Triple Score

by Regina Kyle

  She started for the row of bikes but stopped when she saw a flash of silver under one of the benches. She bent and picked up a cell phone.

  “I think someone dropped this,” she said, holding it up.

  “Where did you find it?” Sara asked.

  “Under that bench,” Noelle answered, pointing.

  “Jace was there last. It must be his.” Sara looked around the busy room and frowned. “I hate to ask, but could you bring it to him?”

  Noelle flipped the phone over. Any hope she had that Sara was wrong was dashed by the sticker on the back of the case. Thor, complete with lightning bolt and baseball bat.

  The Storm logo.

  Of all the patients in this joint, why did it have to be his?

  “Now?” she asked.

  “If I know Jace, he’s already hunting for it. He said he had some calls to make.”

  Noelle swallowed hard, searching for an excuse—any excuse—to say no. She didn’t even care how ungracious she sounded. “What about my PT session?”

  Sara consulted a chart on the wall. “Come back in an hour. I’ll squeeze you in then.”

  “Isn’t there anyone else who can do it?” Christ, she sounded like a whiny five-year-old.

  Sara waved an arm, gesturing around the room. “Everyone else is otherwise occupied. Besides, you know where his room is.”

  “I...I do?” Noelle stammered. “I mean, I do, but how do you...?”

  “He told me you took my advice and apologized for listening in on us and thinking the worst.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, oh.” Sara squinted at her. “You’re holding out on me.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Noelle wiped her suddenly clammy palms on her shorts.

  “Yes, you do.” Sara put her hands on her hips. “Something’s going on with you and Jace.”

  “What... ?” Noelle lowered her voice. “What would make you think that?”

  “First, you all but refuse to bring him his phone. Then you get squirrelly about being in his room. Seems pretty suspicious to me.”

  “Well, it’s not.” Noelle stamped her good foot for emphasis. “There’s absolutely nothing going on between us. I barely know the man.”

  “Good. Then it won’t be a problem for you to give him his phone.”

  Trapped.

  “Of course not,” Noelle said with forced lightness. “I’ll see you in sixty.”

  Woman up, she told herself as she limped out the door and down the hall. You got this. Just knock on his door, hand him his phone and go. No smiles. No small talk. And definitely no steamy kisses.

  The first part of her plan was no problem. She made her way to his room and knocked. And knocked. And knocked. She even tried calling out his name.

  No answer. Too bad the darned phone wasn’t thin enough to slip under the door.

  In a last-ditch move, she tried the knob. If she was lucky, she could leave the phone just inside the door and slip away unnoticed.

  She was lucky.

  The knob turned and she inched the door open. The sound of running water greeted her, explaining why Jace hadn’t answered the door.

  He was in the shower.

  Which, of course, conjured all sorts of X-rated images in her head. Like Jace naked. And wet. And best—or worst—of all, hard. Every naked, wet inch of him.

  Noelle shook her head to clear her thoughts—fat lot of good that did—and stepped gingerly into the room. She was all set to drop off the phone and hightail it out of there as fast as she could with one good leg when she heard a thud, then a moan, from the bathroom.

  “Jace?” She froze, the phone still in her hand. “Are you okay?”

  Another moan, this one longer, more guttural, almost a growl.

  She put the phone down on the nightstand and pressed her ear to the bathroom door. “Jace?”

  Still no response.

  Damn.

  How did she get herself into these predicaments?

  He was probably fine. Doing what guys did in the shower when they were horny or bored or whatever. She’d done what she promised, brought him his stupid phone. And now she could—should—leave.

  But what if he wasn’t okay?

  Double damn.

  She eased the door open, telling herself her motives were noble, not naughty. She’d only look long enough to make sure he wasn’t crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the bathtub. And if she happened to get a glimpse of a bulging bicep or slick pec or—heaven forbid—stiff cock, she’d just look down and back away quickly.

  Very quickly.

