Free Bad Boy's Cinderella: A Sports Romance by Alexa Wilder, Raleigh Blake

the door… Was I cliché enough to wear it?
    Two minutes later, padding out of the bedroom, the answer was yes. The shirt barely skimmed my thighs and I had to hold it shut over my sizable breasts, but I wasn’t completely naked anymore and that was improvement enough.
    His house was surprisingly easy to navigate, mostly open plan and minimalistic. I didn’t get a chance to look at it last night, missed the massive art on the walls, the enormous bookcases, the TV big enough to pass as a movie theater screen. Everything about this place screamed big and wealth and extravagance, and there was a part of me that enjoyed it, a frisson of excitement coiling in my gut at the prospect of being able to experience this much luxury as I got to know Reade.
    I wasn’t in this for the money, and I would’ve spent the night with him even if he lived in my income bracket, but there was no denying that the power of him excited me, his importance in the world. The fact that his name meant something, and his presence commanded respect.
    I felt a throb right down low, somewhere near my clit, and I smiled wickedly to myself as I continued my hunt for the man in question.
    The kitchen was empty, the coffee pot dripping leisurely. I frowned and headed down the hall, and movement out of the window drew my eye—someone on the driveway. I caught sight of dark hair and broad shoulders and smiled again, deciding to go out and greet him, ask if I could pour him a cup of coffee. Or better.
    What happened next was enough to wind me, rip the foundations out from beneath my feet.
    The instant I opened the front door, took one step outside, I was assaulted with it—flashing lights, the rush of bodies, demanding voices shouting, “What can you tell us about Reade Len—” and, “—reports of the bribery—” and, “—the NFL investigation, ma’am, do you know—”
    It hadn’t been Reade I’d seen through the window. It was one of these paparazzi vultures, and I could hardly catch a breath in the commotion of it, let alone get my brain working enough to act.
    A moment later, the group of aggressive reporters closed in on me. Ten of them at least, continuously snapping pictures. And I was wearing a shirt that barely covered the essentials, no underwear beneath…
    Shit .
    I gasped and stepped back, only to slam into Reade’s body behind me.
    “What the fuck?” he seethed. “Can’t you leave me alone at least in my own home?” His face was beet red with anger.
    “Reade, what can you tell us—“ and “Can you give us the name of your visitor here—“
    The questions poured over us non-stop, and I almost slid back into the house, when I saw Reade raise his hand and rip one of the reporter’s cameras from his grip. “You ever come near my house again, you mother-fu—“
    “Reade, stop it. Right now,” I screamed over the noise. “Please, it’s not worth it.” I don’t know what came over me, and I was sure he’d ignore me, but I caught his eye and I could see a dark cloud lifting. “Come on, Reade. Let’s just get back inside.” My voice was soft, but I could tell he heard me.
    It was the last thing I’d expected, but Reade handed the camera to the shocked reporter, turned around, grabbed me by my hand, and pulled us both inside, slamming the door on them, heaving breaths as I stared blankly at the wood and tried to wrap my mind around what had just happened.
    His phone rang the minute we stepped in, so he answered it, letting go of my hand and walking away from me. I could hear the brief phrases here and there, and he sounded more than just a little irritated, understandably. “—have everyone meet me in the office, thirty minutes. Jacob’s briefing mentioned Roger Milligan—”
    He had a face made for war when he came back to me, but his ear was still glued to the phone as he wrapped up the conversation.
    “No, I don’t know,” he said in biting tones. “Thirty minutes.” Then he snapped the phone shut and looked