by Maggie Wells
“Ty?”
He jolted at the sound of Millie’s voice in his ear. Pulling the phone away, he gave his head a sharp shake to disperse any lingering reveries and glanced down at himself. He was a mess. The liquid fire that jetted out of him minutes before was now a cool, sticky reminder that he was alone. Again. Jacking off in his living room because the woman he was seeing thought she should call all the shots. A flash fire of anger ignited inside him. He scowled at the sad, sorry shambles he’d made of himself and cursed under his breath.
“You okay?” she asked.
No. He was far from okay. He was righteously pissed. He’d wanted to do right by her, and she wanted to toy with him. Yes, he’d told himself he could wait. He’d be patient and let her come around to seeing things his way in her own time. But he wasn’t going to play these games for long.
“I’m fine,” he answered, clipping the words off short. “Thanks for the story, Mil. I have to go get cleaned up. See you tomorrow.”
Without waiting for her response, he ended the call and dropped the phone to the floor beside his glass of scotch. “Why do I bother?” he muttered as he used the tail of his once perfectly pressed shirt to clean himself up.
Apparently, reminiscence and bitterness were two main ingredients in whatever witchcraft were needed to conjure up the ghosts of big mistakes barely past. His phone rang, and the screen lit up. Mari’s smiling face beamed up at him. He shoved himself up out of the chair, wincing as he yanked his shorts and jeans up over his hips. “That’s all I need,” he grumbled.
Ty stepped carefully around the abandoned drink and the shimmying phone. He made it two steps before the anger gripped him by the throat again, and he whirled to glare at the photo on the phone’s display. He’d snapped the picture here, in this room. The couch and chair had just been delivered, and Mari’d been so proud of her decorating skills. And he’d been happy to see her happy.
“Ain’t nobody happy now,” he said, directing the pronouncement toward the phone.
As if the damn thing heard him, it fell silent, and the call kicked over to voicemail. Swooping down, Ty dragged his hand along the floor until he scooped up the glass. No message alert chimed, so he bolted the drink, welcoming the burn of liquid fire scorching its way through his chest and down into his belly.
His mouth twisted into a grimace, he eyed the now-silent phone with trepidation. He wasn’t interested in anything Mari had to say. She had gotten what she wanted—a hotshot star in the making and a chunk of Ty’s nest egg. He had gotten his freedom. They had nothing left to say to each other. They’d said all that needed to be said in her lawyer’s office.
Shuffling his feet, he set the glass on an end table as he passed, then wandered into the powder room off the hall. The sight that greeted him wasn’t pretty. The lines between his eyebrows and around his mouth cut grooves into his skin. His eyes looked dull and tired. He needed a haircut. Leaning heavily on the pedestal sink, he peered into the mirror. “Get a grip. Tell her you’re not playing these games.”
He blinked, then snorted at his own theatrics. Flipping on the tap, he ran cool water over his right hand, washing away the residue of the evening’s activities. He was right. He knew he was. He had things he needed to say to Millie. Things that had nothing to do with naughty stories, yanking his own chain, and this power struggle they had going on. He needed to figure out a way to tell her he’d give her whatever she needed without coming off sounding like a pushover.
“Yeah, good luck, buddy.”
Chapter 14
Ty found few things as soothing as the thrum of a ball bouncing off hardwood. Eyes locked on the rim, he bent his knees and sent the ball arcing through the air. The previous year, their team trainer told him he figured Ty to be somewhere between fifty and five hundred jump shots away from total knee replacement. From that day on, Ty stayed well within the arc, and he made damn sure his feet never left the floor.
Palming the ball, he tucked it firmly against his hip and trudged to the foul line. He was on number forty-three of the hundred free throws he’d assigned himself.
His day had been chock-full. Wall-to-wall meetings, videos to review, phone calls, and a particularly excruciating staff meeting that included the public relations director, who’d been avoiding him for days. For a woman who prided herself on being conspicuous, she had a maddening way of disappearing each time she happened to catch sight of him.
Practice seemed to drag. The season was about to start, and the team was still off tempo. His assistant coaches were short-tempered, the players in turns petulant and belligerent. Fifteen minutes into a forty-minute scrimmage, his head throbbed from the cacophony of squeaking shoes, screeching whistles, and shouts from the sidelines.
Smooth as silk. Smooth as silk.
The mantra had started as a playground brag back in middle school, became his lucky bit of braggadocio in high school, then an integral part of his ritual with his introduction to Division I ball. Smooth as silk.
The words ran through his mind as he cocked his arm.
Smooth as silk.
Bend. Extend. Release. The ball sailed through the still air. Number forty-three’s trajectory appeared to be spot-on.
Retrieving the ball, he dribbled as he walked back to the line. How many nights had he spent shooting hoops rather than going home to Mari? Too many. Especially at the end. He’d been stupid enough to think things would even out in his life with Mari gone. He hadn’t counted on Hurricane Millie blowing through.
Placing his finger over the tiny valve hole on the ball, he stared down at the gleaming hardwood. He didn’t want to think about Millie now. He wanted to clear his head. A twisted part of him wished his love life had been this crappy back in his playing days, because his free throw average had never been higher.
