Everyone who works within the New York Warriors organization knows that star player August Fletcher refuses to talk to most people...and especially team reporters. All except Quinn Castle, that is.
Quinn doesn't know why the broody football player...
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I WOKE THE following day with the most severe case of morning wood I'd probably ever had.
I wasn't delusional enough to think it had anything to do with my high morning testosterone levels. No, it had everything to do with Quinn Castle and the thoughts that plagued me when we finally parted ways last night—when I got into my bed and realized that my sheets smelled like her.
They smelled like the fucking sun. I wasn't sure how that was possible, but Quinn smelled like a quintessential summer day. Like creamy coconut with a hint of citrus.
Every time I rolled over, I was reminded of how she'd slept next to me that first night. Her soft little snores and flicker of her long lashes as she drifted into a restless sleep. Her warm body snug beside mine, even though there were blankets, clothes, and everything between us.
But honestly, it was more torturous to have her in the room next door than to have her in my bed. That night she slept next to me, she'd been drunkenly passed out, and all I'd been focused on was making sure she didn't choke on her own vomit. I'd kept myself in check, including my thoughts.
Tonight, though, my mind couldn't help but wander to places it shouldn't. No doubt a result of how my conversations with Quinn always seemed to end in thinly veiled sexual innuendos and close proximities.
God, I wished I could just shut off that part of my brain so we could get through this little interview experience. But it was useless, and all the thoughts I shouldn't be thinking extended into my sleep last night, weaving into my dreams.
That had to be the reason for how fucking hard I was when I woke, thoughts of Quinn on the brain.
I stared at the ceiling, trying to tame the desire to wrap my hand around my cock. It was wrong, so wrong, to do that when Quinn was probably still sleeping on the other side of my bedroom wall. It was even worse to do it while remembering how she'd pressed so close to me in the shower, steam and slick skin all around us.
Fuck.
I stared at the ceiling instead, at the slatted wooden boards covering it. I concentrated on them. On how some of them had little knots disrupting the grain pattern. On how some of the knots were darker than others. And then, once I was finished thoroughly inspecting the slates, I counted them. Forty-nine. There were forty-nine across my bedroom ceiling.
Fuck.
No matter how long I stared at the ceiling, my blood still ran hot. Apparently, ceiling wood was not a cure for morning wood.
But I couldn't put off getting out of bed much longer. I needed to hop on a call soon, so if I wanted to be a good host and ensure Quinn had coffee and breakfast, I had to get up.
Surprisingly, when I padded out into the hallway, the smell of coffee wafted through the air. Sure enough, when I rounded the corner to the kitchen, I spotted an already brewed pot on the countertop.
