No Time to Explain

by Kate Angell

  “Take it slow,” she appealed softly. She wanted their moments to last. To make the ultimate memory.

  “I’m in no hurry,” he assured her. “I can stretch us out.”

  A very long honeymoon.

  Pretend vanished beneath the reality of sex.

  He released her then, set her down gently. A trail of lace and satin sliding over the heavier fabric of his sports jacket and torn jeans. She stood on the brown, gold, and blue braided rug, tipping slightly from the loss of one glass slipper.

  Her bedroom walls boxed them together. Intimately. The space was modest. The armoire door stood ajar, revealing her clothes on hangers. She’d moved in with only one suitcase. Her plans had been to support her aunt’s recovery, lasting no more than six weeks. Sunshine slatted through the indoor-style Victorian shutters. A wall sconce shed light on a round marble-topped table near the cane rocker. A silver tray offered gourmet cupcakes and an iced bottle of Chateau De Fleur, a nonalcoholic champagne, to the couple. Two crystal flutes stood ready.

  She crossed to the table, put down her bouquet, slipped off her pearl bracelet. It had been borrowed from Lori. Joe came up behind her. “From Twyla,” he read over her shoulder. “Celebrate your magazine shoot. I’ll keep a watchful eye on Turbo and Etta.” He kissed her behind the ear. “Sweet celebration.”

  “She knows I love cupcakes,” Stevie confessed. “My mother baked them for all occasions, happy or sad. Cupcakes made me feel good.”

  “I’m better than a cupcake.”

  “These are rich and decadent.”

  “I have fewer calories.”

  He made her smile. She turned, faced him. Met his gaze. Seconds were magnified as each memorized the impact of the moment. Neither spoke. Neither looked away.

  It was startling. Unnerving. And totally unforgettable.

  Time slowed. He slipped his hands into her hair, held her still. Her scalp tingled. He looked deep into her eyes, seeking her soul. His expression suddenly turned serious. She sensed something was on his mind, bothering him. He needed to get it off his chest. His voice was rough, unsure, when he asked, “How do you see me, Stevie? As a woman, not as a shrink.”

  His question surprised her. Sex took second place to her answer. It seemed so important to him. She weighed each word. Spoke from her heart. “I like you, Joe. More than you might expect. You pursued me when I pushed you away. We’re together now. I wouldn’t sleep with a man I didn’t care about.”

  She touched her fingertips to his cheek. Affectionately. “You’ve come into your own in baseball, but you have yet to find yourself. You party, enjoy women. I separate what you do from who you truly are. A person is often defined by a few moments of existence, but that’s not the totality of it. We all have room to grow, to claim our best. You’re strong, driven, and generous. Decent. Your future will forgive your past. You’ll pass the test of life.”

  Her words sank in. For the first time, he felt he was enough. He took her hand, kissed her palm. “I’ve blamed my parents for my childhood, which was complicated, misguided, confusing. My dad cheated on my mom. She had her own affairs. They were seldom around. When my old man was home, my mother wasn’t. No clean clothes. No meal on the table. He would get mad, turn mean. Punch the walls and me. My brother and I fell through the cracks of our family. We have our own bond. Based on survival.” Long pause. “My parents turned me off of relationships.”

  His admission touched her, saddened her a little. “Relationships are always risky.” She was honest. “Not everyone’s meant to marry.”

  “This from a woman with a wedding band on her finger.”

  “My ring’s loose. Yours is pinching.”

  He glanced at his hand. The gold band indented his skin. “A little tight.” But he didn’t remove it. “You like me, and I like you. Want to fool around?”

  She looked at the brass bed. It was made up with white cotton sheets and pillowcases. A down comforter for cooler nights. Three thirty ticked on the bedside clock. “It’s the middle of the afternoon.” She sounded silly. Virginal. She’d had lovers. But they were few compared to Joe. She wasn’t “party posse” hot. Daylight shone on her insecurities. Her imperfections. Brightened her self-doubt.

  “Sex doesn’t tell time, sweetheart. We’re now.”

  She drew a breath. “Now . . .”

  “Want me?”

  “Want you.”

  She sensed the shift of his energy, how it tangibly heightened. All doubt dissolved. Her heart pounded, and anticipation took hold. She didn’t care how many women had come before her; she was his, for their honeymoon.

  Their lips met. A light-as-air kiss. Gentle for a rough man. Tilting his head left, then right, he took her mouth from both angles, in a caress that was intimate and prolonged. Thorough. A kiss born of warmth and promised pleasure. The penetration of his tongue was slow, then fast. Raking the roof of her mouth. Thrusting deeper. A hint of urgency. Amped-up hunger. The kiss went on and on. Until they separated, to slow things down. To catch their breath.

