Knox (Sexy Bastard #3) (2 page)

A
t first I
think she hasn’t seen me, that she doesn’t realize what’s going on. But then, as she waves at each person at the table, her gaze flashes to mine, an innocent smile fixed on her full lips and the slightest hint of a dare in her eyes.

Oh, she knows what she’s doing.

“Knox, I don’t think you’ve ever met my sister Shelby, have you?” Jackson interrupts my speeding train of thought.

“No,” I say, my brain buzzing in my ears. “Great to meet you.” I extend a hand, the same dare in my eyes that she’s got in hers.

She wraps her fingers around mine, her grip tighter than she’d normally use, I imagine. Like a warning squeeze. “The legendary Cooper Knox. I’m a huge fan, never miss a game.”

Bullshit,
I want to shout. But, of course, I shouldn’t know that she actually hates baseball. Because I shouldn’t know her at all.

I definitely shouldn’t know how her lips feel when she’s sucking on my neck, or what her soft hand, the one I’m still holding like an idiot, feels like wrapped around my hard cock. I drop it like a hot iron, and she smirks before she slides into the seat beside me, the only free spot at the table.

She’s even sexier than I remember in a tiny black leather mini-dress that looks as if it’s been molded onto her dangerously hot curves. And the fuck-me red lipstick? Don’t recall that from last time.

This is bad. Very, very bad.

Banging your best friend’s little sister is pretty much the number one violation of the bro code. Especially if you don’t just bang her, but have a one-night stand with her. A one-night stand you were just telling said bro about, amidst a table of high-fiving other bros.

Fuck.

“Shelby’s messing with you,” Jackson interrupts, and a spark of panic shoots through me.
Does he know? Did she tell him?
Is that why he’s been so quiet since I got here, thinking of ways to kill me? “She thinks baseball is the equivalent to watching grass grow,” Jackson continues, and I have to hold in a sigh of relief. “But she might be contractually required to hate all other sports but the NFL, I dunno.”

If I keep sitting here gaping, things are going to get awkward fast, so I decide to toss Shelby a softball. Two can play at this game.

“Cheerleader?”

“Basically. Except that instead of waving pom-poms from the sidelines, I cheer the team through public relations crises and social media emergencies.”

“My baby sister is one part media strategist, one part human mascot,” Jackson quips. “My favorite part of visiting her at work is watching her boss around a locker room full of giant football players.”

I bet the players enjoy that too.

Shelby gives Jackson a playful shove, though her eyes never leave mine. “Please refrain from using the words ‘baby’ or ‘mascot’ when referring to your fully grown adult sister. Besides, I just got promoted, so ‘boss’ is more accurate.” That outfit she’s wearing certainly spells full-grown, adult, and woman. And with the way the leather hugs her ass a few other words come to mind, too.

“What about you, Knox?” says Shelby, turning to face me directly. “Got any siblings? Any younger sisters you care to overprotect?”

“Nope, just me,” I respond, hoping my voice sounds normal.

“That’s a shame. Sisters can be such great influences.” She flashes me the faintest wink, hopefully not detectable by anyone else at the table.

Shelby may not be a baseball fan, but she sure likes playing games. I remember that from New Years. But I’m not in the mood to make coded small talk—what I’d really like to do is get Shelby away for a few minutes, alone. Find out just how hard it is for a man to get her out of that saucy little dress . . . instead I abruptly down the rest of my scotch and turn away. “I’ll be right back,” I call out to the group as I head to the downstairs bar. What I need is a minute to collect my thoughts.

I grab a beer from the bar-back and head to the alleyway behind the bar in search of some air.

Damn.

Why does she have to be Jackson’s younger sister?

Why did I hook up with her?

The answer to that question comes hard on the heels of my asking it. Duh, Knox. Because she’s hot, fun, quick with the witty comeback, and dear god, the way she left a trail of bite marks all the way down my chest . . . She started out as just a girl on a rooftop, a girl I thought I’d never see again. But after her amazing moves in the shower, when she dropped to her knees and sucked my hard cock into her sweet puckered lips, I knew I had to find her again.

I just never pictured it winding up like this.

“Cooper Knox!”

“Oh my god, I told you it was him!”

