Playing For Forever Read online

  PLAYING FOR FOREVER J.C. GRANT

  Copyright © 2018 J.C. GRANT All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances of characters to actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. The author, J.C. Grant, holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

  Editing: Virginia Cantrell, Hot Tree Editing

  Proofreading: Janice De Arman

  Photo and Cover Design: © Sara Eirew Photographer and Design

  Cover Model: Mike Chabot Formatting: Champagne Formats

  READER ADVISORY

  This is an EROTIC NOVEL. This book contains consensual, but rough sex scenes that some may find upsetting. And swearing. Fuck loads of swearing. Also, if you do NOT like OTT Dominant, Possessive, Alpha-males, this book is not for you. But this is the third book, so I guess you know what you’re getting into, right?

  DEDICATION

  To all the crazy girls that love OTT possessive, dominant Alpha-males and happily ever afters.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Jean, you are so very vital to this process. Couldn’t have done this without you.

  Linda Russel, I can’t thank you enough for your patience and support! And all the amazing people on ig, your support means so much! And most importantly, thank you to all of you that have been waiting for this conclusion. Thank you for hanging in there with me this past year. Much love!

  Mike Chabot and Sara Eirew, thank you for creating an amazing cover!

  PLAYING

  for forever

  J.C. Grant

  CHAPTER ONE

  Living in Los Angeles was like living in a different world—at least that had been my experience. It could be a dream come true or your worst nightmare, and sometimes it managed to be both. But I was one of the lucky ones. My experience had been more good than bad—especially since I met the sex god beside me.

  My sex god.

  David Taylor.

  The man had completely changed my life. It started the first time I laid eyes on him; something inside me responded to him—no—answered to him. Shifting. Altering. Waking up. And he was a walking wet dream. He was my dream. My other half.

  As we sat in the back of the town car, I watched LA live up to what I'd imagined it to be before I actually lived here—busy, exciting, filled with a refreshing, wild energy.

  It was contagious.

  It made me feel alive.

  Hopeful.

  Like anything was possible.

  But I didn't need LA to remind me of that anymore; the six foot three and a half inches of sinfully honed muscle pressed against me was a constant reminder.

  David and I were proof anything was possible in La La Land, because we never should've crossed paths. We didn't run in the same crowds; we didn't frequent the same places. When we met, I was a struggling actress doing temp work, and he was a recently retired athlete.

  What was more impossible... we were both deeply damaged, but our issues somehow managed to work together. He wanted me and accepted me as-is. On the rare occasions I let myself really think about everything...

  It was fucking amazing.

  The way he loved me... I didn't know that kind of love existed. I didn't know anyone was capable of loving another person like that, much less me.

  The growing wetness between my thighs was proof of how much he loved me. Not just because he'd fucked me like a savage at a crowded Halloween party—no, because despite his irrational, possessive jealousy, he took me to said party anyway, solely to make me happy.

  Snuggling deeper into his side, I pressed my lips to his pec, my fingers exploring his abs as I watched Beverly Hills pass by outside the window. Without warning, David picked me up, maneuvering me onto his lap. The soft fur of his costume brushed under my bare thighs and ass as he positioned my legs over his.

  “Big Bad Wolf's not done playing with you, Little Red,” he murmured, shifting my cape around, using it to cover us like a blanket, hiding us from the driver's view. Wrapping a muscled forearm around me, he pulled until my bare back was pressed firmly to his warm chest.

  My head fell back against the swell of his shoulder as I watched the energy, life, and chaos outside the window. After a long moment, his large, powerful hand slid down, between my thighs, effortlessly spreading them apart, moving up until his fingertips slipped under my short skirt, trailing over the exposed, tender flesh of my sex.

  “Oh no, that goes back inside,” he growled when his fingers met the escaping slickness.

  As he gathered our mixed fluids, a guttural noise rattled through his chest, making me shiver, then relax as those fingers forced their way back inside, plunging deep.

  It was filthy. Obscene. And I loved it. I loved everything about my obsessive, possessive man.

  His thumb joined in, gently massaging my clit, sending white-hot heat licking up my spine. Shamelessly, my legs fell open, asking for more, too lust-drunk to care about our audience of one.

  “There’s my girl,” he growled in approval.

  My clit throbbed at his words, instantly feeling submissive and needy.

  I was his girl. Always. Completely and utterly his. But I’d gotten the impression, I had done something to make him question that.

  Suddenly, consumed by a need to reassure him, I blurted, “I didn't mean what I said earlier.”

  His fingers stilled as his chest stiffened against my back, but he said nothing.

  “When I said sometimes I want to kick your ass?” I tried to clarify. “That's not exactly true. I get frustrated at times, but... your question kind of threw me.”

  “Good to know,” he purred, using his sex voice—velvet over gravel.

  “I just wanted really rough sex, and I hoped this tiny outfit would do it...” My voice trailed off as I realized I was babbling.

  His fingers picked up their languid pace, and he relaxed, allowing our bodies to mold together again as a low “hmmm” vibrated through him and against my back. “Yeah, I got that.”

  Of course he did.

