Face Off: Emile (Nashville Sound Book 1)

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “Could you be any harder?”

  He laughed. “Then for fun. Okay, now pinch the tip a bit. No, not there. The tip of the condom.”

  “I’m not that stupid. I wasn’t going to pinch your penis.”

  “But it was funny. Put it here.” He guided her hand to the head. “Leave a little space. That’s right. Now, roll it on all the way to the base. Yes. Stroke it as you go.”

  “For fun?”

  “Wonderful fun.” He took her in his arms and kissed her slow and deep for a long time. “Now.” He sat against the headboard and, to her amazement, stretched his legs until they pointed almost straight on either side of his body, putting his hard erection on magnificent display.

  “I had no idea you could do that.”

  “It’s useful in defending my goal. You would have known if you had stayed for the game.”

  “That again.”

  “Never mind.” He held out his arms. “Come to me, mon amour. Kiss me.” With his tongue deep in her mouth, he parted her legs and stroked there until she moaned and pressed her thighs against his hand. He ended the kiss. “You are ready?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I try to please. Kneel in front of me. As I lift you, part your legs. Yes.” He grasped her hips and lifted.

  “I’m not sure this is going to work.” He might need a gymnast or a trapeze artist.

  “It will work. I am very strong. Legs wide apart.” And he lifted her high, grasped his penis, and settled her opening over the head—and held. “You feel it? Do you want more?”

  More than anything, she wanted more. “All of you.”

  “As you wish.” And he lowered her onto him until they were belly to belly and he was fully sheathed.

  “It’s very deep.”

  “Yes.” He barely thrust inside her. “Very deep. Feel it. Stay still for as long as you can. Savor it there.” And he thrust again, the tiniest bit for emphasis. “I am going take your nipple into my mouth now.” This time, he did not dart from breast to breast, teasing and nipping first one and then the other. He sucked slow and hard, drawing more of her breast into his mouth with each pull, letting his teeth come into play from time to time.

  She had never realized until having sex with Emile that there was a direct current from her nipple to her genitals. Or maybe there hadn’t been. Maybe he invented it.

  “You’re making it very hard for me not to move.”

  He grasped her hips and held them fast. “That’s the idea.” He came up for air and switched to the other breast, giving it the same miraculous pleasure. He continued to hold her still, which only increased the pressure in all the right places.

  She gritted her teeth and ran her hands over his torso and back, willing herself not to move, concentrating on how his mouth felt on her breast and his beautiful body felt against her hands.

  Finally, he released his hold on her hips and threw his head back. “You win! I have to . . . ” And he began to thrust hard, slow at first, then faster, with his hands on her hips moving her with him, lifting her higher each time.

  He muttered a muddle of garbled French into her neck. She had no idea what he was saying, but it didn’t matter. His body was speaking volumes, and she understood it very well.

  Then he said a word she did understand. “Come, mon amour. Come for me.” And he pressed her hard against his pubic ridge. “Come, come, come . . . ”

  And she did, with a splendor that bordered on violence. It had never been this good for her, not even last night when she had thought she’d reached the acme of all that was good.

  When her spasms subsided and the cries quieted, he thrust in her again. “It was good, ma belle? Enough?”

  “Enough. For me.”

  She resumed the rhythm he had set, and he urged her back a bit with his hand. “Lean back a bit. Just a bit. I want to see your beautiful breasts and face.” He lightly stroked her breasts, increasing the speed of his thrusts. Then he grabbed her and hugged her hard to his chest. “Amy, Amy, Amy . . . A présent. Je vais souffler!”

  She could only assume that that last part meant he was going to come.

  Because he did—in what seemed to be the most satisfactory way.

  For both of them.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Emile dreamed he was starving to death in a desert, and when he woke, he discovered it was true—except for the desert part, and he probably wasn’t going to die.

  When he’d gone to sleep, Amy had been in his bed, but when he reached across the mattress she was gone. He sat up. “Amy?”

  “Here.” She came out of his walk-in closet. She’d put on her gown again. Too bad.

  He rubbed his eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Not long. Twenty minutes, maybe.”

  “Why are you in my closet?”

  “I was putting your clothes in the bin for the drycleaner.”

  “You don’t have to pick up my clothes because we had sex.”

  “I’m not picking up after you because we had sex.” Laughing, she picked up a pillow from the loveseat in front of the fireplace and threw it at him. The only reason it hit him was because he let it. “I’m picking up after you because I’m the one who sees to it that your clothes get to the cleaners.” The laughing was a good sign. She rolled up his tie, placed it on the dresser, and came to sit on the side of the bed. “We need to talk.”

  If he ignored that last thing she said, it might go away. There was a purple ribbon stuck to his chest. He pulled it off. “I forgive you for cutting up my sweater.”

  “That’s good of you, since I’m not sorry.”

  “Not sorry?” After all they’d just done?

  She shook her head. “Not one bit.” She sighed. “We need to talk.” It had not gone away.

  “Non. We don’t need to talk. No good ever comes after someone says that. We need to eat. I’m hungry.” She was about to tell him no more sex. He knew it. He was going to distract her as long as possible. She could still forget. Maybe.

