Mr. Match: The Boxed Set

by Delancey Stewart

  "Something to eat? Do you want music?"

  My other hand buried itself in the hair at the back of her head, and I pulled her near, not as gently as I might have.

  "Do you . . ." She trailed off, her eyes gleaming as she looked up into my face. "Oh," she said, as if she could see my longing written there, see my need to have her, to bury myself in her and forget the uncertainty of everything. To cast off the discomfort of the day, of our reality.

  I leaned down and pressed my lips to hers, softly, testing. When she pressed herself into me, I threw off all veneer of softness, of tentative touches and careful glances. I scooped Magalie into my arms, her legs wrapping my waist as my mouth claimed hers and her arms threaded around my neck, and I carried her through the doorway at the side of the room, to the only place a bedroom could have been.

  Generally, I was not a serious guy. I liked making people laugh and I liked keeping things light. It was easier to get through most of the shit I encountered if I could keep people laughing. But there was not a single cell in my body at that moment that felt anything but deadly intent on the task at hand.

  And that task was taking this woman to bed and making her scream my name.

  Within five minutes, we were both stripped of every stitch of clothing and Magalie was wrapped around me again, my mouth tracking a feverish trail from her mouth, down her neck, and directly to her sweet little center. I slid to the bottom of the bed, leaving her propped against the pillows at the top, and fought for control as her hands buried themselves in my hair.

  "Oh God, Trace," she moaned as my tongue began tracing along her inner thighs in slow lines leading to my target. I teased around her hot silky folds until I found my objective, and when she began to writhe beneath me, I kept my focus there. There was something I was trying to prove, something driving me as I made love to Magalie. I wanted her to understand that this was good, it was right. It didn’t have to be a lie, or be temporary. We were right together, and I wanted her to feel it in every flick of my tongue, every grasp of my hands.

  As she began to shake, short incomprehensible words flying from her lips in that sexy accent, I slid two fingers inside her and was rewarded with a moan that told me she was nearly there. I hummed against her tight little bud as I moved my fingers slowly in and out, and that did it.

  And fuck if Magalie orgasming around my hand wasn't the absolute sexiest thing I'd ever seen or felt. When I was sure she was over the edge, I lifted my eyes to watch her. Pink filled her cheeks as she tossed her head and cried out while her channel tightened around my fingers.

  This woman.

  I was lost. If this all ended in disaster, I’d be a wreck.

  Watching Magalie come just about sent me over the top myself, but seconds later, she was sliding down under me and reaching for my cock. I was a goner then. She worked me up and down with her hand, and I moved back up until we were side by side on the bed, and then she met my eyes with her wide brown ones. "Do you have a condom?"

  I didn't want to move, but I rolled back to find my jeans and removed a condom from my wallet, handing it to her. I watched, on the brink of losing it, as she unrolled the latex over my cock, giving my head a quick tease with her hot mouth first.

  "You're trying to kill me," I said as her mouth closed over me, warm and wet and perfect.

  I shouldn't have said a word, because she stopped what she was doing to put the condom on, and for that brief period, I felt the absence of her mouth like a void eating me from the inside. But a minute later, she was sliding herself over me as I knelt on the bed. She was straddling me as we faced one another, me holding her upright, and it was like the sun coming up, warming everything it touched.

  "Fuck," I heard myself say in a voice I barely recognized. I pushed her back, unable to take the sweet tease of her tentative strokes up and down, and began a steady unrelenting rhythm as her arms clung to me.

  We moved in tandem, every inch of her gripping me in a way that made me feel wanted, needed, and more alive than I think I had in my life—and that included every important game I'd ever played. Everything about this girl was perfect, like she was made just for me to be my perfect . . . to be my match.

  "God, yes," she moaned. "Don't stop."

  I never wanted to.

  But tension coiled inside me, the tightening and tingling moving from the base of my spine like a delicious explosion through my body, and just as I was sure I couldn't stop the orgasm even if I wanted to, Magalie's body shuddered in my arms and her warm softness pulsed around me. Magalie moaned and gasped, and it was the perfect soundtrack for the orgasm rocketing through me. I held her tightly against me and for a few minutes, I wasn't sure exactly where I ended and she began. And then I collapsed on the bed, careful not to crush her beneath me.

  "Wow," I whispered, tucking my nose into the soft hair gathered on the pillows around her head and breathing her in.

  "Oui," she said.

  Magalie and I didn't sleep a lot, and by the time the sun rose over the vineyards in the east, I was exhausted. And yet, a warm contentment flowed through me that was like nothing I'd felt before.

  "You look happy," Magalie said, coming to stand behind me as I looked out the plate glass door in her living room.

  "I am," I said. My voice held a kind of wonder.

  "You sound surprised."

  "I am," I said again. I turned to face her, knowing we probably needed to talk about other things, about the lies between us, about her terrifying tiny mother. "When do I get to see you again?"

  The smile slipped a bit at the edges of her mouth and she blinked the dark brown eyes slowly. "I have to spend some time with my mother and Henri today," she said, her voice quieter. "Do you . . ."

  "I have practice," I told her, relief at not having to spend the day with her mother making me sound more enthusiastic about practice than my tired body felt.