“The newest Atlanta Brave. Here at the Library!”

Guess I’m not the only one who knows about this little escape hatch. Looks like Cooper Knox has walked straight into a major league ambush: a bevy of fangirls all dressed up in their Friday night finest.

“You ladies part of the welcome brigade?” I joke with a grin. It’s obvious these ladies have had a few, so I’m not going to give them a hard time about bombarding a man in a dark alley who’s clearly busy thinking.

Actually, being ambushed by a pack of fangirls normally would be right up my alley. But tonight I’m distracted. And damn, for all I know, if I hook up with one of them they might turn out to be another friend’s sister.

“Yes, we want to give you a very, very warm welcome.” A blonde with her hair in a high ponytail and a zip-front dress velcroes herself to my side. “We’d never want a northern transplant to catch a chill. Contrary to popular belief, it
does
get cold in Atlanta in January.”

Cheesy, but I can feel the temperature rising. Like I said, there are plenty of good-looking women in this town. Maybe I should focus more on them. As soon as I make sure they’re not related to anyone I know.

“We’ll also want to test out these guns of steel we’ve heard so much about!” The blonde’s brunette friend grabs my bicep and then flexes her own for me. “Let’s try some arm-wrestling, see what you’re made of!”

“I dunno if I could take you,” I reply, squeezing her arm in return, more to catch her balance, since she looks about ready to fall off her sky-high heels than anything else. Normally I’d be all over this situation, but tonight something’s off.

A lot of things are off. I’m attempting to peel myself out of their grasp without making either one of them fall over—which will be harder than it seems—all while assuring both girls that they’re too tough for me to wrestle tonight, when the back door swings open and a familiar voice busts through the not-that-chilly January air. “Didn’t realize you were a recruiter too, Knox. You starting a women’s team on the side?”

“He says we’re tough,” the blonde replies with a giggle. “Too tough for him to take.”

“That’s generally my cue to exit,” I say, easing sideways out of their grip. “Gotta protect the net worth.”

“Not so fast, Yankee. You’re not going anywhere without letting us take a selfie! We earned it fair and square.”

Of course. No fan interaction is complete until you’ve fulfilled the burden of proof. Gotta give ‘em the selfie. It’s the modern equivalent of the signed baseball, an autograph that can travel the world in a minute flat—and ruin your life just as fast, if it contains incriminating evidence. Fortunately tonight’s fan club jamboree has been relatively tame. A couple of quick obligatory group selfies later and my new friends sloppily weave their way back into the bar.

And just like that, we’re finally alone.

“Shelby Masters. That last name is a detail you could have mentioned. Along with a few others. Didn’t you recognize my name from talking to Jackson?”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” she says, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I know I should have told you, but. . . ”

“But what? You gambled with one of my oldest friendships and didn’t feel that information was worth sharing?”

“Knox, I get why you’re upset, but this wasn’t some kind of calculated plot.” She reaches out and lays a hand on my arm, and I can’t help respond to her touch. There’s an undeniable charge between us. But I can’t let her get off that easy.

I shrug her hand away. “So why not say something?”

“Maybe because I figured you’d react like this?” she counters with a raised eyebrow. “Look, I honestly didn’t recognize you at first. And by the time I did, it was already past midnight, and I was on a rooftop with a hot as hell baseball player kissing me, and . . . ”

I take a swig of my beer and offer her a sip. To my surprise, she accepts the bottle and knocks half of it back in one gulp.

“And what?” I prompt when she doesn’t resume the story.

“Well, if you must know, I’d just been stood up.”

“So, I was your consolation prize?” I grimace at her. “A hookup with an out-of-towner playing a make-believe sport?”

“You know, I have to admit, you did change my mind. Baseball players have a lot more endurance than I thought. Must be all those bases you’ve gotta run. And you weren’t so bad at finding your way to home plate, either.” She tilts her head up at me with a defiant glint in her eye.

Goddamn, I want to kiss her. No, more than that. I want to grab her and shove her against the hard brick wall beside us, run my hand up that way-too-tight leather dress and peel it off of her. Forget running bases, I could go nine whole innings with her right here, right now.

But the stakes are too high. Jackson is a friend, a business partner. And I know how seriously he takes family. I can’t risk it.

