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  PLAY WITH ME

  An Erotic Romance Short Story

  by

  Lea Bronsen

  Copyrights

  Play with Me

  Published by Writers in Crime

  First Edition

  Copyright © 2016 Lea Bronsen

  ISBN: 9781370674664

  Editor: D.C. Stone

  Layout and cover art: Lea Bronsen

  All Rights Reserved

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Adult reading material.

  Dedication

  To Desi, for believing in me.

  Lea

  Cardiff, the capital of Wales, is great for runners. Ah, how I dig my afternoon jogs out of campus, through beautiful Alexandra Gardens, past the courthouse and police station, and into the magnificent greenery of Bute Park. As a young woman spending most of the year with my ass on a chair, nose deep in thick books about international politics, I need the physical outlet and daily exercise. I want air, want to feel my body come alive, and more than anything, I want to get my thoughts off stupid political tensions and scheming world leaders.

  “Myra?” Melissa asks, running by my side.

  “Yeah?”

  “What are you thinking? You’re so quiet.”

  I smile at my friend’s reddish face, her strain evident with every shaky inhale. We’ve only been out five minutes, yet sweat pearls on her forehead. “I’m thinking how much I freaking love this,” I tease.

  Plus I freaking love teasing her. She’s an exchange student like me, and though I come from the States and she from the other side of the globe, we’ve grown a tight bond in Wales. Not only do we share a room and every secret, we also do most of our student activities together. So I joke about her training reluctance, she jokes about my dating reluctance. Given my disastrous experience with a member of the opposite sex, Lucas, a cheater who preferred to spend the summer vacation with an exotic beauty, I can’t be blamed for keeping a distance. She, on the other hand, changes partners every Friday night.

  “You love what?” Lips parted to blow out quick, erratic puffs, she scowls. “Running?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re sick. You don’t just need a man, you need a lobotomy.”

  I laugh. “Running makes me feel good.” Invigorated by the short exercise, I breathe at a steady pace, counting footsteps in my head. One-two-three, inhale. One-two-three, exhale. My pumped-up leg muscles work well, uncomplaining, like an oiled machine.

  We enter the near-empty park. The sound of our sneakers crushing gravel fills the eerie afternoon quiet. Trees tower, hiding the dark blue sky. It’s autumn, and with each new day, the colors change. Green leaves turn into yellow and red dropping to cover the paths.

  Male shouting disrupts the silence. And growling. Thumps.

  Melissa and I exchange a questioning glance and stop.

  On a field nearby, beefed-up guys in white shorts and colored shirts fight for a ball. An oval ball. I know that game, since my dad made me play American football from an early age. He was vehement I be one of the guys and respected as such. He taught me how to fix a car, repair furniture, use a gun, fish, and drive a truck. “Myra,” he said, “the world is a hard place, and it’s even harder for a woman. You must never depend on a man.”

  Since these guys don’t wear protection, they are not playing football, but rugby. I heard there’s a club in the neighborhood.

  Catching my breath, I relish in the spectacular sight of angry bulls chasing the ball carrier as if he were a torero. I haven’t seen so much muscle and sweat in a long time.

  “All that hotness,” Melissa says, still puffing, her hands on her hips. She’s probably pleased I’m distracted from running.

  I smile. “Yup. Come on, let’s check it out.” I walk toward the players, more fascinated with the game than with their muscled, hard bodies. It’s not like I’m going anywhere near men after being dumped by Lucas.

  The ball carrier zigzags like a fleeing rabbit between the other team’s defendants. He sidesteps, breaks the defense, and speeds toward the end of the field. Two opponents follow. Moving faster, they tackle him, one at knee level and the other circling his waist. He shouts and attempts to shake them loose, but trips and falls stomach first, arms out. The ball slips from his hands and rolls past the invisible goal line to stop on the gravel path, a few meters from Melissa and me. A sharp whistle flares, the referee stopping the play.

  Without hesitating, I grab the ball. While the three guys get up, grunting and pushing each other, I enjoy the touch of rough leather and the firmness of the oval ball. Memories of playful moments with Dad flash in my mind. The hollow feeling in my chest is back.

  One of the guys playing defense, a tall, broad-shouldered stud with wild brown hair and chocolate eyes raises a hand to me, gesturing to send him the ball. His pumped chest heaves beneath his blue shirt and sweat runs along his temples. The two other guys turn on their heels, giving Melissa and me a long, sideways body scan that says, Sexy.

  Ugh. I’m as good as them, not just someone to be ogled. Pursing my lips, I send the ball to the stud forcefully, making it spin like a bullet in the air.

  He catches the ball, the contact with his open palms hard as a slap and the sound bouncing off the trees. A small grin grows at his mouth. He seeks my gaze. This look says, Admiration.

  An older man’s voice calls, “Kevin!”

  The stud turns to continue the game.

  The lack of goal posts on the field indicates it’s only a practice. I haven’t played for years. My pulse beats a little quicker. “Hey,” I ask, and wait for him to spin back. “Can I join you guys?”