  "Of course."

  "We have a match Saturday," I said, thinking how nice it had been to have Magalie in the box before. "Do you think they'd like to come watch?"

  Magalie's face scrunched up comically for a second and then she nodded. "Henri would love it, and I feel a bit like he deserves something nice after everything my mother has put him through."

  "How do he and your mom know each other in the first place?" I asked, stepping back toward the window, Magalie looking out at my side.

  "His father and hers were friends, though he is much younger than her."

  I nodded. "And will your mother enjoy the match?" There was a slight double entendre there, and the wry smile Magalie shot up at me told me she got it too.

  "She likes to be the matchmaker, I think," she said. "But maybe she'll be nicer to you after she sees you play."

  "Magalie," I said, turning to her to ask a question that had my heart racing, my palms beginning to slick. "Once your mother is gone, do you think—"

  But my question was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  We exchanged a confused glance, and Magalie straightened the T-shirt she'd pulled on after getting out of bed to look through the peephole. "It's Maman."

  Wonderful.

  I spun around and dashed to the bedroom to pull my jeans on over my boxers and put my shirt back on. I scraped my wallet and keys off the night stand and shoved them in my pockets. "I might just make a quick—" I stepped out into the living room, planning to sneak out the glass door, but it was too late.

  Mrs. Caron and Henri stood in the living room, and my disheveled arrival caught their attention.

  "Oh, I see," said Mrs. Caron drily.

  "Bonjour,” Henri said in a friendly tone.

  "Ah, good morning," I managed, cringing with every part of me that was capable of cringing. I kissed Magalie on the cheek and tried to send her an apology with a look. My telepathic skills needed work, though. "I've got to get down to practice," I said. "Have a great day!"

  I slipped around the visitors and out the door, and hoped Magalie wasn't about to catch hell for having an
overnight guest.

  A hard knot formed in my stomach as I drove back toward my own house. We needed to talk about the future. My hopes were rising and I was beginning to feel invested in this woman. If she planned to walk away once I'd served my purpose, or if she was going to go home to France, I needed to know. I needed to start shoring up my defenses, because there was no doubt I'd been careless.

  If I didn't know better, I'd believe I was falling in love.

  Chapter 71

  Men with Tiny Balls

  Magalie

  There was little time to process all that had happened between Trace and me before my mother and Henri appeared unexpectedly at my apartment. Trace disappeared quickly, and seconds later I was barraged with complaints and questions from my mother while Henri looked on apologetically, pouring himself some coffee in the small kitchen and finding a chair. My mother did not settle herself quickly, pacing around the apartment and offering comments on everything from my choice of bedmate to my decor. I barely managed time to pull on jeans before she began her tirade.

  "I don't know why we have to stay in that house, so far away from you, Magalie," she began, as soon as Trace was gone. "I didn't come here to stay in this place. I came to spend time with you, to help you see why you need to come home."

  "Maman, I—" I was definitely not going home and was ready to tell her in no uncertain terms.

  But this was clearly not the time for me to speak.

  "Henri and I had to take a taxicab to come here to find you! Did you plan to leave us there alone? It is ten o'clock in the morning, and you did not answer when I called you."

  I shook my head, unsure where my phone had even ended up after Trace and I had arrived here the evening before. It was probably in my purse on the floor somewhere. I glanced around, and spotted my purse at the side of the couch. "I'm sorry, Maman, I—"

  "Oui. I know what you have been doing. And while I can see that your friend is attractive, I think you are doing the thinking with the wrong parts of your body. He is not a good fit for you. He is not a serious man, Magalie. He plays a child's game for a living." She was on a rant now, waving her hands around and standing in the middle of my living room.

  I sank down on the couch to wait until she tired herself out, steeling myself for an assault on the man I was realizing I cared for. A lot.

  "He will play with you and then get bored, I think. He doesn't want an intelligent woman like you, a woman with goals and education. He will want someone to follow him around, to tell him he is wonderful as he kicks the little ball into a net."

  "He's the goalie," I informed her. "He keeps the ball out of the net."

  Henri nodded and smiled at me, but my correction only seemed to add fuel to my mother's annoyance. "Exactly! What kind of career is this?"

  "A good one, if that's what he loves," I suggested. And a lucrative one, if his house was any indication.

  "Non," she said, slicing the air with her hand.

  "Maman," I tried. "Why don't we sit? You can have some coffee, we can talk about how you'd like to spend your week here, what you'd like to see."

  She stiffened in the center of the room and glared at me, then turned and went to sit with Henri and sniffed. "Very well."

  "Good," I said, standing to get coffee from the kitchen. "We should definitely see the zoo or the wild animal park," I said. "Both are incredible."

  Henri nodded and smiled, but my mother didn't respond as I slid a cup in front of her.

  "Or spend a day down at the boardwalk in Mission Beach," I suggested. Even the mention of Trace's neighborhood had my limbs tingling, remembering his touch.

  "I would like to see as much as we can," Henri said. "I don't know when I might ever be in California again."

  "Right," I agreed, happy that at least one of them wasn't going to make everything impossible.