  5

  JACE LEANED AGAINST the smooth, cool tile, letting the warm water pound his chest as he jerked himself into oblivion. He rolled his thumb over the head of his cock, imagining how the Duchess would react if she could see him now. And how he’d like her to react.

  She had a perfect mouth, red, ripe and lush. He hadn’t stopped thinking about it since their kiss. If he had his way, she’d be on her knees now with it wrapped around him. He closed his eyes and pictured her lips closing around his crown, her tongue stealing out to capture the drops of pre-come gathered at the slit.

  His balls tightened and he squeezed his cock as he slid his soapy hand up and down the soft skin. He was close, so damn close.

  But not yet.

  He slowed his movements, not wanting the movie playing in his mind to end. Now Noelle was rising, sliding her slick body up his, thigh meeting thigh, breast meeting chest. Her pale skin glowed against his perpetual California tan. In his mind, she was perfectly smooth everywhere, and when she lifted one leg to hook it around his waist her sleek, bare pussy brushed against the tip of his rock-hard dick.

  With a groan, Jace thrust into his fist, his need to come trumping his desire to prolong the sweet torture of his dirty daydream. He imagined he was driving into Noelle, pounding her, hammering her, her wet heat clenching around him until she was as desperate as him for release.

  His thighs shook as he moved his good hand faster and faster over his straining cock. His hips moved in rhythm with his fist and his chest heaved, his lungs struggling to draw air as he climbed closer to climax.

  It hit him like a runner sliding into second, hard and fast. He swore and called out her name as he came, hitting the wall and floor of the shower, the last burst landing hot on his chest. He slumped against the cold tile, his fist still gripped around his throbbing cock.

  Fuck. If just fantasizing about doing it with Noelle was that explosive, he was afraid to think what might happen if they actually had sex.

  He turned the water temperature down a notch, figuring a splash of cold was just the thing to snap him back to reality. He’d barely started to lather up when a crash, followed by a high-pitched, distinctly female “shit” stopped him cold.

  “Who’s there?” he barked, hastily rinsing himself before shutting off the water.

  The only answer was the snick of metal against metal as the door caught in the latch.

  Someone was there. Or had been. Listening to—or even watching—him.

  And not just someone. A female someone.

  Noelle? Had she seen him? Heard him cry out her name as he came?

  He grabbed a towel off the rack, patted himself dry and had it fastened around his waist before you could say “ground rule double.” But when he opened the bathroom door, his room was empty.

  He scanned from corner to corner, searching for some clue as to who had been there. Whatever his visitor had crashed into was apparently still intact and had been put back in its proper place. But his eyes stopped on one familiar object that definitely wasn’t there when he went to shower.

  His cell phone. The one he’d lost in PT. On the table next to his bed.

  So his voyeur was also a Good Samaritan. That explained what she’d been doing there in the first place. But it didn’t leave him any closer to knowing her identity.

  Yet.

  He picked up the phone and turned it on, thanking his lucky star
s Sara had insisted they exchange cell numbers. Ignoring the notifications that flashed on the screen, he opened a new text message and started typing.

  Thanks for dropping off my phone. Hope you enjoyed the show.

  He figured he’d have to wait for her response after he hit Send, but he was wrong. She must have been between patients or on a break or something, because almost immediately he could see she’d started typing. A few seconds later, her answer appeared.

  Not me, hot shot. You can thank your ballerina friend. Can’t wait to hear about the show.

  She ended the text with a winky face emoji.

  Jackpot. Noelle was his Peeping Tom. Again. And this time she’d gotten even more of an eyeful—and earful—than last time.

  Whistling, he texted Sara back.

  I’d do that if I could find her. Haven’t seen her all week.

  He hoped Sara might have some idea of Noelle’s whereabouts. Then he could ambush the Duchess and have some fun messing with her.

  And man, did he want to mess with her. Big time.

  Again, Sara’s answer came quickly.

  She’ll be here any minute. Has PT until 4:00. And you know my zero tolerance policy on interruptions.