The mystery woman I’ve been thinking about for the past week is standing inches away from me, so close I can feel the heat radiating off her body. But it turns out she’s off limits. Story of my fucking life.

“If you like baseball players now, you’re in luck,” I tell her. “I know a few. You just let me know when you want me to introduce you to one of my new teammates.” Even saying that puts a bad taste in my mouth, but hey, if it puts a damper on the heat between us, fine.

She tosses her head, eyes flashing with anger now. “Hell no, I’m not one of your groupies. You can’t pass me around to your teammates. I only accidentally wound up with a thing for this one pitcher. Maybe you know him? Six-foot-three, green eyes, thinks he’s a big shot because he used to play for the Yankees.”

Big shots are supposed to get what they want. But in this case that’s clearly not going to happen. “That particular ball player is under strict orders not to consort with anyone whose name begins with an S and ends with a Y.”

“That’s name discrimination. I should sue you for it.” She’s half joking, but there’s a sadness in her expression now, just a hint of it, at the edges of her lips.

“Shelby, you know what happened between us can’t happen again, right? Jackson can’t find out about New Year’s.”

Shelby brushes past me and storms up the alley, running one hand through her long, wavy hair. “You think I don’t know that? I have the most overprotective brother in the history of civilization. If he found out what happened he’d have you sent back to the minor leagues. In Antarctica. And I’d be locked away in a convent somewhere,” she hollers, waving a hand in the air.

“Well, I’m glad I got to meet you before he stashed you with the nuns,” I yell half joking, but as soon as the words are out, I realize I mean them.

Shelby pauses, halfway up the alley. She glances back at me, and suddenly it’s like there’s no space at all between us. I watch her chest rise and fall with every breath, her smooth skin practically glowing in the reflected light from the street lamps out front, and I want to cross the few feet that separate us and pull her against me, crush my lips to hers.

“I’m glad I got to meet you too,” she says, finally. “No regrets.”

“None whatsoever,” I agree. Then I quirk a faint grin. “But from now on, dial back the smack talk on baseball, huh?”

She smirks. “Not on your life.” But she does pace a little closer to me and extends a hand, for the second time tonight. “Friends?”

I envelop her small hand in mine, and try not to linger over the way her fingers curve perfectly inside my palm. “Friends.”

We pause, facing each other but uncertain as to our next move.

“Here,” Shelby says, lowering her head as she digs into her purse. “If we’re going to be friends, we should probably go ahead and exchange numbers.”

Right. Friends do that. Even friends with a little bit of shared history and a lotta shared secrets. Exchanging digits is a totally normal friend thing to do.

She hands me her phone so I can type in my number. Only when I hand it back, Shelby fumbles and her phone falls to the ground.

“Shit, sorry.” We both bend down to pick it up, our knees knocking together as we butcher the play.

“Is it broken?” I ask as she picks it up.

“No,” Shelby answers. “It survived.” She looks at me with liquid brown eyes and a soft, almost sad expression. Her lips part, those bright, hot red lips, just a couple centimeters, only she doesn’t say anything. And I can’t stop staring at those lips.

Fuck this.

Without a word I grasp Shelby’s neck and draw her into a deep, slow kiss. We’re still crouched down, and she practically falls on top of me, only my strong arms are keeping her upright. Her soft lips work against mine, parting to let out a soft moan, deep in her throat, that has me instantly hard as fuck. Her supple body presses against my hard chest as I crush her against me. It feels like not a moment has passed since we were last together; it’s New Year’s all over again and I’m tasting mint and floral perfume, and underneath it all, her salty flavor, the one I want more of.

The door to the bar opens and we spring apart, cursing, as Shelby falls on her ass and I fall forward on my hands and knees. A drunk bar hopper, one too many shots gone, staggers past us with a vague wave toward Shelby. Nobody we know, thank god.

I turn back to Shelby, still trying to catch my breath.

From the looks of Shelby’s glossy eyes and flushed cheeks, she is too.

I scramble to my feet and offer her a hand up, but she’s already rising on her own, ignoring the offer. Neither of us speaks, not until the drunk stumbles all the way out of the alley and leaves us on our own once more.