They call him the second coming.
Of honor for British football.
Of God in an athlete’s body.
Of every English woman’s fantasy.
Jude Davies is my country’s prodigy on the pitch. More famous than the nobility in Buckingham Palace, he and his merry band of scoundrels rule the Rogue Football Academy and the London nightlife scene alike.
And now, he’s aiming his well-honed set of skills directly at me. His devilish charm is lethal, but with the tragic hand life has dealt me, distractions like him aren’t an option.
Plus, we’re only playing a game. One of convenience, where he needs me to save his reputation, and I need his money to save the one person I love.
Until he wraps me around that immoral finger.
Until I crave that reckless, wild high he provides.
Until I hope for a future that will never happen.
That’s the thing about going toe-to-toe with the next football legend. He’s faster, stronger, and will destroy me every time.
“You look … smart.” Aria’s hazel orbs betray her polite words. She can’t tear her gaze off my suit and that was my plan.
I’d promised to stay out of trouble when it came to the media. I never promised not to cause trouble with her. And when I told her we were going out for some celebratory drinks, even if I hadn’t played in today’s victory, it wasn’t as if she could say no. I’m paying her to be here, to do basically anything I ask. Besides sleep with me, of course, because she’d already drawn the line that she wasn’t a slag for hire.
And the way she looks right now … Aria has trouble written all over her.
A simple long sleeve black dress that falls to her mid-calf hugs her body like a glove. It’s the first time I’ve seen her out of those baggy clothes she wears while working on campus, and bloody hell was it worth the wait. Aria has the classic figure of a Coca-Cola bottle; round, supple tits stacked on top of a tiny waist which curves out into bodacious hips and a perky arse. I could run my hands down the line of her body and ride my fingers along the peaks and valleys. The dress is one that could have been pulled off the rack at any of those discount stores for teenage girls’ clothing, but on her it’s sinful.
“Didn’t realize you’d have anything like that in your closet.” My eyes rake over that body, two hot coals in search of somewhere to singe her.
Aria’s chin drops to her chest, her gaze fixated on the hotel room floor, and I can tell that I’ve embarrassed her. Only, I’m not sure why. She’s a bombshell, and I’m sure the local boys in Clavering have been nipping at her heels for ages.
“It’s very old. Had to be dusted off. It’s not … designer or anything.” She still won’t look up, curtains of golden hair swinging in front of her face.
Walking to her, my black custom-leather shoes tapping on the shiny hardwood, I invade her space. Instantly, Aria’s shoulder rise with tension and I can see the barriers flying up behind her eyes.
A gentleman would have backed off, but I think we all know I’m not one of those. Sticking two fingers under her chin and pulling up, I make her look me in the eyes.
“No one said it had to be. You’re a knockout, Aria. Not that you want me telling you that, but you are. Just because you hide this body under clothing ten sizes too big doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed it.”
Desire has her irises dilating, I can tell. I know when a woman wants me, even if she won’t admit it to herself.
Aria straightens, backing away from me. “What is it that you need me to do tonight?”
The grin that stretches my lips is wicked. “Watch my drinking. Weed out any slags who seem like they might cause a disastrous outcome for me. Alert me if any tabloid shite points their camera my way. Basically, keep me from going off the rails, but let me have a little bit of fun.”
She clearly thinks she knows what my meaning of fun is because those hazel eyes roll to the ceiling. “Do we have a curfew?”
“Oh, love, you’ve never gone out in London before, have you?” I tease.
About the author:
Author of romance novels such as Red Card and Privileged, Carrie Aarons writes books that are just as swoon-worthy as they are sarcastic. A former journalist, she prefers the stories she dreams up, and the yoga pant dress code, much better.
When she isn’t writing, Carrie is busy binging reality TV, having a love/hate relationship with cardio, and trying not to burn dinner. She lives in the suburbs of New Jersey with her husband, daughter and dog.
Street Team: http://on.fb.me/1PGNDPG