Smooth as silk. Bounce, bounce, bounce.
Smooth as silk. Spin and settle.
Smooth as silk. Sight the shot.
Smooth as silk. Bend, extend, release.
“Forty-four.”
He stiffened as her throaty voice filled the small practice gym. Snagging the ball, he propped it against his hip. Without looking toward the door, he sauntered back to the foul line to prepare for number forty-five. “How long have you been watching?”
“Since I saw everyone leave but you.”
He nodded but kept his eyes locked on the goal. “Getting a few in.”
“Looking good.”
The click of her heels echoed off cinder-block walls. He didn’t dare look, but in his mind, he saw the shiny, red stiletto she’d swung off the tip of her toes through the whole damn meeting. The very stilettos he’d been fantasizing about all evening.
He ran through his ritual without missing a dribble. His mantra bounced around in his head, but this time, the words had little to do with tossing a ball through a hoop.
Smooth as silk.
Smooth as silk.
Smooth as silk.
He growled long and loud when he overshot. The ball hit the back of the rim with a sickening thud, then caromed toward the foldaway bleachers. Millie sat on the lowest row, her long legs crossed, that damn shoe dangling off the end of her foot again.
“What do you want?” Ty cringed even as the words left his mouth, but goddamn, the woman was making him crazy. One minute, she was hiding from him; the next, she was invading his sacred space. If he couldn’t escape her here, then no place was safe.
“I want you to make the next one.”
He slid her a side-eye known to make guys who stood more than six foot six tremble, but she only gave him the kind of encouraging smile one saved for toddlers refusing to eat peas. Collecting the ball, he stalked over to her.
“I don’t get the game, Millie.”
She looked taken aback for a moment, then lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Well, I don’t pretend to know all the nu
ances, but I think you have five people on each team, and they run up and down the court bouncing a ball and throw it into the basket thingy.” She waved a hand at the goal like some kind of game show hostess. “Whoever has the most points at the end of playtime wins.”
He fought the urge to smile at her blatant oversimplification of the sport he’d built his life around. “Funny.”
She sent him a look so wide-eyed and guileless he momentarily doubted his skepticism. “Did I not get it right? I get this one mixed up with the kicking one all the time.”
But he wasn’t buying. “The game with you and me, Millie. I don’t get this…whatever we’re doing.”
She took the time to uncross her legs, wiggle her shoe back onto her foot, then restart the entire process with the other leg topping and the other shoe dangling. “We’re having a torrid affair,” she whispered in a conspiratorial tone. “Complete with hot sex and various forms of takeout foods.”
“Yeah, well, not tonight. I have a headache.” No lie. The pounding was back with a vengeance. And so was the need to finish taking his foul shots.
He’d lined up number forty-six and chanted through two rounds of “smooth as silk” before he heard the click of her heels again. But instead of retreating, she was coming closer. Gripping the ball so hard, his fingers dimpled the rubber, he glanced over his shoulder to find her standing on the three-point line.
“No hard-soled shoes on the court,” he snapped.
Without taking her eyes off him, Millie stepped out of the sky-high heels. Her toes were polished the purple of grape jelly. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then covered the insole of her left foot with her right. He met her disconcertingly direct gaze and blew out a long breath. She obviously wasn’t going anywhere until she was damn good and ready. “What?” he prompted.
“I like my life, Ty. I live exactly the way I want to.”
“Good for you.”
She ignored his snide commentary. “I like my house, my stuff, my friends, my time.” She paused, searching for words. “I have no plans to change anytime soon.”
“Did I ask you to change anything?”
Millie gave him a small, sad smile. “No, you’d never ask me to, but they would change. I’m not sure I want them to.”
“So…” He groped for comprehension, but it remained inches out of reach. Giving his head a shake, he held up a hand in defeat. “Yeah, I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I’m saying I need to do this in my own way. In my own time,” she said quietly. “But I like you. Did I mention that?”
The weight inside him lifted, but he approached her confession with caution. “No. I don’t think you did.”
“I do.” She spoke firmly enough to chase his doubts away. At least for the moment.
“I’m glad. I like you too.”
She smiled, then bent to scoop up her shoes. “I’m happy we got that settled.” Jerking her head toward the bleachers, she quirked an eyebrow. “Mind if I watch? I’m kind of a team sports voyeur.”
“I don’t know if you noticed, but I don’t really have a team out here.”
Her smile spread wide enough to light her eyes with mischief. “I don’t know if you noticed, but you’re really the only one I like watching.”
* * *
She woke up in his bed. Millie tried not to think of her presence there as anything more than an inevitable outcome fulfilled. As she suspected, once she got comfortable in his place, she didn’t want to leave. After the night they spent tearing up the sheets, she’d claimed she was too exhausted to be roused for breakfast. He’d insisted they share the most important meal of the day. They compromised by eating in bed. She knew she would spend the rest of the day thinking about how incredibly hot Ty Ransom looked when he was hand-feeding her bits of buttered toast.