  Jace checked the clock on his phone. He had just enough time to change, return a few calls, and be lying in wait for Noelle outside the PT room when she finished up with Sara. His thumbs flew on the keyboard as he sent his response.

  No problem. Tell her I’ll catch up with her at dinner. Thx.

  Satisfied with his crack diversionary tactic, Jace tossed the phone onto the bed and crossed to the closet, where he pulled out a pair of well-worn jeans and a plain, white T-shirt. The corners of his mouth curved into a knowing smile as he dropped his towel and started to get dressed.

  4:00 p.m. Game time. Then Noelle would see what happened to bad girls who liked to spy on poor, unsuspecting, naked men.

  And hopefully by the end of the night they’d both wind up naked. And satisfied.

  * * *

  “ARE YOU SURE you’re okay?” Sara handed Noelle a water bottle. “You’re not your normal, take-no-prisoners self today. You seem—I don’t know—distracted.”

  Duh. Watching the hottest guy on either side of the Mississippi get himself off would do that to a girl. Not that she was admitting that to Sara.

  “For the hundredth time, I’m fine.” Noelle popped the top on the bottle and took a sip before carefully climbing off the recumbent bike. “Now can we get to the range-of-motion exercises, or what?”

  The more activity, the better. Maybe working herself past the point of exhaustion would help erase the image of Jace all naked and wet and hard, calling out her name as he came.

  Not likely.

  “In a minute.” Sara took a seat on one of the weight benches and motioned for Noelle to join her. “Take a breather. Have some more water.”

  With a resigned shrug, Noelle complied, sitting and drinking. The water was cool and refreshing and totally ineffective in dampening her runaway libido.

  “What now?” she asked when she’d finished. “Girl bonding time?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Sara sipped from her own water bottle. “So you and Jace...”

  “I told you, there is no me and Jace.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  Noelle could almost feel her pale skin blanch even further. “Heard? From who?”

  “The man himself. He texted to thank me for returning his phone.”

  Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

  “What did you say?”

  “I set him straight. Told him it was you.”

  Great. Now he knew she’d been spying on him. Again.

  “He said you got quite a show.” Sara snickered.

  “He told you about that?” Noelle squeaked.

  Gentlemen were not supposed to tattle. Of course, ladies weren’t supposed to snoop, either.

  “Not in detail.” Sara eyed Noelle hopefully.

  “Well, you’re not getting anything out of me.” Noelle pushed her shoulders back and lifted her chin.

  “What happened?” Sara persisted, undaunted. “Did you walk in on him in the buff?”

  It was amazing how close she’d come to hitting the nail on the head. So to speak.

  “I plead the fifth,” Noelle said, trotting out a phrase her lawyer brother loved to use.

  “Interesting.” Sara narrowed her eyes. “People who refuse to talk usually have something to hide.”

  “Not this people.” Noelle took a long slug from her water bottle and stood. “Now if the Spanish Inquisition is over, can I pretty please get back to my workout? There’s an eighteen-year-old soloist in the company who’d give her favorite pair of legwarmers to take my principal spot.”

  “We can’t have that, can we?” Sara rose and picked out a five-pound ankle cuff from a shelf against the wall. “Start with hamstring curls. Three sets of twelve, rest, then repeat.”

  She handed Noelle the cuff and pointed in the direction of an empty mat. “But don’t think this discussion is over. I have ways of making you talk.”

  “Over and above the daily physical torture?”

  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” Sara promised, giving her a gentle shove. “I haven’t even begun to torture you.”

  She wasn’t kidding. Half an hour and what seemed like ten gallons of sweat later, Noelle lay drenched and panting on the mat, having been put through more curls, lifts, bends, raises and squats than she could count.

  “Ready to throw in the towel?” Sara taunted.

  Yes! Noelle’s leg screamed.

  “No way,” her mouth contradicted.

  Sara checked the clock over the door. “Well, my next victim should be here any time now, so you’re off the hook. Go take a nice, hot shower. You worked hard. You deserve it.”

