didn’t tell me the truth.
I have zero problems with virginity. Everyone’s a virgin once . . . until they’re not.
But I would’ve gone easier on him. I wouldn’t have been so fucking aggressive. I was rough, and it’s eating me alive.
I’m also still buzzing from what he did to me. I drink in his all-American good looks, his cocky grin, and those deep blue eyes, and I’m torn between pressing the point that lies have no place with me—and the heady, delicious rush of knowing I’m his first.
When I responded to his thirst trap, through all the flirting, sexting, and more, I thought I could keep it physical. Keep my distance. But I can’t resist learning more about him.
I slide my hand along his jaw, firmly cup his face. He’s an inch or two taller than I am. He’s certainly broader—and bigger—but he likes being manhandled. And if I’m going to handle him the way we both seem to want, we’ve got to establish some ground rules.
Starting with trust. I run my thumb across his jawline and over to those lush, full lips that took me deep and made me see stars.
“I have my limo. Let’s go for a ride, Gunnar.”
The sexy baseball player inches up one brow. He turns his face into my hand and bites down on my thumb—
And then he’s drawn back and crossing his arms. “Is it going to be an inquisition?”
“Does it feel like one?” I don’t want that.
Gunnar shrugs, casually, coolly. “A little, to be honest.”
To be honest. Apt words.
“The night we met at the club, you said people should be honest about desire,” I say.
Gunnar lifts his chin defiantly. “And I have been. One hundred percent.”
He’s made it clear that he’s only giving up control in the bedroom, and his fierceness intrigues me. Few people I’ve met hold their own with my sort of intensity. But he’s forcing me to lay my wishes on the line.
“And I’ve been honest, too, about my desire for you. So let’s start with that. Are you amenable to a ride in my limo?” I ask again.
With his jaw set and his eyes hard, he replies, “I’m amenable to getting out of here. I’m not amenable to an interrogation.”
The power of his statement sends a charge through me. It’s also a reminder that I don’t always get to make the rules. “It won’t be.”
I turn off the light in the suite and shut the door, leaving it as neat and orderly as I found it, without a hint of what went down here on a Wednesday night in September.
As Gunnar and I head toward the elevator, I’m tempted to put a hand on his lower back. We’re alone, but the impulse is strong. But I don’t know Gunnar’s rules, so I don’t touch him on the way down. Not in the elevator, nor in the corridor as we pass maintenance crews cleaning up.
A man in a nylon Dragons sweat suit pushes a cart full of towels, smiling when he sees the ballplayer. “Hey, Gun,” he says. “Good game tonight.”
I’m curious how Gunnar will react to being seen with me at this hour at his place of work. I’m not worried that he’s closeted, of course. He danced with me at Edge the night I met him, and we kissed ravenously in the crowd. Before we took it to the DMs, he flirted with me on Instagram like he could teach an expert class in it. But tonight it’s late, and Gunnar’s not coming from the locker room as one might expect.
Still, he’s relaxed, casually giving the man a chin nod. “Thanks, Teddy. Appreciate you.”
“Anytime,” the man says with a smile as we pass.
There’s my answer. Gunnar acts the same in public as he is does in private. I file that tidbit away.
My driver waits near the ballpark’s main entrance. The stadium sits at the edge of the bay, on the curve in a major road. I imagine that earlier tonight, the crowd thronged past, full of excited chatter. But at this hour, our main company is the glow of a few streetlights as San Francisco shuts down for the evening.
Well, some of it. I know all about after-dark San Francisco.
We make our way to my limo, but before we reach it, a voice calls, “Gunnar! Did you get my message?”
Gunnar whips around, then his surprise clears as he recognizes the handsome man trotting up to us in his Clark Kent glasses.
“Hey, O.” The ballplayer gives the guy a fist bump. “What’s up?”
“I got this wild call from a dating app. Apparently Boyfriend Material liked your kiss for the crowd last Friday. They want to feature the video. The info’s in your email, but we can talk before the flight on Friday.”