by Liora Blake
“Why is this so weird?”
I try not to say something too heavy, too much for the moment. For two people who barely know each other, it’s obvious that neither of us seems particularly used to feeling this way. Yet we both seem to be laying a shit ton of expectation on whatever this is. I slip one hand into her hair, find the back of her neck, and let it rest there.
“Because we want it to work? I think that’s why. If we didn’t both want this, we wouldn’t be trying so hard.”
Dinner helps. Wine helps.
Whitney likes white wine, not red. I like the way she starts to turn soft-edged and her words become languid after I offer her a second glass. When she gets about halfway through that pour, she’s unabashed about taking a good, long look at the guy sitting across from her, all while she toys with the amber necklace she’s wearing and fingers her collarbone like she wants him to remember where he marked her before.
Other things I learned during dinner: She hasn’t been a vegetarian for seven years and even then, she wasn’t particularly fanatical about it. Sunflowers are definitely in her top ten when it comes to flowers, and the only things she’s allergic to are cats. Because of that, she really wants a cat, which she’d name Kemp, after a term her hot rod–fanatic father often used.
Whitney asks about my family and is appropriately awed and horrified at a few choice anecdotes about my brothers. And I barely tapped the well on that topic, because a household with four boys is rife with the disgusting, the bloody, and the idiotic.
She wants to know about playing ball, but she doesn’t ask the easy questions. Most people want to know where I played in college or try to get me to tell them which guys on the team aren’t making the cut. They want gossip about big names and the inside track on strategy for their fantasy football crap. But Whitney doesn’t know any big names; she claims ignorance, and it’s obvious that she’s being honest.
Instead, she asks if I like using my body this way, or if I ever wished for a different life. She wants to talk about how it feels when a guy like Stinger gets a hit on you. Whether winning is always satisfying. I don’t know how to answer half of what she asks, because the questions aren’t anything like the media-day merry-go-round that I’m used to fielding.
I’m still trying to figure out how to explain the significance of draft day when my phone rings for the sixth time since we sat down to eat. I left it on the catchall table I have next to the front door but the ringer is turned up, so it’s impossible to pretend we don’t hear it.
“Your phone rings a lot.” She takes the final swig of wine from her glass. “Don’t feel like you have to ignore it—I won’t mind.”
“It doesn’t normally ring this much.”
“Even more reason for you to check it. Maybe someone’s trying to get ahold of you. What if it’s some other girl and she wants to see you, but you don’t answer and then she just decides to surprise you? Comes over here dressed as a lusty milkmaid, or just in a trench coat or something. Talk about awkward.”
The ringing stops. I send a sharp look her way. “Don’t say stuff like that.”
She twists the stem of the empty wineglass around in her fingers. “Like what?”
Standing up, I pluck the wineglass out of her loose grip and then bend down so that my face is right in front of hers.
“About other women. There aren’t any other women. No milkmaids, no trench coats. Unless we’re talking about any interesting clothing options you have stashed in your overnight bag.”
Her face goes slack. The wine is doing its best to keep her features honest. Gathering a few more dishes, I drop them off in the kitchen and go investigate my phone. I scroll through the missed calls and they’re all from my agent. He hasn’t left any voicemails, but that isn’t unusual. Austin Nichols isn’t known for his patience, which is why we get along and why he’s a damn good agent. Nevertheless, we’ve barely started negotiations and if he’s getting antsy this early on, that isn’t good. I stride back to Whitney and shake my phone in her direction.
“All of them were my agent calling. Do you mind? New contract negotiations just started.”
“Go for it. Tell him I said that the contract should include some kind of clause about a restraining order on Stinger.”
An hour later, I step back inside from the terrace and with the exception of a dim light coming from the bedroom, the loft is dark. It seems Whitney found the bedroom on her own and kept herself occupied while I established myself as the shittiest host of all time. Despite my leaving her alone for that long, she didn’t once peek out to check on me, and certainly didn’t stomp out to the terrace and sigh theatrically to get my attention as some women might have.