  He was always too perceptive, noticing every little nuance. He probably knew what I was up to before we even left the house.

  He took a deep breath, blowing it out harshly. Then he rasped behind my ear, “How 'bout... if something is bothering you, tell me.”

  “I'll try.” After a long, silent moment, I admitted, “Being vulnerable sucks.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, I get that. But try, okay?”

  I didn’t reply, as I tried to give myself over to the intimacy. His warm breath, lips, and stubble brushed the sensitive skin behind my ear as his talented fingers worked inside me.

  But even with his skillful touch, my confession, all the partygoers on Sunset Boulevard in every state of dress, and bumper-to-bumper traffic, I couldn't stop my mind from racing with the information David had just dropped on me minutes before.

  He was going to play three more seasons of baseball.

  All I wanted was a couple of hours a day alone to do girlie shit: pluck random hairs, go to the bathroom without someone hovering, inspect my face with a magnified mirror—all the stuff girls didn't want an audience for. I certainly didn't want days or weeks, or who-the-fuck knew how long away from him.

  I was really on a roll with this whole careful what you wish for thing. I'd just gotten a handle on my emotions. What the hell was I gonna do with this?

  His fingers carefully slipping free broke me from my thoughts. My eyes darted to his face, worried he’d sensed my inner turmoil, but that concern evaporated when he casually slid those digits into his mouth. It seemed like an absentminded gesture as he looked out the window, and that's when I noticed we were home; parked at the top of our drive.

  From his position underneath me, David
gripped my waist, helping me out of the car. “Go inside.”

  His gruff tone surprised me, but I complied, making my way through the open garage and entering the house without a word. Chance, our black brindle pit bull/mastiff mix—my wedding present—greeted me with a full body wag, rubbing against my legs before racing toward the bedroom. When I reached our room, Chance was snuggled down in his bed, like a small child that waits up for their parents only to fall asleep the second they get home.

  It was adorable.

  Unzipping the micro-dress, I let it fall to the floor and stepped out of it. As I struggled with my boots, deft hands removed the cape, allowing me better movement. Then those hands pushed me back onto the bed, taking over the foot-freeing effort. The way he handled the task was effortless and graceful.

  In my defense, getting them on was always much easier than getting them off.

  “Go wash your face, then get that sweet ass in bed,” David directed once I was sans boots, his voice stern, demanding.

  I paused, looking at him. “What's gotten into you all of a sudden, bossy?”

  “Just found out my wife isn't really bothered with my overbearing behavior; she's bothered by my lack of aggression.” He slapped me on the ass, then gave it a firm squeeze.

  I lifted my chin and narrowed my eyes before turning to make a show of heading for the bathroom.

  “Don't bother showering. I'm just gonna get you dirty again,” he called behind me, clearly amused.

  My attempt at being disgruntled might have been more effective if I hadn't been completely naked.

  After washing my face, I headed back to bed, stopping short in the bathroom doorway, finding David lying on our bed, struggling to get out of his costume.

  “Please, woman, never again,” he called as he pushed at the bottom half of the fur suit.

  “No promises,” I laughed.

  “If you wanna get into some kinky shit, fine,” he grunted, finally getting the costume down his muscled thighs, “but don't make me wear something like this out again.”

  Still laughing, I went to the closet to grab something to sleep in.

  David called behind me, “Hey, nuh-uh. Naked, sweetheart. I deserve naked after wearing this thing.”

  Turning, I leaned in the closet doorway, watching him tug the fur suit off, then stand. He was in front of me in four long strides. His head cocked to the side, his eyebrows lifted in a teasing challenge.

  “Fine,” I murmured, dragging my fingers across his chest, adding a little more sway to my hips as I moved past him, crawling onto the bed, making a show of it, arching my hips back, giving him an explicit view.

  I heard a groaned “Oh fuck,” then “the fucking death of me” as he turned, going to take a quick shower.

  Smirking, I slid under the covers, far too pleased by his reaction. Seemed unhealthy how much I thrived on it, depended on it—the effect I had on him.

  What the hell would I do if he ever stopped reacting to me like that?

  I quickly forced the thought away, it was too unsettling to think about.

  I don't know how long I laid there staring at the open bathroom door, trying to imagine him being gone at away games. Then I tried to think of things I could say to discourage his desire to go. All those manipulative thoughts made me feel disgusting. I could never be that kind of person. I never wanted to be that girl.

  “Babe,” I called loudly, staring at the ceiling.

  “Yeah.” His deep, rumbling voice echoed in the marble bathroom.

  “How long will you be gone for games?”

  “Depends. But I'll have the schedule in advance, so we can plan ahead of time—we have to with Chance.”

  Oh shit.

  He expected me to go. Of course he did.

  Part of me wanted to lose myself in him—it was the easier choice—but I had been independent too long. I had too many things I wanted to do. And I knew I would hate myself and eventually him if I did.

  I'm super fucked.

  ****

  Monday morning came far too soon. I'd managed to force myself to forget about baseball and its looming threat. But today, I had to deal with our current situation: his trip to Italy and the fact that I wasn't going. I knew he would be pissed, and I couldn't bring myself to blame him. David had asked several times yesterday about what needed to be packed and what our plans for the week were. I had easily redirected him by fucking Sunday away.