They’d lolled around naked all morning, leaving a sprinkle of crumbs to add to the torn condom wrappers on his nightstand. Three wrappers. By her calculations, he had maybe five or six. That is if he’d started off with a new box. A half dozen in his arsenal, exactly eleven in hers. She figured at this rate of consumption, they had approximately five more nights together. Longer, if she could come up with more creative delay tactics. Or if Avery happened to make another commando run on health services.
Minutes before noon, he’d kissed her on the mouth, slapped her on the ass, and rolled out of bed. “Up. Up.”
Millie sighed and groaned, muscles she’d forgotten she had protesting as she flipped over. “Smack my ass again, and I might bite you.”
“Gotta get up,” he said, leveling a stern look at her. “We’ll play your kinky games later.”
She snorted. “If you’re lucky.”
“Gotten lucky once already this morning. If you hurry, we can take an extra lucky shower together.”
Millie bit her lip, genuinely torn. She wanted nothing more than to slip into his big glassed-in shower and lather him up, but water play might lead to the use of condom number four, and she wasn’t sure about stretching her game plan yet.
“You go ahead. I’ll laze around here, then shower when I get home.”
Ty scowled, displeased by her answer. “You sure?”
She nodded, then treated him to her slyest smile. “While you’re getting all hot and sweaty in a not-so-fun way, I may take a bubble bath and read my naughty book.”
His eyes narrowed to slits. “You know, you have a cruel streak a mile wide.”
“I know.” She rolled over as he rose, immediately claiming the spot warmed by his body heat. “It’s one of the things you like about me.”
Completely unselfconscious, he strolled to his dresser and pulled out a pair of boxer briefs. “You know, I thought you were making the story thing up.”
“Nope.” She chuckled to cover the low internal purr the sight of his taut ass spurred. “Maybe one day I’ll loan you my book.”
He cocked an eyebrow as he stepped into the adjoining bath. “I like it better when you read to me.”
“Okay, but next time, no going off the rails,” she called after him.
He leaned back enough to poke his head around the doorframe and flashed a wicked grin “Going off the rails is the best part.”
Seconds later, she heard the rush of water spraying from the shower jets and fell back against the flattened pillows. He had a practice to run. The last Saturday practice before the tournaments leading into the regular season began. The one and only Saturday morning Millie might get to spend with him. And it had been perfect. Damn him.
He wasn’t going to go for the phone sex thing anymore. She got that. She admitted it was a little weird, considering they weren’t thousands of miles apart now. But maybe he’d go for sexting. Fun and flirty, and sexting wouldn’t cost any condoms.
As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, his cell began to vibrate. Millie watched the phone skitter along the top of the nightstand but made no move to answer the call. Ty had silenced more than one since he’d kidnapped her the night before. This one could wait as well. She wasn’t his secretary.
Sighing, Millie fixated on a spot on the ceiling and let her vision grow fuzzy as she tried to make heads or tails of her situation. They’d had too much time and distance at first, and now she couldn’t get enough. Ty was pushing, and he was pushing hard. Admittedly, a part of her liked his persistence. But the other part, the one she relied on more than her mutinous heart, was wary.
He’d swooped before she could escape the previous night and blown right through her token resistance. She’d managed to buy a little time when Danny McMillan caught them in the hall and invited them to join him and Kate for dinner. All Millie could do was smother her smile as she watched Ty weigh the pros and cons of declining the invitation. In the end, he accepted on their behalf but made up for lost time when he got her alone. In truth, she hadn’t been any better
than he was at hiding his impatience. The second they were ensconced in his car, she practically climbed into his lap.
Millie was still mentally recapping some of the highlights of the previous evening when he appeared a scant few minutes later.
“So I figure I’ll come by about six to pick you up,” he announced, strolling into the room in boxer briefs molded to every contour of his narrow ass and thick thighs. “I’m in the mood for a steak. All this strenuous activity makes me crave red meat.”
His presumptuousness inflamed her. It also made her stomach do a squiggly dance that left her feeling weak and vaguely ashamed. She wanted a steak too, but if she didn’t hold out at least enough to make him ask her properly, she’d be hearing Avery’s lecture on feminine self-determination in her head for the rest of the night.
“I don’t recall agreeing to have dinner tonight.”
“You’ll probably get hungry at some point. I’m good with toast, but buttered bread isn’t going to hold you.”
“I don’t recall agreeing to have dinner with you tonight,” she reiterated.
He shrugged and pulled a pair of dark-green nylon track pants from a hanger. “I think we should have dinner together tonight. If steak doesn’t appeal to you, I’m open to negotiation.” Undeterred, he carried his fistfuls of clothing back to the bed. “Maybe we can rent a movie or something. I see the kids getting DVDs out of those box things all the time.”
His phone began to buzz again, but he paid it no mind as he patiently waited for her response.
She glanced at the screen, saw Mari’s face, then eyeballed him. He stood in the middle of the room wearing nothing but briefs that left little to the imagination, holding the pants as if he needed her say-so to put them on. Looking past him, she spotted a dozen pairs exactly like them hanging in an orderly row in the closet. A flash flood of feminine resentment rose in her.