  “Thanks.” Noelle ducked her head and made a beeline for the door so Sara wouldn’t see her blush at the word “shower.” Would she ever hear that word again without seeing Jace braced against the wall, his hand a blur as he stroked himself, his eyes closed and his head thrown back in ecstasy?

  Her head was still down when she plowed through the door and ran smack into a broad, male—very familiar—chest.

  “Hey there, Duchess.” Jace closed his fingers over her shoulders, catching her before she knocked them both over. “What’s your hurry?”

  She shivered, his touch burning through the thin fabric of her tank top and sending waves of need low in her belly. “I wish you’d stop calling me that.”

  “I’ll make you a deal.” He favored her with that panty-melting, bad-boy smile that made her common sense do a grand jeté out the window. “I’ll stop calling you Duchess if you quit the Peeping Tom stuff.”

  She tensed, knowing he had her dead to rights. Still, denial seemed like the best defense. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t you?” He leaned in, his hot breath fanning the hair at the nape of her neck as he spoke. “You know, if you wanted to see me naked, all you had to do was ask.”

  She jerked back. “I do not want to see you naked.”

  “Again.” His fingers tightened around her arms. “You don’t want to see me naked again. Except your body says otherwise.”

  “My body?”

  “The flushed cheeks. Parted lips. Nipples as hard as bullets.” He bent impossibly closer so his lips brushed her ear. “They don’t lie, sweetness.”

  She bit back her sharp retort when the door to the PT room bust open and Dylan came out.

  “Dylan.” She shrank away from Jace. At least this time he had the courtesy to let her go. “I thought you left.”

  “I did.” The teenager held up an iPod. “I came back for this. You were busy with Sara.”

  His eyes moved to Jace, and the shock of recognition crossed his youthful face. “Holy crap. You’re Jace Monroe.”

  “I’m aware of that.” Jace rocked back on his heels, an amused chuckle so
ftening his words.

  “You hit for the cycle in the All-Star game.”

  “I’m aware of that, too.”

  “You were on pace to break Barry Bonds’s single-season home run record.” Dylan eyed the shortstop’s brace. “I read about your injury. Tough break.”

  “You, too.” Jace’s eyes flicked to the boy’s missing arm. “Sara says you’re quite a pitcher.”

  “Was,” Dylan muttered, scuffing the linoleum with the toe of his cross-trainers.

  “Ever hear of Jim Abbott?” Jace asked.

  Dylan shook his head.

  “Pete Gray?”

  Another head shake, sandy hair flopping in every direction.

  “Tell you what.” Jace clapped a hand on Dylan’s good shoulder. “Meet me tomorrow morning for breakfast and we can talk. Dining room, eight a.m. sharp.”

  He offered his hand—his injured right one, Noelle noticed, so Dylan, who was missing his left, wouldn’t feel awkward. Dylan took it carefully and shook it.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Monroe.”

  “My friends call me Jace.”

  “You bet, Mr....Jace.” Dylan practically bounced down the hall, his words floating after him. “See you at eight.”

  Smiling, Noelle watched him go, grateful not just for the boy’s obvious delight but for his interruption, which had burst the bubble of sexual tension surrounding her and Jace.

  “Another loyal fan?” she teased.

  Jace shrugged. “Kid probably knows my stats better than I do.”

  “You must get that a lot.” She leaned against the wall, her knee starting to feel the strain of standing for so long after her workout.

  He shrugged again. “I could say the same to you.”

  She reached up and took out her ponytail, shaking her hair free. God, that felt good. “Ballet fans aren’t quite so...enthusiastic. And I usually don’t offer to have breakfast with them.”

  “Neither do I,” Jace’s voice sounded strained, and he stopped to clear his throat. “But the kid’s at a crossroads. How he deals with the next few weeks of rehab will determine whether he ever sets foot on the mound again.”

  “You mean he could still pitch?” she asked.

  “With the right prosthetic and a shit-ton of guts, sure.”