Heath made a low, guttural sound that joined her muffled cries as the cresting waves of pleasure broke, swamping her with brutal ecstasy and carrying her out beyond a place of coherent thought or reason. She heard herself make a noise like a sob, but there was a smile on her face.
“Fuck, that was hot.” Heath’s voice was awestruck. And closer than she’d expected. She hadn’t realized he’d moved, had lost track of time in the throes of orgasm.
She smiled drowsily, enjoying the lassitude seeping through her veins but hoping her energy recovered quickly. From the expression on his face, they weren’t done yet. “Enough of an encore for you?”
He shoved down the swim trunks he still wore, his erection massive. “You got a standing ovation.”
She held her arms out, encouraging him to join her. “I think it’s time for some audience participation, don’t you?”
He put on a condom with record speed, then stretched over her.
Propped up on her elbows, she met him halfway for a hungry kiss that highlighted exactly how much he wanted her. Had she ever felt this desirable before?
He fisted a hand in her hair, tugging gently until she drew her head back, meeting his eyes. “You make me crazy.” His hoarse, admiring tone made it clear the words were a compliment.
She batted her eyelashes, her smile sly. “Who, me?” It might go to her head, having so much power over a man like Heath, except that he wielded the same control over her. How would she ever get enough of him?
The past few days had taught her that Heath was skilled at foreplay, but right now he was a man driven to the brink, his expression almost harsh as he nudged her thighs farther apart and surged into her with one forceful thrust. Her breath caught, but she was slick from her earlier climax, and there was no discomfort, only spiraling need. Locking her legs around his waist, she arched up to meet him, closing her eyes at the sheer bliss of having him inside her.
“Phoebe.” His voice was low, commanding, as he brushed his knuckles over her cheek. “Look at me.”
The request surprised her, but she opened her eyes, dazed by his possessive expression as he stared down at her. By how he made her burn for him. By the almost unbearably intense connection between them. Gazes locked, he laced his fingers through hers, holding her hands next to her head as he pistoned into her, pressing against her still-sensitive clit with every shove of his hips. Her orgasm came faster than expected, wringing his name from her in a sharp cry. Unable to keep her eyes open any longer, she squeezed them shut and tightened her hold on him as he came, wanting him, in that moment, to be part of her.
Earlier, when he’d watched her from the shadows, he’d teased, “I could be anyone.” Nothing was further from the truth. No one but Heath had ever made her feel this way. And it was impossible to imagine anyone else ever would.
CHAPTER 11
AS THE SHUTTLE bus to the stadium rolled to a stop, Phoebe grinned broadly, as eager as a kid on Christmas morning.
Heath regarded her with amusement. “You’re downright giddy.”
“I love baseball games,” she said, descending the steps onto the pavement. “You know that.”
“True.” He pulled sunglasses from his pocket and slid them on. “But do you know how damaging it will be to my ego if today’s game turns out to be your favorite part of the vacation?”
She grinned. “Your ego is sizable enough to take the hit.”
He swatted her on the ass in playful retribution for the taunt, and heat shimmied through her, momentarily eclipsing her excitement for the game. But then they entered the stadium, and she breathed in the scents of popcorn and beer, the same smells that had greeted her when her uncle had taken her to her first game at age seven. This ballpark was a little smaller than what she was used to in Atlanta, and the club had—mercifully—opted to close the retractable roof in deference to the day’s heat index. The stadium seating was a sea of blue, and Heath led her to their spots near the visitors’ dugout.
As Phoebe understood it, when the grandparents she’d never met discovered their seventeen-year-old daughter was pregnant, they’d disowned her, forbidding their son, Mike, to have contact with his older sister. But once he was an adult, he’d tracked her down. A high school gym coach with summers off, his visits had usually fallen smack in the middle of the baseball season. Since Phoebe’s mother disliked the heat, the ticket prices and the lengthy drive, she’d often sent Phoebe and Mike alone. Those ballgames had been some of the most enjoyable memories of her childhood—an escape from the severe environment of her house to a place where you were actually encouraged to yell and holler and your favorite uncle bought you all the sodas you wanted, caffeine be damned.
