by Rachel Lyndhurst; Carmen Falcone; Ros Clarke; Annie Seaton; Christine Bell
“I don’t think we need to bother with that.”
She twisted to look at him over her shoulder. “You’re not serious? It’s been six goddamn weeks, Emile. Just do it now, okay?”
“Oh, I intend to. But I’ve been planning this for six goddamn weeks.” His lips curled into that wide, wicked smile which had haunted her dreams. “So we’re going to do it right. Now bend over here.”
He placed her hands on the windowsill at waist height and took hold of her hips, moving them a little further from the window, so that she was bending lower. She wasn’t at all sure that she liked giving up control to him like this. On top, against a wall, wrapped around, she liked to know what was happening and make her own choices. Emile had simply taken charge. Now he flipped up the skirt of the velvet dress and pulled her panties down to her knees. The cool air against her wet skin made her flinch.
“Emile—” The protest died on her lips. He was licking her. And holy hell it was the hottest thing ever. If one of the golfers happened to look up at her bedroom window, they’d see her leaning over to look out. They’d see the smart purple dress, and they’d see her face twisted up in the throes of passion. But they wouldn’t see the hot guy on his knees behind her, doing indescribable things to her with his tongue.
Her mind was incapable of forming the words to ask for what she wanted. She could only moan and hope that he could interpret. But he forced her to be more patient than she could ever have imagined. While she was desperate for his cock, he gave her only one finger. When she needed his tongue on her clit, he slid it away. She whined and whimpered, and the bastard just kept holding back.
“Emile, I swear if you don’t fuck me now, I’ll… I’ll…”
He didn’t make her come up with a threat. He paused to roll a condom on, then pulled her upright and maneuvered her back against the wall, her dress still pushed up around her waist and her knickers fallen down to her ankles. He took hold of her wrists and lifted them up above her head, trapping them easily in place with one hand. With the other hand, he tipped up her chin to take her lips in the kiss she’d be wanting for so long.
He pushed his knee between hers to lever her legs apart. Then he was inside her again, his tongue in her mouth and his cock in her pussy, invading every inch of her. And hell, surrendering like this might not be what she usually liked, but right now it was everything she wanted, because he wasn’t doing this for her. He was doing this because it was what he needed. It was what he’d been dreaming about for the last six weeks. He’d thought about it, and he’d thought about doing it with her, and God, that was sexy.
Neither of them had the control to make it last. With his free hand down the front of her dress, Emile pinched at her nipple. She gasped with pain and it was enough to shoot her body over into a shuddering climax. A short series of hard, fast thrusts and Emile was coming, too. He collapsed against her, his solid weight pressing her into the wall and holding her upright. He let her hands go and they fell onto his shoulders, grasping at the fabric of his shirt.
Eventually, her breathing returning to something like normal and her heart stopped beating like she’d just gone up against Usain Bolt. She twisted her head from under Emile’s shoulder so that she could see his face. “Can we do that again?”
He pushed himself off her, with his hands pressed to the wall either side of her head. “Give me a minute, chérie.”
She grinned, and then they were both laughing.
He laid a hand on her cheek, and she stilled. “Move in to my apartment, Thérèse, and we’ll do that all night, every night. Days, too, if you like.”
That was a bigger step than she’d taken with any of her previous boyfriends. She liked her own space and she didn’t like to share.
“You work such crazy hours,” he said. “You can’t rush home to change before work every morning you decide to stay with me. And I want you to stay with me a lot.”
“You could come over to my house sometimes.” They could work out a rota, perhaps. His apartment on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Hers on the other nights if they felt like it.
“Your home is just fine, chérie, but mine is bigger. And I need to be near the physio and the gym.”
Guiltily, she looked down at his foot. “I’m sure that wall sex is not in the recovery manual. Sit down.”
He stayed where he was. “You see? I need you to take care of me.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I do not take care of people. If you need assistance, you’ll hire someone.”
He shrugged. “I only need you.”
“I’m serious, Emile. I’m not a nurse and I’m not a housekeeper, and if you think that would change just because we’re living together…”
He laid a finger on her lips. “Sh. I don’t think that. I just want you there.”
“Mondays to Fridays,” she offered. “I’ll need to go home and check on things at least once a week.”
“That’ll do to start with.”
Just as his lips brushed hers, a voice called up the stairs. “Hello! We’re back, and your father’s pouring the sherry.”
Theresa slid out of Emile’s arms and frantically started smoothing her dress down. “Oh, God, she’ll know what we’ve been doing.”
“I rather think that’s what she was hoping we’d be doing.”
She stared at him. “Have you met my mother? Whatever she was hoping we’d be doing, it wasn’t hot sex up against a wall while fully dressed. Wait here.”
…
Emile ignored her instruction and followed her into the bathroom. While she cleaned herself up as quickly as she could, swiftly applied some lipstick and mascara, and smoothed the worst of the creases out of her dress, he washed himself and tucked his clothes in.
