Backfield in Motion by Boroughs Publishing Group Page B

shoulder and smiled. “How
about a pizza?” The cat crawled across the back of the couch and
sat near his shoulder, switching its tail and swatting him on the
cheek with each stroke. He scowled at the cat. The cat scowled
right back.
    “You don’t much like cats, do you?”
    “What’s to like about them?”
    She almost smiled but not quite. Instead she
turned her belligerence up a notch, which only served to nudge his
interest up a notch higher.
    “How about you leave? Now.” Seeming to
realize she might be showing a little too much, she tugged on her
top, which off course pulled the material tight against her
breasts. Bruiser drew in a sharp breath and cursed the powers that
be, while at the same time thanking them for his good luck.
    “Ah, come on, Mac. It’s Saturday night. I
left the party early because you ran out on me. The least you could
do is be a charming hostess.” He turned his practiced
hundred-gigawatt smile on Mac, the one guaranteed to make a woman
drop her panties.
    Mac didn’t drop anything, least of all her
annoyance. “If you hadn’t noticed, charming is not in my job
description.”
    He chuckled. Oh, yeah, he’d noticed.
    “Bruise, I have to get up early, okay? So
see ya.”
    “Hey, it’s Sunday tomorrow. I never would’ve
pegged you for the church-going type.”
    “I’m not, but I have plans.”
    A smart guy would take the hint and leave.
Not Bruiser. Actually, he should’ve never come here in the first
place. No good could come from him being in the company of a
half-dressed Mac. Especially considering how much she’d turned him
on earlier.
    Remember Brett. His repressed
conscience demanded to be heard, and he looked away from Mac,
battling with himself. He should walk out this door. Right now.
    Mac helped him out and walked to the door,
yanking it open. “Thanks for dropping by.” She gestured toward the
porch.
    Bruiser balked, about to argue. With a heavy
sigh, he stood and walked to the door, feeling a bit like a whipped
puppy with his tail between his legs.
    He made the dumb-assed mistake of hesitating
just a few feet from her. He should’ve kept going, but his feet
wouldn’t move. His gaze met hers, and his world stood still. It was
just like Bogie and Bacall—Bruiser was a sucker for old classic
movies. He’d never had his world stand still. He’d always
thought the romantic crap in those movies he loved was just a
fantasy, especially when it came from a simple glance. But then his
brain went into deep freeze, while his heart slipped out of its
cage and sprouted wings.
    The part of his brain that did function
wanted to recite poetry.
    Poetry? What the fuck?
    He’d never been one to wax poetic unless
said poetry got a woman naked. While his body definitely wanted Mac
naked, surprisingly sex wasn’t his priority. His stomach did these
weird-assed somersaults like it did before running onto the
football field for the first play of each game. Only Mac’s house
wasn’t a football field and Mac didn’t look a damn thing like his
teammates.
    The urge to taste her overwhelmed him,
robbing him off his little remaining sense. He stepped closer,
expecting her to retreat. But she stood her ground, neither of them
apparently having the wherewithal to abandon ship.
    Instead, this ship was gonna sail those
rocky seas.
    Bruiser raised his hand and cupped the back
of her head, capturing the silky strands of her ponytail in his
fingers. Angling his head, he lowered his mouth to hers. She looked
up at him and the longing in her eyes drove him forward. He had to
taste those lips, just once, just a sample, had to know if the
effect she had on him extended to kissing. She parted her lips and
a soft sigh escaped. That was the last invitation he needed.
    His mouth touched hers, setting off a spark
and igniting a fire that laid waste to his entire body. He forgot
his name, rank, and jersey number.
    God, she tasted good. So fucking good.
    Bruiser applied more pressure and she met
him