  His gleaming gaze wanders from my eyes to my lips, then farther down to my breasts. Damn, he doesn’t need to make a show; it’s not my fault they protrude in my tight running singlet. “No, but you’re welcome to watch.” With a smirk, he dropkicks the ball to center field and jogs away.

  Are you fucking kidding me?

  Infuriated, I turn on my heel, but Melissa grabs my arm. “C’mon, let’s stay and watch them.”

  “Those assholes?” I nod my chin in their direction. The game has picked up again, with the opposition speeding after the ball carrier, trying to stop him. There’s a hole in the defense at his left, but he hasn’t seen it. He passes to someone at his right, who gets tackled and loses the ball. I clench my fists. No way in hell would I make such a dumb mistake.

  She laughs. “You’re drooling.”

  “I’m not.”

  “But you have to admit they’re sexy.”

  “Mel, you know I’m not in the mood after what Lucas did to me.”

  She shrugs.

  “Honestly, I could play! Do they think because I’m a girl, I’d automatically suck?”

  “Kevin didn’t say that.”

  “Who?” I pretend not to remember his name, but I do, and it irritates me that I’ve already connected that name to a handsome face with gleaming chocolate eyes.

  “The guy you sent the ball to.”

  “He stared at my tits.”

  “You’re beautiful. Any man in his right mind would gape at your gorgeous blue eyes and long blonde hair. And yes, your tits.”

  “Pfft.” I shake off her compliments. “All they ever want is sex. They don’t care that I can actually play. It’s unfair.”

  Pulling me toward a pile of sports bags o
n the side of the field, she coos, “Maybe they’re afraid of hurting you. Have you seen how brutal they are? Slamming into each other and—”

  “Bullshit. I’ve played football before.”

  “But these guys don’t wear protection like you Americans.”

  “I can handle it. Dammit, it’s just a game.”

  We reach the bags. As if on cue, the whistle sounds again. The coach, a big-bellied man in sportswear and a cap, shouts, “All right, boys, ten minutes.”

  The players regroup and walk toward us, complaining, dragging their legs. Some pick up water bottles while others take off their wet, sticky shirts.

  Oh…my…God. Melissa and I face a flock of pure male hotness and strength. Everywhere I look, there’s pumped muscle, steam drifting from reddish, bruised skin, and curious gazes studying us top-to-toe. The sharp smell of perspiration sneaks to my nostrils. Gurgling water sounds from all sides, along with grunts of tiredness and comments about the game, then questions about us. Who are we, what are we doing here?

  Melissa handles the sexual attention well, quipping with an equally loaded smile. It’s a dirty game of who flirts more, and it makes me feel cheap. Indeed, what am I doing here?

  I sit with my back to a tree and wait for the break to be over so we can leave.

  * * *

  “Hey.” A male voice at my side.

  I glance up. It’s Mr. Chocolate Eyes, a few feet away, a special warmth in his gaze. Bare chested, he’s a specimen of perfect masculine proportions, with bulging muscles in all the right places and a neat washboard. Tall as a giant and handsome as a model. Sweat rolls down his abs, wetting the black hairs above his waistband.

  My breath hitches. I swallow.

  He shows me the ball in his hands—I’ve been so busy admiring his stunning physique, I didn’t notice it—and gestures for me to accept the ball. What does he want to do? Play?

  “Um.” Surprised, I open my hands, and he sends the spinning ball into my palms. I catch it like a pro and get up, my body sizzling with a sudden mix of nervousness and excitement. This is my chance. I have to show I’m worthy. Jogging away to put space between us, I enter the neatly trimmed grass field and throw him the ball.

  He runs, too, farther and farther down the field. We exchange passes for a while, our shots hard and precise. I love this playful moment, the game, and the opportunity to prove I’m as good as he is. Though I can’t see the other guys, their stares drill holes into my back. What are they thinking, that it’s pretty cool seeing a girl play? Or are they studying my ass in my tight black leggings?

  The whistle blares in the otherwise silent park. I freeze. End of the break. So soon?

  “You!” The coach hurries toward me and points to the end of the field. “Out.”

  I frown, holding the ball one-handed. “Why?”

  Ignoring my question, he turns to Kevin, voice sardonic, “And you, you facken sissy, go put your shirt on.”

  Kevin sends me a look saying, I’m sorry, and jogs back to the bags.

  The other players walk out onto the grass and take their respective positions, all attention on me.

  I stand on one side of the field, my blood pulsing at an up-tempo beat, and glare from the coach to the nearest guys and back.

  The older man scowls. “Give me the ball and get out.”

  “But this is just a practice. I’d like to join you. I’ve played American football.”

  “We don’t need anything American here. Especially not a girlie. Gimme the facken ball.”

  “You’re telling me a girl can’t play rugby?”

  He makes his head bob side-to-side and smirks, exposing grayish teeth.

  “Myra,” Melissa calls. “Let go, sweetie.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s not worth it.”

  “Yeah?” How dare she take the coach’s side?

  Fuming, I swivel, scan the players’ positions, and make a go for it. While the silly coach grumbles something behind me, I run with the ball under my arm, sidestepping every two or three steps to challenge the row of huge, beefy men in front of me. “Come on!” I shout, building my courage.

