Biggest Player (Not Yours #2) Read Online Sara Ney

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Sports Tags Authors: Series: Not Yours Series by Sara Ney
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Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
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What would she do if she knew about my conversation with Trent? I was so close to spilling the beans today when we were golfing but lost the courage. I honestly don’t want her to think I’m a piece of shit, but I also want to be direct with her. What better time to start?

I mean, look at us.

Friends.

But there’s no fucking way she wants to keep it like that. She originally swiped on me because she wanted to date me, yeah? Or to bust me because she thought I was a catfish, but that’s a minor detail. She may pretend we’re not attracted to each other and that she wants to keep me at arm’s length, but she can’t fool me.

I see the way she blushes when she catches me looking at her, and I felt her breathing get heavier when she wrapped her arms around me at Glam Golf USA. Not to brag, but I’ve met enough women to know when they’re hot and bothered, and Margot was hot.

And bothered.

Is it my imagination, or does Margot lean in a little closer each time she offers me a snack?

I glance at her again, drinking in the sight as she watches the screen, as if she were a teenager, and my mind wanders. I made out in a movie theater once when I was a teen, always horny, always putting the moves on people first.

Speaking of horny . . .

Why is the blanket across her lap drawing my eyes to it? Why do I want to slide my hand beneath it and run my palm along her inner thigh? The blanket feels like a barrier and an invitation all at once.

Wonder what she’d do if . . .

Should I, you know, put my hand under it?

Regardless of our relationship status, what better way to springboard to the next level than with a little foreplay.

Am I right or am I right?

Talk is cheap; fooling around is forever.

I yawn.

Reach across the back of her seat, stretching as if I were exhausted, and yawn again—the way they do it in the movies. Lay my hand on the back of her chair, touching her hair before letting my hand slide to her shoulders, real cool and nonchalant like.

She looks over at me, brows raised. “Wow. That’s your move?”

Yes, that is my move. Not the best move, but a move nonetheless . . .

“Why do you have to call me out like this?” I laugh. “Pretend we’re on a date.”

Definitely don’t feel as smooth as I thought I was.

“A date?” She shivers. “If you say so.”

Every time Margot laughs at a clever line from the characters on screen—or pretends to fan herself at the sight of the hunky male lead, with his handsome face and his great hair—I feel a flutter of excitement.

She’s so fucking cute. I can’t wait to get my hands on her . . .

I want to kiss her again.

That short-lived and interrupted kiss in her kitchen was too quick to register in my brain as memorable, and I wouldn’t mind trying it again to see if sparks fly this time. It’s been fucking with my mind ever since.

She shifts in her big red leather chair, the warmth of her leg pressing against mine. Impossible to ignore.

I’m not into this movie.

Barely paying attention, which we all knew was going to happen, too busy am I as I contemplate how best to make my next move.

With deliberate slowness, I slide my hand under the blanket, feeling the soft fabric of her leggings glide against the tips of my fingers and palm. Brush them over her knee, letting it rest there.

Her mouth curves into a smile.

I lean over, kissing her neck. Jawline. The spot below her ear.

“Are you trying to kiss me?”

“Do you want me to?”

She nods, setting the popcorn in the seat next to her.

My palm is still on her thigh when our mouths meet, bodies now turned to face one another, the cup holder that had once separated us now pushed out of the way.

Our tongues dance, the sweet taste of soda and the salt from her popcorn—buttery delicious—flirt with my senses as my fingers inch toward the center of her thighs. Light. Teasing.

She moans against my mouth, wiggling in her seat.

Encouraged by her excitement, I continue, my fingertips trailing along her inner thigh, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin layer of fabric.

Her lips curve into a small wicked smile. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

She’s breathless.

I grin, trailing kisses along her jaw. “You love it.”

We both do.

How often do we get to feel like . . .

We’re young again?

Not that we’re not young. Shit, I barely just turned twenty-five.

Her hand moves to my forearm, fingers curling around my wrist—but instead of pushing me away, the little minx guides me higher. The silent encouragement sends a thrill through me, and I wonder if being pleasured in public is something she’s done before.


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