“It’ll have to do.” Theresa was checking her appearance in the mirror. Emile ran his hands through her hair, coaxing the spiky tendrils upright.
“You look incredible.”
She rolled her eyes at him and brushed at her dress. “Fortunately, Mum will have no trouble believing that the creases are down to my incompetent packing. Don’t look so smug.”
Emile stood behind her and winked at her in the mirror. “Don’t look so sexy, then.”
She shook her head. “Do you really have to work later?”
“No. But since your parents think so, I will leave after lunch.”
She nodded. “Right.”
“I’m sorry, I said that wrong. We will leave after lunch.”
“It’s Christmas Day, Emile.”
“We have to celebrate, no?” He winked at her reflection.
“Oh, yes.”
And it might not be forever, but it was a beginning. His hand closed over the small jeweler’s box in his pocket. She’d run if he tried to give it to her today. But whenever she was ready, so was he.
Chapter Eleven
By March, Emile was training as hard as they would let him, but Theresa could tell that he was frustrated by his progress, though she wasn’t sure why. It had been clear for weeks that he wasn’t going to make it back into the Woolwich team this season, so surely there was no reason to risk aggravating the injury.
“Why don’t you take it easier?” she suggested one evening when he was heading off to the gym for another workout. “You know the doctors said that the more rest you could give it, the better it will be in the long run. Why push so hard now?”
He gave her an incredulous look. “You want me to stop training now?”
Theresa shrugged. “No, but you could dial it back a bit, surely? It’s only another few weeks until the end of the season, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
“So, why not just aim to be back ready for August?”
He shook his head in disbelief. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“No, I don’t. I could understand if I thought you might make it by April, but you know that’s not going to happen, don’t you?”
He slashed a hand through the air in frustration. “Yes, I know th
at. But after April…”
She tilted her head, waiting for him to explain.
“It is the World Cup, Thérèse. I had thought everyone knew this, but no. My girlfriend, excuse me, my wife, cares so little about my job that she does not know about the most important tournament in the game. The World Cup, mon ange.”
“Oh.” She mentally consulted a calendar. “2014 is World Cup year?” It only happened every four years. She did know that much.
He let out a long breath. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized that. When is it?”
“June. They will announce the squad early in May.”
“So you have to be fit by then.”
“Not completely. If there is a chance I will be fit to play, they could still include me in the squad. But there has to be a good chance of that. I have to show them I can do it.”
“I see. I’m sorry, Emile, I should have known that.” She went over and picked up his holdall. “Go on then. Do whatever it takes.”
He blinked in surprise. “You aren’t going to stop me?”
“Could I?” she asked curiously.
He shook his head slowly. “No. But you could try.”
“I don’t want to stop you, Emile. I want you to be the best.” It mattered to him, and so it mattered to her. She’d never want to get in the way of his dreams.
“Even if France beat England?”
She shrugged. “It’s only football. Why would I care about that?”
He laughed. “That’s something, I suppose. I’m glad to know you won’t be cheering for the opposition.”
“No. Now go on, get all hot and sweaty. And don’t shower before you come home, okay?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Okay, but I want you waiting for me in your lawyer clothes.”
“Really?” She looked down at her charcoal grey pinstriped suit. “These?”
He hooked his finger between the buttons. “Oh, yes, chérie. These will do just fine.”
…
In April, Emile went to Paris for two weeks. He’d arranged some charity appearances and sessions with school kids, but mostly he was going to be assessed by the selectors of the squad for the World Cup. They hadn’t been able to see him play since his accident in November and they wanted to get an idea of his fitness levels. He had detailed assessments from the team doctors and physios, but without seeing him in action with a ball, they weren’t taking the risk of including him in the squad.
Theresa had told him before he went that she didn’t expect constant phone calls, but still he tried to ring her most days, usually late in the evening when he was in bed and missing her most.
“How did it go today?” He been involved in a charity match with teams made up of professionals and celebrities. The score was irrelevant, but it was the first full ninety minutes Emile had played. He’d been worried about it and glad to have it over.
“We won.”
“Yes, well done. How is your foot?”
He grunted. He didn’t want to talk about that, but he should have known Theresa wouldn’t let it go.
“Sore? Emile, if it hurts, you have to tell the doctors.”
“It’s okay, chérie. Just aching a little. Maybe my boots were laced too tight.”
“And maybe I’m a lap dancer by night. Emile, talk to the doctor.”
“Tomorrow, if it still hurts.” He wouldn’t. He could handle it. Besides, it would be fine tomorrow.
“Promise me.”
“I promise, chérie. Now tell me about your day.” Anything to change the subject from his bloody foot.
“We had a big meeting with the new client.”
“Did they like your presentation?” She’d been working on it for several days, he knew, though he wasn’t very sure what it was about.
“Of course.”
He laughed. He loved her confidence in her work. “Of course.”
“Have the selectors said anything?”
