“I didn’t find you on the game to trick you or feed you false info. I simply wanted a chance to talk without being Corey Matthews.” He moved his other hand from the wall beside her and slid it down her waist to the curve of her hip. When he did, the pulse in her neck kicked up a notch.
“Why?” she asked the million-dollar question.
“Hey Tar,” a slightly drunk Tillerson called loudly over the music and noise.
They both turned to find him waving them down, and Taran moved away from Corey quickly. He was sitting on a sofa flanked by two women who were obviously baseball bunnies. He sat forward as Taran approached and leaned down to him. Corey watched Tillerson’s hand come up and rest on the back of Taran’s neck, and Corey moved without thinking. He knew the conversation; Tillerson was leaving with at least one of those trashy women, and Taran was not going with them.
“Dance with me,” he said and grabbed her tiny hand with his to pull her away from his teammate and the two baseball bunnies with him.
“Wait, Matthews—” She tried to yank her hand back. “I didn’t say yes. I’m working.”
“No,” he assured her. “You’re not. Because that right there is not part of your article.”
She glanced back over her shoulder at the two women and Tillerson.
“He’s young, short stack. It’s a strange thing when throngs of attractive women are suddenly throwing themselves at you, more so en masse. But that’s the bad side of baseball. No one needs to read about that.”
She licked her lips like she was going to ask him something but shook her head instead. “You’re right. Kids look up to him. I’d never include anything about the ball bunnies.”
“Great—you owe me a dance,” Corey said again and reached for her hand.
It slid easily into his, even though it was so petite. Each finger delicate, the skin smooth. So different from his own. He yanked her toward the dance floor, knowing he wouldn’t be stopped because everyone knew better than to stop an athlete when they had a woman with them. Alone, it would take him ten minutes to get to the dance floor. With Taran it would be twenty-five seconds.
“Christ on a crutch, Matthews.”
He smiled without looking at her as the very Texan expression popped out of Taran’s normally accent-less mouth. She must have had a drink because the only time Texas ever came out was when alcohol was involved. He’d learned that playing Diablo because three times in the last few weeks he’d noticed it. When the anonymous man he had been asked her, she confessed a few drinks brought out her roots.
“Why in the name of all things holy do you think I owe you a dance?”
He stopped yanking her along and glared down at her. “You left me without so much as a word at Nick’s wedding. You don’t leave your date like that. You owe me.”
“Danny was my date, and I said goodbye to him.” She looked exasperated with him.
“You’re not dating Danny.” He didn’t understand why he needed to explain that to her again.
“Okay, I can’t argue with crazy,” she begrudgingly agreed. “One dance.”
But Corey knew he’d get a few more than that out of her. Because there was something between them. He was sure.
Dancing wasn’t Corey’s best skill by far, but that didn’t matter much because it was something Taran was good at. Her small frame moved to the beat in ways that caused a whole different kind of pounding in Corey before the first song was even close to over. His hand started out on her hip, resting on the satin of her shirt. But it wasn’t long until his thumb was moving under to find the heat of the skin below. Two songs later, the palm of his hand rested against skin at the small of her back that was softer and smoother than the satin that rubbed the back of it. He pulled her closer, and she looked up with those tempting bedroom eyes of hers fringed with thick black lashes that matched her hair. Her breath skated across his neck, and she wrapped her arm over his shoulder and pulled up closer against him. It was like heaven and hell all at the same time. To move against the small soft creature who had been driving him mad for weeks was heaven, to do nothing more than just hold her was hell. In a crowded club, there was nothing he could do because he wouldn’t so much as kiss a woman in public.
In his haze of lust, it took Corey a moment to realize she was trying to get him to lean down so she could say something. He complied, letting his cheek rest against hers. The scent of feminine hair products surrounded him as cool strands of her hair brushed against his forehead. Their hips aligned, and all the softness of the woman pressed against him. He heard her sharp intake of breath. Yes, he was definitely on the border between heaven and hell.
“Come home with me,” he heard himself say. “It’ll be the best night of your life.”
She jerked back like he’d slapped her, not invited her to share nirvana with him. And then she took two steps away.
“I may look like a ball bunny tonight, but I can assure you I am not and never will be.” Taran spun and stormed away from him.
He didn’t understand. He never went for ball bunnies. Everyone knew that about him. Even the bunnies didn’t bother to try anymore. What the hell did she mean? He tried to follow her, but he got stopped by close to a dozen people for photos or a “good game” or autographs so by the time he got back to the VIP lounge, she was long gone.
“What’s going on with you and Murphy?” Daily asked.
“Nothing. I don’t even know where she went,” he assured him before heading to Will.
Will’s look said you suck as a human being. Corey flopped onto the sofa next to him.
“What did you say to her?” Will asked.