A blessing, because Austin was calling for good reason. Aside from the usual knackering about salary guarantees and options, it seems that my team—the organization I’ve dutifully given the past eight years to—has decided I’m damaged goods. Because when your new contract includes a split clause, it’s a sure sign that behind closed doors, they’ve determined that you’re headed to the pro athlete version of a remainder pile, where careers go to wither and flame out.
With a split contract, if I end up on injured reserve, the team can cut my weekly salary in half. Fine. The money isn’t the issue; I have plenty of money. Enough to live out the rest of my life without another earned dime, so from my side, this is about everything but money. Austin is confident we can get them to dump it, that I shouldn’t panic because this is routine for guys my age. The only problem is I’ll always know it was there. Even if we sign a final contract without it, every time I limp off the field or Hunt studies my gait, that doubt—their hesitation at my value—will eat me up inside.
I head into the kitchen because my mouth is dry and I need a glass of water. When I flip on the light, the kitchen is spotless. All the dishes are clean and Whitney set everything to dry in a drainer. A quick peek in the fridge reveals that she put all the leftovers away in plastic storage containers and even rearranged the shelves so that the quarter-full wine bottle would fit without listing to one side. I let the door shut softly.
Drawing open a high cupboard door, I go up on my toes to grab a glass and my hamstring reacts, taut and tight under the stretch. Christ, I can’t even hydrate without a reminder that I’m suddenly playing on borrowed time. I fill and then drain the glass in a few gulps, set it in the sink, and take a deep breath.
Normally, I’m a goddam expert at compartmentalizing, honed by my career and the way you learn to play through anything that gets in your way. Pain. Fractured bones. Torn ligaments. But tonight, I’m not sure how to put all of this aside, even when Whitney is here and all I wanted an hour ago was to treat her right until it felt like the perfect moment to stop talking and start touching.
“Cooper?”
My head falls forward at the sound of her gentle voice drifting through my otherwise silent loft. I run a hand through my hair and attempt to get my head together. She doesn’t need to take on my bullshit. No matter how much I think she might be a perfect sounding board for all my fucked-up emotions on this topic, we’re not there yet. Nowhere near the place where you can stand in front of someone, holding an enormous pile of woe-is-me, and ask that person to help you figure out how to cope with it.
I shut the light off in the kitchen and make my way to the bedroom. Whitney is tucked into my bed, slumped down in a pile of pillows she’s arranged, reading a book.
My bed is huge, a custom-ordered beast that remains the only thing I don’t regret about hiring an interior designer when I moved in here. When this showed up, a dark walnut platform bed with a leather headboard and a generously oversized mattress, after just one night I decided it was worth every penny.
Amidst the pillows and the goose down–filled duvet that’s covering her, plus the sheer size of the bed, Whitney looks tiny. Her eyes slant over to me and she puts one finger between the pages of her book to hold her spot, then shimmies up out of the pillow nest.
When
she does, the duvet cover slips down and suddenly, all I can see is red.
As in, red lace.
And where there isn’t red lace, there’s skin. Bare, beautiful skin exposed to the space where Whitney’s breasts are straining the flimsy-looking material and her nipples are nearly peeking over the low neckline.
Between the surprise at seeing her in something other than the navy-blue pajama top I’m familiar with and the tensions fueled by my talk with Austin, I don’t think before I speak.
“What are you wearing?”
A split second is all it takes to realize how those words came out all wrong. I sounded horrified, pissed off, and almost repulsed. Which I’m definitely not. Whitney immediately starts to flush, the skin on her neck and cheeks going as red as the lace, and she tugs up the bedcovers.
Fuck. This beautiful woman, normally so comfortable with herself, is shielding her body from my view, and that shit is my fault. My head starts to throb, not from the concussion this time, just the strain of my brain working overtime to find a way to fix this.