  “You can eat in a minute. I made you some food.”

  Right—the salmon and pasta. His mouth literally watered at the thought.

  “I saw the food in the warming drawer. There’s something I don’t understand. Why did you make that beautiful meal for me, if you were so angry?”

  She shook her head and raised her hands. “For the same reason that I picked up your suit. It’s my job. You seem to forget that you hired me to do a job.”

  She wasn’t wrong about that. He did lose sight of it, but come to think of it, he hadn’t given her any money since that first $500.

  “Right. I need to pay you.” The question was, how much? A thousand? Two?

  “No. We never discussed salary, so I did some research on what personal assistants for pro athletes make. After I read some job descriptions and took into account that I have no experience, I decided that twenty dollars an hour is fair. I’ve been keeping up with my hours, and I haven’t worked off the advance you gave me yet.”

  What the hell? He’d just had the best—the best—sex of his life, and she was talking about an hourly job. Why couldn’t they just not worry about that? She could do what she wanted to help him, and he could give her all the money she wanted and get her a credit card.

  She pressed on. “Does that sound fair to you? Twenty dollars an hour? Maybe it should be less since you are giving me a place to stay and feeding me. I can show you my work log.”

  “Non.” He waved his hand. “Is fine. Perhaps more . . . ” Something told him not to bring up his good idea about the credit card and all. She wouldn’t go for that. Then he had another thought. “But you must have charged more when you had your business.”

  “Yes. But I was charging as an experienced professional organizer. I am working now as an inexperienced personal assistant.”

  “But you are organizing for me. I should pay you for that.”

  “I cannot work as a professional organizer. I signed a contract.”

/>   “Then we will call you a personal assistant, but I will pay you what you charged before. There are no rules about that.”

  Fire shot from her eyes. “More is not fair. I have rules. I am not a prostitute.”

  “Baise-moi!” Why would she say such a thing? “Who would think such a thing?”

  She closed her eyes briefly. “I need you to understand that if I have sex with you, it’s because I want to. It has nothing to do with our work arrangement.”

  He sat up straighter and took her by the shoulders. “Amy, I would never think that of you.”

  She nodded. “Good. I am a grown woman. I can do what I want. The fact is, I like having sex with you. It’s my right to do it, so long as you want it as well, so long as neither of us is deceiving anyone or each other.”

  She waited with a question in her eyes. She wanted him to answer some part of that, but hell if he knew which. He didn’t want to mess this up, because it sounded like she intended to continue to sleep with him, and that was the best news since the shutout.

  “Yes,” he said. “I agree with all that. You are right about all of it.”

  “I thought last night that having sex was a terrible idea and we shouldn’t do it again—”

  “Non! Was the best of ideas.” Was she going to shut this down after all?

  “Well. Regardless, as long as I’m here, it’s going to happen. People don’t stop doing what they want.” That was a relief. “And as I said, we’re both adults. We understand there are no strings.”

  “No strings?” He picked up a handful of purple ribbons from the mattress. “There are strings everywhere.”

  She laughed.

  “So . . . ” He bit his bottom lip. “You will come to see me play tomorrow night? Maybe I will have another shutout?”

  She looked at him for a long time, but finally nodded. “I will. But on my own terms.”

  “Terms? What terms are these? Because I’ve got to say, I will be unhappy if you plan to cheer for the Bruins.”

  “I’m serious. First, I will not sit in the WAG suite.”

  That made no sense. “But it’s nice. With food, drinks, nice chairs. And Gabriella will be there. She will keep company with you. You will see that Sharon and Noel will be your friends. Some of the others, too.”

  She shook her head. “I won’t do it. And I’ll buy my own ticket—”

  “What? This is crazy talk! I can get you a seat—a good seat for free. Not as good as the suite, but fine enough. These tickets are expensive. You don’t know.”

  “I do know. I have over half the money you advanced me, plus my original $84.38. I bought a few clothes and a pair of shoes, but it was all on sale. I will buy the ticket I can afford.”

  “That’s crazy. The ticket I get—I do not pay for. It is a perk.”

  He’d almost rather her not go than spend what little money she had on a ticket—but only almost. Cameron Snow was the cause of this. If he were here, Emile might be willing to change his rule. Maybe hitting someone who deserved it so much wasn’t barbaric. Maybe it was the most civilized of behavior.

  “Those are my terms. I will never put myself in anyone’s control again.”

  He didn’t see how getting a ticket for her would put her in his control, but he nodded. “I’ll get you another sweater—though I hope you will not cut it up this time.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll wear my own clothes.”

  She had almost no clothes. But there was nothing he could do.

  “Understood?”

  He nodded. “Oui.”

  She rose and held out her hand. “Then come on. You need to eat—protein and carbs. And I made you some Jell-O.”

  “And after I eat?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you come to my bed? To sleep? With me?”

  “Yes. I’ll do that.”

  He followed her to the kitchen.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next morning, there was no one in the locker room when Emile entered to get ready for morning skate. Not even Packi—though he’d been there. Emile’s stall was in perfect order.

  It was good that there was no one here yet. Being late yesterday had discombobulated his day—and what a day. Good and bad parts. But this was a whole new day. Last night’s win didn’t matter anymore; it was over. There was a whole new win to capture tonight.