  Her mouth felt swollen, bruised. Her cheek, whisker-burned. Her smile was tentative. His grin X-rated. Her entire body blushed. His dark gaze stripped off her wedding gown and pulled down her panties. She’d never felt so naked while still being dressed. She was certain he could bring her to orgasm with just a look.

  She slipped off her glass high heel. Stood barefoot. He turned her away from him. A man with big, callused hands and deft fingers, he had her unbuttoned faster than the bridal assistant had button-hooked her into the gown. He spread the material. Air tickled her bare back. He kissed along one shoulder, a nip, a flick of his tongue. Teasing. Arousing. He traced a finger down her spine, exploring, from the base of her neck to the dimples just above the waistband on her thong. Skin-hot deliciousness.

  He brought her back to face him. He traced the heart-shaped neckline on her bodice. His thumbs dipped beneath the lace. A delicate built-in shelf bra supported her breasts. A lowering of satin, and he freed her. Her nipples puckered. He drew the gown to her belly. Released it. The dress drifted over her hips like a dream, down her legs, pooled at her feet. She stood exposed and vulnerable. In only her garter and thong. She’d folded, tucked, her aunt’s vintage linen handkerchief beneath her garter. Something old. She plucked it, placed it on the table.

  Joe stared so long, she thought to cover herself. He grasped her hands before she could do so. “Let me look at you.” His voice was deep, raw. “Damn, you’re gorgeous. You do it for me, woman.”

  Relief warmed her belly. Her anxieties vanished.

  He squeezed her fingers. “My turn. Bare me.”

  She wanted to seduce him, to turn him on, as he had with her. She rose on tiptoe, claimed him. Still it took two tries to work the sports jacket over his wide shoulders. Even then the coat caught on one elbow. Dangled, before it dropped.

  She bit down on her bottom lip. Worried. Apologized, “I’m not very good at this.” She was certain his usual lovers could strip his clothes off with one swipe.

  He stroked her cheek, calming her. “It’s our first time together. You’re doing just fine. Exhale.”

  She breathed a little easier. Steadier now, she worked on his T-shirt. She splayed her hands beneath the hem and pushed up. Eyeing his navel, the delineation of his ribs. He was even more muscular than she’d expected. Totally ripped. Curly brown hair dusted his well-developed chest. His skin was tan, taut. Her fingernails skimmed his pecs, lightly scoring hardened male nipples. He lost the shirt with her tug over his head. He shook out his hair. She loved the longer length. Total rogue.

  He kicked off his boots. Got out of his socks. She concentrated on his jeans. No belt. She covered the ridge that ran the length of his zipper. His sex strained against her palm. Unsnapping, unzipping, she rid him of his Levi’s. Boxer briefs came next. His hellhound tattoo appeared. Controlled Chaos.

  Joe stood tall, all sculpted shoulders and killer abs. His legs stretched long. His feet large. He sported a major erecti
on. A man in his prime. His body should be illegal. She admired him fully.

  He bent, located his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans. Removed condoms, which he tossed on the bedside table. Good aim. The silver foil gleamed against the dark wood. Taking her in his arms, he walked her backward to the bed. She melted into him. His body betrayed telltale desire. The back of her knees touched the brass frame, and he laid her down on the mattress. He came after her, rolled atop her, then rocked back on his knees. He took her hip bones between his broad hands and pulled her toward him. A slow slide of her bottom on cool cotton sheets toward a red-hot man. The tips of his fingers slid down, tripping lightly across the crystal band of her thong. Easing his thumbs beneath the elastic, he stripped it down. The caress of silk, as soft as her sigh.

  He eyed her thigh. “Garter stays.”

  She silently consented.

  He kissed his way up her body. A man in need of a sexual fix only she could provide. He went for the most sensitive areas first. Licking his way up her inner thigh. Kissing her where she was most vulnerable. Her thighs flexed. A moan escaped. Then came the touching. So much touching. His hand moved within the shadows of her thighs. Stroking. He found her wet.

  His fingers slid over and inside her. Desire consumed. Her hips rocked, and her stomach fluttered. Joe pressed his mouth to those flutters, kissing her belly. Tonguing her navel. Scraping his teeth over one hip. Her hips came off the mattress. She arched her back. Her body was sensitized. She longed. Craved. Climbed.

  He palmed her breasts. Took her nipple in his mouth, rolled it with his tongue. His body heat nestled into her cleavage. He nipped the pulse point at the base of her throat. Nuzzled her neck and ear. His scruff was sandpaper sexy.

  Foreplay was as arousing as a climax. She wanted to fit into his skin. Wanted the oneness only lovers experienced. He reached for a condom. Tore the foil, protected them. His legs pushed her own farther apart. He braced on his elbows, looked down on her. She loved the hard, heavy feel of him. Concern creased his brow. His mouth compressed. “You ready for me?” he asked.