  "Perhaps you two should spend the day together," Maman said, her voice lightening slightly. "I am finding I am tired. Maybe I will just rest here."

  I wasn’t surprised that my mother was tired, but there was something else in the resigned slump of her shoulders. A little flit of worry ran through me as I remembered what Henri had said about Emile.

  “Maman, is everything okay at home? With Emile, and—”

  She waved off the question with a hand. “I’m tired. I don’t want to talk. Can I just rest here? Maybe read a book, watch television? The flight is catching up with me, I think.”

  This was not like Maman. I glanced at Henri over her head, and he shrugged.

  "We could do that, if you're sure," I said. I wondered if I’d come home to find my suitcases packed for me and a ticket to France ready to go.

  "You should. Yes." Maman said, a slight air of the martyr in the way she lifted her nose. "I will stay here.”

  I lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. Maybe I should have spent more time trying to convince my mother to join us, but I didn’t have the energy. "Henri?"

  "I would love to see the zoo, maybe downtown?" he said.

  "Of course," I told him. "That is perfect. Maman, you're sure you don't want to come?"

  "I am tired," she said. "But we will have to talk later." Her voice lowered on this last part and it made my stomach clench with dread.

  "Oh," I said, remembering Trace's offer as I stood to go shower. "Trace has arranged for us to have box seats at his game Saturday if you'd like."

  "Amazing," Henri said immediately.

  My mother sighed deeply and said nothing.

  "I'll tell him yes," I said. "I'll be ready in twenty minutes," I told Henri. "Help yourselves to whatever you find in the kitchen."

  Now that I wasn’t at all worried about misunderstandings between myself and Henri, we had a lovely day together. It was refreshing to spend the day with a friend from home who looked at things in a similar way to my own view as a foreigner. We walked the enormous zoo and explored the vibrant downtown, ending up at a restaurant in Little Italy for a very late lunch.

  “I’m really so sorry about everything we have put you through,” I told him.

  "I understand," Henri said easily. "I understood as soon as you arrived at my winery that it was not as your mother had said. You had not agreed to marry me."

  I winced, embarrassed about the misunderstanding. "I'm so sorry," I told him. "And I'm sorry she dragged you here."

  He shook his head. "I wanted to come. I have always wanted to see California," he said. "And you and I are friends, non?"

  "Oui," I confirmed.

  "So I was happy to visit you. And if I can help you convince your mother, I will. I have already told her several times, but . . ."

  "She doesn't listen." I imagined that Henri's soft-spoken manner wasn't much of a match for my mother's fiery determination. Still, it was a relief to know he was on my side.

  "She means well," he said.

  I appreciated his defense of my mother, but I wasn't sure if she did mean well at all. She meant to get her way, but I thought perhaps she had lost sight of exactly why.

  "Do you like Trace?" I ventured.

  He smiled. "I do. I like that he is not pretentious like I would imagine professional athletes would be. He is very . . . approachable."

  I felt the grin on my face as a little surge of pride filled me. "He is."

  "You like him very much," Henri suggested.

  Heat scaled my neck and I felt it color my cheeks. "I do."

  Henri smiled at me in a way that felt sincere and understanding. "I'm happy for you, Magalie."

  If only my mother could be happy for me.

  We spent the next few days sightseeing around San Diego, my mother doing her best to act unimpressed as we visited the foothills to taste local apples, went to the beaches, and even drove up to Hollywood. Trace and I texted, but I didn't get to see him again, and I found that I missed him.

  By the game on Saturday, I was exhausted, not just because I'd done more driving and touring than I had in a four-day period ever before, but because my mother
never let up in her relentless assertions that Trace was wrong for me.

  As we settled into the box seats at the edge of the soccer pitch under the warm San Diego sun, I had no idea how much worse things were about to get.

  Chapter 72

  My Heart is a Moron

  Trace

  I came through the tunnel to take the field, and my eyes went straight to the boxes. Magalie was there, and my heart flipped over inside my chest. I was happy to see her.

  I'd spent the week trying to figure out what was going on inside me. I missed her every second. I thought about her all the time. I wanted to talk about her constantly, but Erica had a limited tolerance for moony Trace, and she was a little scarce anyway. I'd talked a little bit to Max, who seemed weirdly interested in my love life, but nothing stood in for actually spending time with Magalie, which I hadn't done since I'd dashed away on Wednesday morning under her mother's disapproving glare.

  Her mother was at the game too, looking bored and annoyed, and so was Henri, who smiled as he caught my eye and gave me a thumbs up.

  I didn't know how I was supposed to feel, and letting my mind work over the strangeness of the entire scenario hadn't been especially helpful. My puppy dog side was thrilled every time I thought about Magalie and over the moon to actually see her. But my intellectual side—tiny though it might be—realized there was a lot here that possibly wouldn't work out. She was an intelligent beautiful woman, and maybe her mother was right—maybe a meathead athlete wasn't the right fit in the long run. Plus, there was the fact that she really only needed me for a stand in. Temporarily. And that someday she'd probably go home to France. Where I definitely do not live. We had issues.

  But my heart didn't care. It was holding fast to the words she’d started to say on my patio, to the way she’d clung to me in her bed.