  Literally.

  Was I ashamed of manipulating him with sex? Hell no. He did it to me. Frequently and effectively in fact.

  And that was more or less my plan for dealing with my impending confession. I was going to get him so fuck-drunk, he wouldn’t care what I’d done. It had worked with every other man I’d known.

  As I padded down the hallway, I let my oversized, deep V-neck tee slide off one shoulder, making sure it was distractingly low, then gave my hair one last tousle before stepping out into the living room.

  “Hey, babe?” I called out innocently while putting a little extra sway in each step as I made my way toward the kitchen.

  I couldn't help but appreciate the Halloween décor. The sterling silver skulls, the mercury glass pumpkins, the large Gothic candle holders were sexy and sophisticated. I loved them. I wanted to leave them up all year.

  “What're you doing up so early? Did we wake you?” His thick rasp wrapped around me like a warm blanket. Comforting. Soothing. Making me feel a twinge of guilt for what I was doing.

  “Not at all,” I answered, watching his chiseled torso as he move around the kitchen. Then I noticed he already had the pan heating on the stove.

  As soon as the bedroom door had shut behind him, I hopped out of bed and quickly freshened up, so I knew he hadn’t had time to get much done—beside feed Chance.

  Leaning against the kitchen island, I did my best ‘sweet and sexy’ and offered, “Need help?”

  He gave me a speculative look as he turned to the fridge. That look turned into a teasing glare as he returned with an assortment of veggies, eggs, and cheese. “Can you cook?”

  Pursing my lips, I pretended to give it real consideration. “Kinda.”

  He huffed a laugh. “No, sweetheart. Sit down or go watch TV—or, better yet, get back in bed. I like our routine.”

  “I like our routine, too. But you can't do everything all the time.”

  He paused, really looking me over. “Why? Why can't I make our breakfast all the sudden?”

  “You can.” Then I tried for playful. “What about that whole ‘thinking about you doing wifey-stuff gets me hard’?”

  He looked at me with a growing smirk.

  “I love how you can still be so naïve.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked, feeling insulted.

  “Okay, don't be mad,” he started to explain, struggling to smother his smile as he began slicing veggies. “I'd just gotten you to stay at my house, and I was already dropping you off at home—that wasn't part of my plan. I thought once I got you here for a while, you'd wanna stay. I would've said anything,” he admitted with a mischievous grin. “Done anything. I didn't want you to leave—and in my defense, I was picturing you naked in my kitchen, baking cookies, wearing a tiny apron when I said that. And if you ever want to do that, let me know.”

  “It was all a plan?” I asked, genuinely curious and feeling slightly manipulated.

  “Once you told me about Mr. Impressive—yes,” he answered as he continued making our breakfast. “I knew I had to get you away from other men for a while, get you focused on me, get you to agree to marry me.” Taking in my expression, he added, “Austin, men like me are a dime a dozen in this town.”

  “That's not true,” I argued fiercely, equally dumbfounded and offended he would ever think that.

  “Yes, it is.” His tone was suddenly sober. “Both of my neighbors are worth almost twice what I am. Both are single guys, and they're your age.”

  I could see it in his expression... This was where his need to ov
erprovide for me came from. The competition from the men in this town triggered some of his childhood issues, mainly his fear of abandonment and rejection, making him feel like he wasn’t good enough.

  He continued, “You are the rarity here. You know who you are, and you own it. Hollywood hasn't transformed you. All these girls here—fake tits, fake ass, painting their faces to look like someone else, scary skinny, and no personality—don't have a clue who they are.”

  The way he saw me was flattering and stupefying. It was one hell of an ego boost.

  “David...” I didn't know what to address and what to leave alone, so I opted for the simplest truth. “Nobody is like you. No one could replace you.”

  Then, trying to get the morning back on track, I shifted my arms, pressing my breasts together and leaned forward a bit, and asked in a honeyed whisper, “Can't I take care of you sometimes? Maybe help you cook?”

  He turned to me, his expression hardened. “Not unless I'm damn near dying. You are not my mother. I take care of you. Understand?”

  Feeling dejected, but not wanting him to know, I teased, “Don't you think it's kinda weird that I can't, like... clean the house?”

  “I've told you before, I don't want you cooking or cleaning or any of the shit my mother did for my father. You take care of me by being with me. By letting me take care of you.”

  He had told me, but I didn't think he was that serious.

  I realized then, there was no chance of me helping him cook breakfast. While brushing my body against his. Teasing him. Until he was buried inside me. Pounding away.

  So much for my plan.

  Sitting down at the kitchen island, I watched him. The muscles in his back were tense swells narrowing down to the waistband of those tiny black boxer briefs. His muscles ticked and jumped with his movements as he plated our food and fixed our coffees.

  When he turned, setting the coffee in front of me, his pecs were taut and harsh looking, his abs tensed. The knowing look on his face made me pause. That look clearly communicated two things—he knew my attempt to help him with breakfast was more than just trying to take care of him, and he wasn't happy about it.