I like lingerie just fine. Yes, it’s pretty, sexy, sometimes downright wickedly hot, and it puts all the best parts of a woman’s body on display. Breasts up, ass out, easy access and all that. But the best thing about a woman wearing it—in your bed—is that it means you’re getting laid. She’s already decided that for you and so you have to work at fucking it up. Of course, leave it to me to do exactly that.
Before I know it, she’s scurrying out of the bed, trying to make a getaway to the only room within scampering distance, the master bath. Where I’m worried she might decide to make a run for it, even if she has to use the window and a fire escape.
God, now I really can’t think, because that little red lace number barely covers down to her ass and it’s so sheer that I can see everything. The curve of her hips to her waist, the arch of her back, and the slopes between her thighs. The damn thing is flimsy, with only two delicate little straps to hold it up, and I’m certainly not going to let her make it into the other room, because all of my angst from earlier has evaporated. My only problem now is how to cut her off at the pass, convince her to let me explain away my stupidity, and hopefully twist those straps between my fingers to see how little effort is required to tear them in two.
She’s a quick thing, though. Up on her toes, she’s hastily padding across the carpet silently, like a little fawn. Unfortunately for Bambi here, I’ve got long legs.
Whitney makes it to the bathroom doorway just as I block the entryway with my body, throwing both arms out to grip the frame with my hands.
“Where are you running off to?”
No response from her. She closes her eyes and screws up her face into a grimace, a wretched-looking one, the kind that means she might start crying. Both arms come up and cross to cover herself.
My entire chest starts to ache at the sight and I want to touch her, make this better in whatever way I can. But she’s on guard, keeping her stance closed off. I drop my arms from the door jamb, hoping that if I relax my posture, she’ll do the same.
“What I said came out wrong. I was surprised, that’s all.”
Her head dips and she rolls her shoulders. I lean closer. Near enough to let my lips skim her temple, holding there until I hear her breath hitch.
“Is this for me?”
She finally opens her eyes and shakes her head, but I don’t buy it. The way her gaze doesn’t quite meet mine, the way her eyes track across the rest of the room just to keep from looking directly at me, she’s deflecting. I try again.
“No? Damn. Because I wanted you to say it was.”
All her tension visibly starts to unravel. Her gaze testing mine, checking my face for any signs of bullshit. I let my eyes travel down the length of her body and because she’s so close, most of what I can see is her tits. Even though I’ve had an up-close look at that cleavage, and buried my face deeply enough to lick and suck marks there, this sight line means I can see the true, complete shape of her. Perfect handfuls that beg for attention, and just … hell, there’s so much there, I could spend days getting to know every inch. Later. When I’ve proven how much this means to me, I’ll take my time and enjoy mapping that part of her.
I drag my eyes back up and know immediately that she saw how intently I was eating up the sight, because she’s less apprehensive now. Like she finally understands exactly how much I want her.
Time to drive that point home. Wrapping one finger around a delicate strap, I twist it tightly and pull downward, emphasizing how easily I might tear it clean away.
“I wanted you to say that you saw this sexy scrap of lace in a store somewhere and thought of me. That you wanted me to see you wearing this. That you knew it would make me hard, how I’d want to fuck you the second I saw you in it.”
Whitney lets out an unsteady, excited noise, a cross between a moan and a tiny wail. I have to stop myself from taking that little sound as a green flag, her eager permission to rip this slip off without a word of warning.
“I bought it for me.” Her eyes meet mine, no wavering now, just the hottest fucking kind of confidence I’ve ever seen. A peek of her tongue to her upper lip. “But I wanted you to like it.”
From those words and the way her expression quickly turns open and vulnerable, I feel like I may have managed to dig my way out. My hands go to her hips and I urge her back from the doorway, until she bumps into the edge of the low dresser that sits against the wall.
“I love it. Not just like it, I love it. Your body is …” My hands start to move, taking inventory of her shape along the way, up to grasp her waist, then up again to skim her breasts, until I settle them at the base of her neck. “Fuck, Whitney. This body is everything I want. You are everything I want.”