She was so happy to be back in a stadium, absorbing the energy of a small but enthusiastic crowd, that she didn’t even mind that her team was having an off game. After the first pitch, Heath declared that they were going to celebrate each time the team scored with a kiss, but by the fifth inning, that had only happened twice. Meanwhile, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Heath, she was getting a whole new appreciation for how dirty baseball could sound, what with all the talk of bases and scoring and mounds and getting wood.
The fifth inning wasn’t looking very promising, with only one out left with their team up to bat, but at least Phoebe had her soft pretzel to make her happy. She bit off a corner, then noticed Heath’s incredulous look. Was he surprised by how much she was putting away? She’d finished a hot dog and nachos earlier and had stated her intention to get popcorn before the seventh-inning stretch. Her appetite had been off the charts for the past couple of days. Marathon sex made a girl hungry.
But it turned out Heath wasn’t judging the quantity of food, just her selections. “Didn’t you notice the regional snack options here?” he demanded. “Conch fritters, ceviche, malanga chips.”
She washed down her pretzel with a sip of cold beer. “All yummy choices, but I don’t come to a baseball game to eat ceviche. Where’s your ballpark spirit?”
“Being held hostage in a dark basement by my taste buds. Considering how refined your palate is, I can’t believe you love generic stadium food so much.”
“Food snob.”
“Hell, yes. That’s why I went into the restaurant business—plus, years of experience trying to charm more popular kids into liking me makes me suited to the hospitality industry. But mostly, I work to advance culinary excellence because my stepfather’s housekeeper spoiled me silly. Fresh produce, unique ingredients, amazing yet unpretentious skill. Then I got to college and realized what other kids my age were eating.” He shuddered at the memory. “I was immediately convinced there was some conspiracy to kill the country’s best and brightest through dorm food.”
She laughed at his outraged expression. “So even as a teenager you identified yourself as one of our nation’s ‘best and brightest’?”
“False modesty benefits no one, Mars.”
She laughed again, but then the crack of the bat drew her attention to the field. One of the Braves hit a home run, and both Phoebe and Heath leaped to their feet, cheering—which earned a few disgruntled glances from the home-team fans surrounding them. Heath framed her face in his hands and stole a quick kiss.
He leaned back with a grin. “I’m usually more of a fine wine and aged bourbon kind of guy, but you make domestic beer taste good.”
They regained their seats, watching as the next hitter jogged up to home plate. If the Braves scored again, it would be a tie ballgame.
A few minutes later, Heath asked, “So you know my story—what about yours? How’d you get into food and beverage?”
Suddenly, she could smell vanilla and hear faint humming. Something bittersweet twitched in the vicinity of her heart. “In all the time Cam and I were together, he never me asked that. I think cooking is so much an integral part of his personality that he just assumes other people are like him.”
“Is that your way of evading the question?” Heath asked. He was a man who respected
privacy, and she knew he wouldn’t push if she was uncomfortable.
She could change the subject, comment on the runner who’d just made it to second, but hell, she was twenty-five years old. At some point she should be able to share bits of her past without them getting stuck in her throat. Otherwise, her upbringing was wielding way too much power over her, keeping her from becoming more.
“I told you that my mother didn’t mean to have me. I just...happened.” She ducked her gaze, wondering if she’d ever get past this lingering shame, as if her birth was somehow her fault.
Heath squeezed her hand, and she was so grateful for his unspoken support that she wanted to kiss him. A for-real kiss, not the playful pecks they’d been exchanging in the name of baseball. But if she started that, she’d never get through this explanation. Making out with Heath was infinitely more fun than dwelling on her childhood.
