Page 39 of Off Limits: The Firsts

Oh. My. God.

I slept with Easton Wylder.

Hot, delectable, just-as-talented-in-the-sack-as-on-the-ball-field Easton Wylder. The one lying naked beside me in bed, his tanned, sculpted body nestled beneath these pristine sheets.

The player.

A client.

My ticket to getting the Austin Aces’ long-term contract. The last wish left on my dad’s bucket list, to put the cherry on top of his incredible career.

The wish I just risked by breaking the rules of my ironclad contract.

My head dizzies with the possible consequences if someone were to find out.

My stomach flip-flops over the sight of him sound asleep, so peaceful, so mouthwateringly gorgeous.

Then the panic returns. Not over breeching my contract, like it should be, but rather over how last night made me feel. And man, how I did feel. But now that the sheets have cooled and the haze of lust is gone, I’m not sure what to make of these newfound feelings. Or what do to with them now that they still linger.

Oh crap.

What am I thinking?

There can’t be feelings.

There can’t be anything.

There wasn’t even supposed to be sex.

There was supposed to be rehab.

There was supposed to be me getting Easton back up to par, athletically, so he could play again and I could tell my dad I did it. Make him proud of me. Give him something more to live for.

Staring at Easton only makes my emotions riot that much louder, but I know what I need to do.

With guilt eating at me like acid, I slide out of the bed slowly so as not to disturb him. How could I be so selfish? So reckless? I search for my clothes, all the while desperate to push these feelings away and crawl back into bed with him. Let him wrap his arms around me and kiss me again just like he did last night when we finally decided we were too exhausted to go another round.

Conflicted in heart and head, I pull on my jeans as quietly as possible and pad out into the condo to find my bra and T-shirt. They’re lying on the floor, a scarlet letter of shame to slide on as a reminder of what I’m about to do: leave as silently as possible.

The elevator ride down feels like it takes forever.

It gives me too much time to think. To regret. To realize Easton lifted me up last night. And I let him do it, when I definitely weigh more than he should lift with his shoulder. Did he hurt it? Did he reinjure anything?

No. He’s fine. It’s my panic talking.

Because there was no pain in that moment. There was only want and greed and need and selfishness and selflessness. Definitely not pain. That sexy growl of his fills my head and begs me to stop the elevator right now and press penthouse instead of lobby.

Go back.

I can’t.

Go back.

I press my hand to the row of buttons illuminating five random floors. The elevator stops abruptly at the next floor, its doors open to an empty hallway lined with expensive carpet and doors to other condos.

I stare at the emptiness as my heart fights against my mind.

Duty wars against desire.