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Trent Carrington.
Trent Mr. Perfect-Has-Everyone-Fooled Carrington.
He’s the star quarterback, university scholar, and happens to be the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. He shines at any angle, and especially under the Saturday night stadium lights where I watch him from the sidelines. But I know the real him, the one who broke my heart and pretended I didn’t exist for the past two years.
I’m the third-string kicker, the only woman on the team and nothing better than a mascot. Until I’m not. Until I get my chance to earn a full scholarship and join the team as first-string. The only way I'll make the cut is to accept help from the one man I swore to never trust again. The problem is, with each stolen glance and lingering touch, I begin to realizing that trusting Trent isn’t the problem. It’s that I can’t trust myself when I’m around him.
This is a full-length, standalone American football romance novel with hot guys in tight pants who really know how to handle their balls.
“Are we…” She nibbled her lip.
I grabbed her chin and turned her to face me. “What?”
“Are we like, together?” She stumbled over her next words, as if she couldn’t get them out fast enough. “I know it’s too early to DTR—”
“DTR?” I grinned.
“Define the relationship.” She furrowed her brow.
“Right. Well, I define it as you’re mine and I’m yours. How’s that?”
Her gaze brightened. My phone buzzed again, but I ignored it.
“Someone’s calling you.” She glanced to my pants.
“It’s my mother.”
“Oh.”
I’d told Cordy about the difficulties I had with my mom, but I didn’t go into the details of how much acrimony our relationship would stir up. Mom had no doubt seen the press conference. She would know. Mom always knew. She was waiting for me to pick up the phone so she could load me down with Carlotta’s tears, my family’s legacy, and the bright future she thought I was throwing away. I’d deal with it. Later.
I leaned close to Cordy’s ear. “Put your jacket on your lap.”
She turned to me, a wary look on her heart-shaped face. “Why?”
“It’s cold.”
“Not really.”
“You’re trembling.”
She arched a brow. “Not because I’m cold.”
“Then why?”
“Because you—” She seemed to rethink her answer and, instead of responding, pulled her jacket into her lap as I’d requested.
“Good. My hands are cold.” I slid my palm along her thigh beneath the jacket.
She jumped and looked at me with a scandalized expression. “Trent!” She hissed through clenched teeth.
“What?” I pressed my fingers higher until I reached the apex of her thighs, then I eased my hand between her legs.
“We can’t do this here.” She glanced around, but no one could see us in the dark, and if anyone was looking, all they’d see was us sitting together and Cordy’s jacket in her lap.
I rubbed my index finger along the seam of her jeans over her clit. “We can.”
She gripped my wrist, but I didn’t stop. Her breathing grew faster as I stroked her. My cock demanded reciprocity, but it would have to wait. I wanted to pleasure her more than anything. When her lips parted, I knew I had her.
I pressed my lips to her ear. “Unbutton your jeans, and unzip them.”
She tilted her hips forward and did as I’d said.
“You’ll have to be quiet.” I ran my fingers along her quivering stomach and she let out a small sound.
Celia Aaron is the self-publishing pseudonym of a published romance and erotica author. She loves to write stories with hot heroes and heroines that are twisty and often dark. Thanks for reading.
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