“No.” Which was true enough. They’d looked a lot, and talked to each other. Emile had done his best to ignore them while he played.
“It’ll be okay. You deserve it.”
“I did have one offer.” He hadn’t been planning to mention it, because he hated the thought of it so much. “The French TV channel who will be showing the World Cup matches have asked me to consider joining their presenting team.”
“If you don’t get selected, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Will you do it?” she asked cautiously.
“I don’t know. Probably.” He’d turned them down flat, but they’d left the offer on the table. To go, only to watch and talk about the games without being allowed to play, would be torture. But not to go at all, would that be worse?
“I think you would be very good at it.”
“I want to play,” he said. Four years earlier, still a young, unproven player, he had been selected for the squad but never chosen for a match. In four years’ time, there was a good chance that he would be too old to make the team. This was the dream that motivated every footballer, to play for his country, to win the World Cup for France. It was all he’d wanted since he was six years old, and this was supposed to be his time to do it.
“If you get picked, I’ll come and watch you play.”
His throat tightened. That was more than he’d dared ask of her. He hadn’t wanted to assume that she’d be prepared to give up that much time for football, when he knew how tedious she found it.
“If you want. I don’t have to come,” she added when he paused for too long.
“You’d really do that for me?” He thought of the ring he’d hidden in his kit bag, since that was the place Theresa was least likely to find it. Maybe in Rio, maybe if he was selected, maybe if they won… Maybe that would be the right time to give it to her. In the moonlight on Copacabana Beach. He’d use every romantic cliché he could, if he thought it would help.
“Holiday in Rio? I think I’d make the sacrifice.”
He grinned at the wry tone in her voice. “Not just Rio. The group matches are all over. How do you feel about Porto Alegre?”
“Do I get to wear a bikini?”
“Too cold.” He’d make damned sure she had plenty of opportunities to wear one in Rio, though. And he would be the one covering that all that beautiful pale skin with sun cream.
“Oh, well, in that case I won’t bother.”
“Come. Please.” He didn’t care if he sounded pathetic. He wanted her there.
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I’ll come. I’ll book the time off tomorrow.”
“You should wait until the squad is announced.” He didn’t want her tempting fate like that.
But she wasn’t as superstitious as he was and she’d decided. “I’ll book it tomorrow.”
…
The squad was formally announced on May 13th. Emile told her he’d expect to get a phone call the day before if he was selected.
“And if not?”
He shrugged.
“Right. Well. You’ll let me know?”
“I will call immediately.”
“Okay, then. I’m in meetings all day. Leave a message if you have to.”
It was stupid to be so nervous for him. Either the selectors had decided he would be fit enough or they hadn’t. Her feelings wouldn’t change things either way. But the way he’d kissed her before she left for work had made it clear exactly how important this was to him. He’d be devastated if he didn’t make it, and she would be devastated for him.
Because despite all her best efforts, she cared.
Give it its proper name. She loved him.
It still terrified her. If you loved someone as much as she loved Emile, you could get hurt. Badly hurt. Worse, you were liable to do something unbelievably, irrevocably stupid. Like tell him.
There were still almost six months left on their contract. Six months was plenty of time to fall out of love with someone. She’d keep working on that, but not right now. Not whi
le all his attention was fixed on the World Cup. He didn’t need any distractions from her.
He’d done everything he could to get back in form. Theresa had seen the reports from his physio, assessing the foot at around 95 percent of full strength, but his legs weren’t match fit. Despite all the training sessions he’d worked through, she knew he hadn’t been able to run as much as he needed, and no workouts on the fitness machines could replace that. But he still had time to improve. They picked the squad thirty days before the first group match. He’d be fine by then. So long as they picked him.
He didn’t call.
By the time she reached the end of her working day, she still hadn’t heard. She’d been checking her phone obsessively for the last few hours. Surely they would have told him by now? She dialed his number.
“Thérèse.” He sounded about as tense as she felt.
“Should I pick up something for dinner?”
“I can’t eat.”
“Fine. Do you need anything else?”
“Are you on your way?”
“In a minute.”
“Come now, chérie.”
She picked up pizza and a six-pack of his favorite French lager on her way and steeled herself to face his disappointment.
He was on the phone when she walked in. He beckoned her over but carried on talking in rapid French that she couldn’t follow. His voice didn’t give much away, but surely it wouldn’t need this much conversation just to say he hadn’t made it? Would it? Emile hooked his arm around her waist and held her against him while he spoke. Theresa rested her head on his chest and tried to work out whether his heart was beating faster than normal. Eventually, he ended the call and tossed the phone over his shoulder. He put both arms around her and lifted her off her feet.
“Guess who’s going to Rio?”
She grinned. “Me?”
He laughed. “Get your bikini ready.”
“They picked you? Emile, that’s fantastic. I’m so proud of you.”
“They’re willing to take the risk. I have thirty days to prove I’m up to it, otherwise they’ll drop me and fly someone else out.”
“You can do it. I know you can.”
