False Start (Playing for Keeps #2) Read Online Riley Hart

Categories Genre: Contemporary, M-M Romance, Sports Tags Authors: Series: Playing for Keeps Series by Riley Hart
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Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
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So, I’d done what any jackass like myself would do in a situation like that. I’d set up anonymous deliveries of flowers to his house every day for a week, then called this woman I used to hook up with sometimes. The one I knew who got off on being in control and tying guys up, even though that wasn’t typically my thing. She’d strapped me to the bed and edged me nearly all damn night. She’d kept me handcuffed but with enough leeway that I could fuck her into orgasm, coming our brains out before collapsing into sleep.

Little had I known that another guy she often slept with had a key to her place. He showed up and decided to take advantage of the situation by taking photos of me handcuffed to said woman’s bed and selling them to the highest bidder. That had gotten me traded—one of the most consistent parts of my career. I fucked up, then got traded. Story of my life.

Now, after making the big-ass mistake of letting him fuck me in the SkyAir Members’ Club bathroom, which would have been a disaster if we’d gotten caught, I made up an excuse to my twin, Charity, about why I’d be late seeing her, and now I was nursing a Jack and Coke in the middle of a gay bar when I wasn’t out.

Bad decisions and I went hand in hand.

I should really work on that.

Clearly, it wasn’t happening tonight.

“Goddamn. I love your hair. You’re really fucking hot.” A twink in a crop top wrapped a lock around his finger.

“So I’ve heard.” I winked, grabbing his thin waist, my large hands nearly able to fully wrap around him.

This was stupid. I knew that. There was a voice in the back of my head that told me how easily I could get caught, get outed, but I was so fucking tired of—well, shit—of everything. But really exhausted with hiding this—with purposefully hooking up with mostly women and not men, the guys few and far between, with only those who could be discreet. I’d already lost my family, except for Charity, when I’d blurted out to them one night at dinner that I was bi. I’d lost McRae all those years ago. I already had a reputation for being trouble in the league. What more did I have to lose?

“Cocky, aren’t you?” Crop-Top Twink quirked a brow.

I nodded toward my crotch, then grinned. “So I’ve heard,” I said again, even though I really wasn’t into this the way I should be. I didn’t want to fuck some rando in a club, but the truth was, I didn’t know what I did want. Not really. At first, it had always been football, taking care of my family, and making my dad proud. Then it had been McRae. Now it was…who the fuck knew? Not me. Hence my decision-making skills and the fact that they could use some work.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

Lie…tell him something different. “Cullen,” I replied, sliding my hands up and down his torso. He was small, smaller than I was used to, and felt awkward under my touch.

“Cullen, I like that. It’s sexy.”

“Sexy name for a sexy guy, I guess,” I teased, making Crop-Top Twink chuckle.

“Oh, you’re good. Why is confidence so hot? I hope you don’t let me down. Tell me you’re not all talk but no game? If you’re not as good as you’re making me think you are, I’ll be disappointed.”

This time, it was me who laughed, though it felt like going through the motions, like it wasn’t real. “I’m even better than you think I am.”

Crop-Top Twink whimpered, then pulled me to my feet. I should probably have asked his name, too, but I was pretty sure neither of us cared about that. I let him lead me through the Dallas-area bar. There was a line to get into the bathroom, so I pushed him up against the back wall of the bar and slammed my mouth down on his. At least he’ll let me kiss him.

Stop thinking about McRae.

His arms went around me, hands threading through my hair as my thigh pressed between his legs and he rode it. This felt wrong. My dick wasn’t even hard, which should have told me something. I could still feel Houston inside of me, stretching me out, slamming into me in a way I hadn’t felt in too long. I wanted his taste on my tongue while I kissed Crop-Top Twink, chasing a high I never had except when I was with Houston.

When Crop-Top Twink’s hand slid between our bodies and palmed my dick, he stopped kissing. “Houston, we have a problem. Don’t worry. I’ll get you there.”

But he wouldn’t. Not now, because of fucking course the random guy I tried to fuck would use that saying when it was McRae’s hand I wished was trying to shove its way down my pants right now. “Nah, I’m not feelin’ it,” I said, which was kinda a dick move. I could have found a better way to say it. I wasn’t great with people. So sue me.


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