Her mouth meets mine before I can tell her any more. Open and heated, no tentative lead-in, just further proof that kissing Whitney is better than anything I’ve ever experienced. Better than my first kiss, better than any wild, hot woman I’ve had for one rowdy night without wanting more.
We’re both primed enough to dive right in, but even so, when her hands come to my jeans and fumble around, I shove my hips forward to block her. She startles a bit and her hands freeze. I stroke my thumbs across the slopes of her neck, gently, until her gaze meets mine.
“Give me the lead here for a second, OK? I want to make you feel good.”
Whitney gives up a little huff. “You are making me feel good. Aside from how you opened up the conversation when you came in here, I already feel really good. Is there more? Because I’m not sure I’m strong enough for more; I might pass out.” Her eyes flicker upward for a moment. “But in a good way, I guess.”
A grin creeps across my face. God, this woman. So many kick-ass traits wrapped up in one sweet little package. Sexy and funny, honest and clever—and stacked like there’s no tomorrow. Everything I want, right here, and she’s actually asking if there’s more. Silly, silly woman.
One of my hands leaves her neck and tangles up in her hair, cradling the side of her head as I move my mouth toward her ear.
“Yes. There’s definitely more.” Whitney lets out a breathless, whispered curse. “Just let me give it to you.”
My other hand goes to work, moving slowly down her neck until her breast is in my grasp. I cup her for a moment, savoring the weight and the feel of her flesh under my palm. When I stroke her nipple and then pull it between my fingers to toy the bud into a hard peak, her hands drop away from the waist of my jeans and grip the edge of the bureau.
I watch her, taking in all the ways she’s showing what turns her inside out. The way her mouth drops open and her chest rises, the tilt of her head to show she’s dissolving into the sensation as her hips twist toward me in tight little jerks. Fingers tracing with a featherlight touch, my hand drifts to her thigh, pausing only to take in her expression and make certain she’s still with me. When I glide my hand between her legs, the hot, wet slip of skin I find waiting for me is my answer. She
’s definitely with me.
It’s amazing how quickly your attention can shift in a moment like this. A few minutes ago, I was obsessing over my contract and my career. Now, all I care about is giving Whitney what she needs. Her body, pressing and moving tentatively, experimenting with her own response to my hands, has become the only thing that matters.
Whitney’s breath turns labored as I use two fingers to slick the wetness already there into more. She’s warm and ready, so I concentrate my movements, circling to keep the pressure exactly where she needs and wants it. Now would be the moment I’d usually slide a couple of fingers inside, working her with a few perfectly angled thrusts of my hand. But I decide to keep them right where they are, because my cock has called dibs on the first stroke inside her, and for now, I’m dead set on rubbing her pussy just like this, until I work out how to feel her come from just that touch.
Her head falls forward to rest on my shoulder and when she lets out a frustrated sigh, I nearly change my plan. I take my hand that’s still in her hair and use it to urge her closer to me.
“Whit, just press your pussy against my hand and show me what you like. All I want is to feel you coming all over my fingers.”
I slow the circle of my fingers, begging her with that teasing touch to let go. She opens her legs a few inches and I add a little more pressure, encouraging her to keep going.
“Fuck, yes. You know what to do. God, you’re so wet and warm right now. I can’t fucking wait to feel all that on my dick.”
Her pussy grinds directly onto my hand for one demanding circle of her hips and my world compresses to that space, not an inch more or less. Whitney relinquishes every hesitation she was holding on to, and I can feel her body closing in on release as her movements become less fluid, greedier. And suddenly, I’m holding my breath, wondering what this amazing woman will be like when she comes.
If anyone asked us to accurately describe our own orgasms, we probably couldn’t, because we’re pulled too far under to know how we sound or move. Maybe we go taut, but think we’re thrashing and wild. Maybe we think we’re loud, when we’re actually nearly silent. With Whitney, when she goes off, it’s so much to take in, and all I want to do is soak up every wild bit. She’s lost, riding it out—completely, entirely, through to the last ebb. And the way she wrings and holds on until she’s sure she’s taken it all? That’s the best part.