“To my mom’s credit,” Phoebe said, “even though she hadn’t planned for me, she took care of me. We just never had a warm relationship. I don’t remember hugs or bedtime stories. But I remember birthday cakes.” Every February 18 without fail. “God knows why she honored that tradition so fervently, but every year, she created some baked treat even more delicious than the year before. She baked at Christmas, too, and I think waking up to the scent of zucchini bread in the oven, or chocolate cakes cooling on the baker’s rack, was the closest I came to feeling loved. When I realized that I could do that for a living, that I could provide people with some measure of joy... Suffice to say, it was the only career I ever considered.”
He studied her for a long, silent moment. Then he shook his head, his smile self-deprecating. “So to sum up, you chose a vocation because you wanted to spread love and joy, while I picked mine motivated by a selfish desire for better dining options. Yeah, that sounds about right.”
Even though she knew he was joking, his words left her discomfited. Did he not see himself as someone who had love to offer? She found that sad. From the story he’d told her yesterday, he’d only truly been in love once—and it hadn’t ended well. While she believed he was over the woman, it couldn’t be easy to move past betrayal when it married into the family.
Still, she hated to think that he would sentence himself to being alone forever rather than try again. She almost pushed the issue, but worried he might think she was hinting at some kind of emotional commitment from him. That had never been on the table. Hell, just yesterday he’d acted as if he didn’t care whether she stayed with him for the night or went clubbing with her ex-boyfriend. As glad as she was that she’d remained with Heath, and as wonderful a night as they’d shared, her eyes were wide-open. A vacation fling did not a lasting relationship make.
Besides, baseball games were no more about an angsty analyzation of feelings than they were ceviche. So she returned her attention to the field. The Braves came back in the final innings, scoring four times. Heath kissed her for each of them, and her escalating physical response began to edge out her earlier unease.
As they stood to leave, she noticed an elderly couple a few rows behind them, affectionately bickering about the best route to get home. The woman, who was probably in her late sixties, was calling the man an old fool, and he retorted that she was a know-it-all even as he helped her to her feet and she patted his arm. Phoebe grinned inwardly, almost able to imagine a sixty-year-old Heath chastising her for her lousy taste in stadium food while she chowed down on cheese fries and funnel cake.
Heath followed her gaze. “What’s so fun—Uh-oh. Ma’am? Be right back,” he told Phoebe. He sprinted up the rows to retrieve the purse that the elderly woman had left behind, then chased after her.
Phoebe thought it was silly to make him backtrack after delivering it, so she simply caught up to where he was now chatting with the older couple. Whatever he’d just said made them laugh, and seeing their faces warmed Phoebe. Heath spread joy, too. He just seemed reluctant to create any for himself.
* * *
IT WAS ON the shuttle ride back to the hotel that the truth caught up to Phoebe. Maybe there’d been a time not too long ago when she’d imagined a future with Cam, but now, when she pictured the years ahead, it was all too easy to picture Heath by her side. Watching that elderly couple at the park had made her wistful for what they shared. There were two people who hadn’t been afraid to build a future.
I’ve screwed up. Badly. She couldn’t quite call sleeping with Heath a mistake—it was hard to regret the best sex of her life—but she could no longer deny that she was falling for him.
How many other women had made that error over the years? During the time she’d worked for Heath, she’d witnessed several girlfriends get their hopes up—females of varying backgrounds, careers, ages and races. Entirely different women, same end result.
She could barely look at him as they rode the elevator up to their floor. Just the sight of his profile made her want to kiss him, which in turn made her miserable. By this time tomorrow, he’d be officially off limits to her. So she kept her eyes straight ahead, but he met her gaze in the mirrored doors.
With a smile, he reached over to tug on her ball cap. “You are so cute.”
Right. Cute. No trace of va, va or voom at the moment. And yet, sitting in that hard plastic chair scarfing down junk food, she’d felt more like herself than she had in days. This is the real me. Why did it have to be the real her who’d stupidly fallen for him, instead of the vacation persona she could shed as soon as she stepped on the plane?