  Some defendants move toward me. They’re just pretending. I know from experience. They won’t really tackle me for fear of hurting me, but they’ll play along for a bit.

  Feeling alive and unbeatable, I run. The defense closes in, threatening to stop me, but I’m agile, swift, and they are heavy. I zigzag from one player to the other, tricking them to believe I’m heading their way when I’m going the other. Then bang—I’m through the trap and speeding toward the in-goal area. Ha. Heavy breathing and the thumping of shoes are right behind me, but I’m faster, so much faster. A few excruciating seconds later, I’m at the end of the field and I throw myself to the ground, arms first, landing brutally on my stomach and ribs, and press the ball to the grass. That’s a try, motherfuckers.

  “Stop that facken bitch!” the coach hollers.

  Eh, he wants the ball? Not taking the time to catch my breath, I get up, drop the ball at my feet, and when it bounces, kick it high and far between two imaginary goal posts in the middle of the field. A beautiful dropkick. Man, my dad would be proud.

  A murmur of appreciation rises from the players, but the coach continues to insult me. Facken this, facken that.

  Misogynistic asshole. Having done what I had to do, I turn on my heel and walk away, breathing fast, my heart hammering in my chest. Melissa can stay with her “friends”. No thanks for your support, Mel.

  * * *

  I have jogged around Bute Park for a good half hour, feeling lonely and angry—but not sorry for myself—before coming back to where I started.

  The rugby field is empty. Where did Melissa go? To one of the guys’ place, no doubt.

  Tired, I head for the park exit, when hasty footfalls crushing gravel approach from behind. I don’t bother to look.

  A tall guy appears at my side and adjusts his pace to mine. Kevin.

  My chest tightens. His presence does something to me. What exactly, I don’t know.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to campus,” I grumble.

  He takes a bigger step and stands in my way, large like a bear, arms outstretched to cage me in. “Whoa, take it easy.” His brown gaze trails down to my chest.

  As if I wasn’t already pissed off enough, sweat makes the singlet stick to my skin and show off my rigid nipples. I stop near his face and sneer, my eyes sending darts of anger. “Why should I take it easy?”

  He pins me with a calm stare. “You killed it out there. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Though his compliment means the world to me, I’m too irritated to be nice. “You’re just sayin’ that ’cause I’m a girl.”

  “Myra.” He grabs my hands, his warm and comforting, but the contact is too intimate. I pull back. “Why don’t you come with us to the club and have a drink,” he offers, tilting his head.

  Despite his kindness and earnestness, I widen my eyes in disbelief. “You’re pulling my leg. Isn’t that like your holy place? No women allowed and all that shit?”

  “Your friend is coming.” He nods his chin down the street.

  I follow his gaze. Yep, Melissa tags along with a group of players, sport bags hanging from their shoulders. My heart sinks. Betrayal hurts. “But she’s in it for something I’m not.”

  “What do you mean?” His voice softens almost to a whisper.

  “All I want is to be treated like a player, one of you guys, while she’s…” I close my mouth for fear of saying something nasty about my friend. She’s free to get laid with whomever she wants. I have no right to judge her.

  Kevin stares at me for a moment, his expression dark. Now that I have time to observe him up-close, he’s truly gorgeous, with a thin face made of high cheeks, a sharp nose, full lips, and a pointy chin. Flanked by wild, sweaty brown hair I would ruffle if he were mine.

  Mine? A yearning nestles in the pit of my stomach, the kind I
used to feel when stupid Lucas gave me the eye. A burn starts in my womb and spreads to my chest. Fluttery, molten hot. But oh, I’m so not ready.

  * * *

  Elbows on the counter, Kevin clinks his beer glass to mine. “Welcome to the heart of Welsh rugby.”

  I sweep the club’s bar area, a classy interior of wood and stone. Loud-mouthed men, players and fans, crowd the place, toasting and downing drinks. Most of the focus is on me. In the past half hour, the loudness of their voices and the directness of their stares have increased with the alcohol consumption. I don’t feel that welcome, rather an intruder in such a men-only place. While Melissa, seated in a leather couch in a corner and surrounded by men, seems to thrive. Each time I catch her glance, she sends me a playful wink saying, Have fun!

  Kevin leans toward me. “Don’t worry about the attention. You’re too beautiful not to stare at.”

  Beautiful? His compliment hits home, but when I gaze behind the counter, where the big, bald waiter fills glass after glass of beer, I meet a scowl. “The waiter doesn’t look too happy I’m here,” I whisper in Kevin’s ear. His manly scent, mixed with a faint hint of sweat, fills my nose. Ensnaring.

  “Listen, these guys are really nice once you get to know them. Right now, they’re curious about you, that’s all.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You know, it’s not an all-male club. We have a women’s team. You could join if you wanted to.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  He sips his drink and eyes me, gaze warm. “So, what else is a beautiful American doing in Cardiff?”

  I smile. He’s cute. “I’m studying political science.”

  “How many years left?”

  “Two.” I have a sip from my beer, enjoying its bubbly coolness and the bitter taste of malt. Hopefully, the alcohol will help me relax.