  He drank the bottle of water Packi had left for him and sat down to tape his stick.

  “Stand up. Let me look at your bruises from last night.”

  Emile jumped. How did that man appear out of thin air? “Good morning, Packi. Thank you for putting my things in order. I cannot show you my bruises.”

  “Why not?”

  “I am taping my stick. Once I start, I do not stop.”

  Packi sat down in Swifty’s stall. “I can wait. Do you need breakfast?”

  “No, thank you. I had a nice breakfast. Scrambled eggs, some grits with cheese, blackberries, and yogurt.” He hadn’t used a spoon for the yogurt or eaten it from the container. Amy had made an exceptional and erotic serving vessel, and his tongue an adequate eating utensil. Amy had seemed to think it was more than adequate.

  There was no need to mention any of that to Packi.

  “I never learned to like grits. Never even saw any ’til I came South to work for the Sound. That’s one thing I won’t miss if we end up in Massachusetts.”

  Emile didn’t want to talk about the possible sale of the team. He preferred to talk about grits. “A good whole grain carbohydrate. That’s what Amy said.”

  “Amy. Did she enjoy her seat in the WAG suite?”

  Damn. Why had he had to bring up her name? But it didn’t matter. If Packi wanted to know something, he didn’t have to be reminded. Emile considered lying, but there was no point. Packi would probably know it, and if he didn’t, he’d nose around until he found out she hadn’t stayed for the game.

  “Not so much.”

  “That so?” Packi took his time taking a sip of his coffee. And waited.

  Emile cut the tape at the heel of his stick. “No. She was not enchanted to be there.”

  “Uh huh. What did she think of your game?”

  There was no way to keep from telling the whole story. “She had no opinion. She left before puck drop.”

  At least Packi had the decency to look surprised, though Emile doubted that he was. “Before puck drop? You don’t say. So she didn’t see you play at all?”

  “Non.” He rubbed a puck over the newly taped blade of his stick without looking up. “But she will see me tonight.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Oui. But she will not wear the sweater. There is no sweater anymore. She cut it into little pieces.”

  Packi began to laugh. “Is that so? Does she know what it would have sold for on eBay?”

  “Non. I doubt it. I think she would not sell something on eBay that she wasn’t sure was hers to sell. She has scruples. Too many scruples.” He wasn’t sure how destroying it was different from selling it, but it was.

  “Can someone have too many scruples?” Packi handed him the stick wax, though Emile didn’t know how the man had known he was ready for it.

  “Thank you.” He opened the wax. “Maybe not too many, but unnecessary ones. She insisted on buying her own ticket tonight. And she won’t accept another sweater.”

  Packi nodded. “Good. I like this woman. I had wondered, but she really is in love with you—or at least well on her way.”

  Emile’s head snapped up. “What? Non. There is nothing. She works for me. That’s all.” No matter that it didn’t feel that way to him. She’d reminded him often enough.

  “Yet she’s sleeping with you.”

  That didn’t sit right with Emile. “I will not speak of that, and neither will you. She is a lady—a very fine lady.” Like Gabriella and Johanna. Like Noel and Sharon. Like his mother must have been before life beat her into the ground.

  Packi nodded and smiled. “Most excellent. You’re gro
wing into the character that I know you have.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “It means that you love her, too.”

  Did he? “Bah. Non. I have not known her long enough for that.”

  “It doesn’t take long. I was nineteen playing in the minors. My wife was eighteen. She came up to the table for an autograph. It wasn’t even mine she wanted. She was in Brucie Holland’s line. They all were. Top hatter that season, but you couldn’t begrudge him the attention. Great guy. But anyway, she never did get Brucie’s autograph. We looked at each other, she jumped into my pitiful little line, and it was all over. We got married four months later. People said it wouldn’t last. We’re still waiting to see if that’s true. It’s been thirty-nine years now.”

  It was a nice story, but you only ever heard about that kind of thing. It never happened to you. “Even if I did love her, what you say is wrong. She does not think of me in such a way.” He wanted Packi to deny it, even though the man couldn’t know the truth of it.

  “Sure she does. She may not know it yet, but she does.”

  “I wanted her to sit in the suite wearing my sweater tonight. I wanted her to at least let me give her a ticket. She is doing none of that.”

  “But she is coming to your game.”

  “Yes, but if she—as you claim—loved me, she’d do what I want.”

  Packi laughed. “If that’s what you think love is, you have more to learn than even I thought.” He sipped his coffee. “Are you through taping that stick?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then stand up and strip. I want to see your bruises and make sure there’s no broken skin.”

  • • •

  Emile did not get a shutout, but the Sound won 4-1 so maybe that would be enough for him.

  From where Amy sat, the team looked like a swarm of purple ants, but it had been fun to watch. She loved the music, the air horns, and the way the players on the ice, when they scored, swarmed together to hug and then skate by the bench to celebrate with their teammates.

  It hardly seemed fair that Emile was the only one who never got a break. She hadn’t realized that teams didn’t usually change goalies. And he played so hard he had to keep a water bottle in the top of his net.