When they entered the hotel room, he reached for her hand, stepping forward to kiss her. It was practically a conditioned response—most of the time they’d spent in this suite, they’d been all over each other. An answering desire swirled in her, but she ducked away at the last minute, swallowing a lump of emotion and trying to figure out an explanation for her lackluster mood. She’d had a lot of fun at the game and it wasn’t as if Heath had done anything wrong. He’d been completely honest with her, never misrepresenting himself. I’m a selfish hedonist. I don’t have relationships.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, the concern in his tone only making her want to cry more.
“To be honest...” No, honesty was not what the moment required. Telling him that she was teetering on the brink of falling in love might well destroy their friendship. He’d avoid her once they returned to Atlanta, and the thought of him no longer being in her life... “I’m not feeling very well.” A partial truth anyway.
He clucked his tongue sympathetically. “I warned you about all that stadium food.”
She wasn’t suffering from heartburn; this was impending heartache.
“Can I get you anything?”
“No. I just want to take a quick shower, pack up my stuff and get to bed.”
“Okay.” He gave her space, not even trying to talk his way into her shower, which was a first.
Afterward, while she was folding clothes that felt like a stranger’s, Heath handed her a square of material, “Don’t forget this.”
His T-shirt? Oh, God, Phoebe, no crying. Sexy, sophisticated seductresses didn’t blubber when it was time to bid a lover a fond farewell. She swallowed. “Thank you.” She should give it back, yet she tucked it with her things.
While he took his own shower, she crawled into bed, wondering what would happen when he joined her. Would he want to make love? Could she lose herself in that physical connection one last time without having an emotional breakdown? She knew she could play the “I have a headache” card and he would respect that, but then she’d also be shortchanging herself a final opportunity to be with him.
She was still debating what she wanted when he padded into the room. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and he slid an arm across her, hauling her against him.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured, removing the burden of a decision, “I’m not making a move. I just want to be close.”
The tears she refused to shed pricked even more viciously. Heath Jensen, unrepentant ladies’ man, wanted to
cuddle? In some ways, this was worse than if they’d had sex. Because snuggling against him as he stroked her hair made it too tempting to believe this was something real. Something more than reclaiming her sensuality through a vacation fling and fantasy fulfillment.
“Sorry you aren’t feeling good,” he said. “At least you’ll be home soon. As nice as it is to get away, it’s always a relief to sleep in your own bed again.”
A relief? Right now, sleeping in her own bed sounded like the loneliest outcome imaginable. She squeezed her eyes shut and focused on keeping her breathing even.
Her experience with men was that he’d probably be asleep in moments—they seldom seemed to have as much trouble shutting down their brains to relax—but it was at least fifteen minutes later when he whispered, “You awake, Mars?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I was just thinking. This...you and me?”
Her heart raced, and she held her breath.
“We enjoy sex with each other,” he said with his typical bluntness. “I know we set tomorrow as our expiration date, but that’s not set in stone. There’s no reason we couldn’t occasionally do this again. Back in Atlanta, I mean.”
Dashed hope was a very specific and cruel pain. How had she let herself think, even for a minute, that he was going to admit to having strong feelings for her? That he might tell her she was important enough for him to give up the no-relationships philosophy that guided his adult life? Idiot. Instead, he’d offered the same damn thing Cameron had when he’d dumped her—the opportunity for no-strings booty calls.
But worse than what he’d said was her response... “You’re right. There’s no real reason we can’t.” Because she wasn’t sure she could make the clean break yet, knowing what she’d be missing once she gave him up.
Heath let out a small sigh of contentment, kissed her temple and fell asleep minutes later, leaving her awake and fuming, unable to decide which one of them she was angrier at.
Turning Up the Heat (Friends With Benefits) Page 14