  “Been ready since you said, ‘Hot, sweetheart,’ regarding my garter on the boardwalk.”

  “You remember my words?” Amazement filled his voice.

  “Along with your smile and your attitude.”

  “You were such a smart-ass, Stewie.”

  “I needed to keep you at arm’s length, Joey.”

  He centered his groin at her sweet spot. Penetrated her slowly. A slide all the way to his hilt. “No arm’s length now.”

  His body seemed larger than life. She bonded to his maleness. A commingling of warmth. A compression of flesh. They fit perfectly, an intimate pairing of hard planes and soft curves. Pleasure pulsed from her breasts to her belly and between her thighs—pure, raw, and endless. She was lost in him.

  He moved—deep, circular motions that changed the angles of each thrust. The friction of their bodies grew desperate. Greedy. He demanded her response. Her nails dug into his back, scored his skin. Her thighs tightened on his hips. Her entire body throbbed.

  Tension strained his every muscle. Sex on the edge. The mad thump of her heart matched his own. The muscles in his chest contracted. Tension spiraled in her belly. She could feel his body lock, jerk, at the exact moment she spun out. They climaxed together. Lights brightened, then burst behind her eyelids. She surrendered to a thousand pulsing nerves.

  Time stalled, and a slow meltdown followed. He relaxed atop her. She welcomed his weight. They lacked the energy to roll apart and reveled in the ardent tangle of arms and legs, the remnants of pleasure. She hugged him with what little strength she had left. He remained hard within her. A solid length.

  He eventually pulled out, kicked off the bed, and discarded his condom. He sheathed himself again. He was back on her in a heartbeat. “I want you again.”

  “I want a cupcake.”

  “Over me?” His expression looked pained.

  “Persuade me to wait.”

  “I’ll convince you.”

  He swayed her. Introducing her to his inner wild man, uncontrolled and aggressive. Tenderness gave way to lust. They rolled about, returned to the middle of the bed. Tucking into each other. Their hips bumped. Ground. He accidentally kneed her inner thigh, which was sure to bruise. Her elbow jabbed his abdomen. Brick-hard.

  Mouths joined, and their tongues mated as fiercely as their bodies. She lost her breath and her inhibitions. She fell in with his fast and fearless foreplay. Hot kisses and hotter hands. His breath beat against her neck, moist as he nipped her chin, licked the base of her throat.

  She bit his lip, and his dick bumped her belly. Overheated, her pulse ramped up, and her hips rocked. His fingers fanned out over her pelvic bone. He sought her readiness. He found her wet, slick, and open to him.

  He streamlined inside her. His muscles flexed. His thighs pumped. He generated an incendiary passion that spiked her orgasm. A bolt of white heat ricocheted off him and into her. She was suddenly there. So swift and encompassing, she shattered a second time. Indescribable spasms. Intense satisfaction. He thrust a final time, growled, came hard. Chaos howled.

  Spent and exhausted, he left her to rid himself of the condom. She rolled onto her side. In the afterglow, his large body framed her own. They spooned. He held her for a long, long time.

  The cupcakes called to her. She finally stretched. Her body was languid. Her legs weak. She carefully eased off the bed. Slipped on her thong, despite his eye roll because he’d just seen and touched her everywhere.

  She left him sprawled naked on her sheets with two pillows propped behind his head. A contrast of tan skin, ripcord muscle, and wicked grin against pure white cotton.

  She reached the table, offered, “Cupcake?”

  “I’ll have a bite of yours.”

  She’d seen him eat. His bites were huge. “I want a whole one.”

  “No sharing?”

  “Not when it comes to my favorite dessert.”

  “Choose one, and bring me your least favorite.”

  She looked them over. Six total. Flavors were designated by wrapper. Chocolate, vanilla, lemon, confetti, peanut butter, and red velvet cake, each with a matching frosting and decorated with sparkling sugars and silver stars.

  She glanced at him. “I like them all.”

  “I never took you for greedy.”

  “You’ve never been around me and cupcakes.”

  “Don’t make me come over to the table.”

  “That’s the only way you’ll get one.”

  He jumped off the bed. Stalked her. Nude, semi-erect, and hungry-eyed. He evaluated the cupcakes, gave each his full attention. Deciding on the lemon, he touched his finger to the whipped peak of lemon-chiffon frosting, then spread it across her lips. She flicked her tongue. Sampled the sweetness. Right before he kissed her. Delicious frosting. Tasty man.

  Sexually creative, they savored the cupcakes. In ways she didn’t mind sharing. She fell a little in love with him when he gave her the last red velvet cupcake hours later. Her midnight snack.

  * * *

  Sunday, and Joe was the first player out of the locker room, uniformed and seated in the Rogues’ dugout. He sat at the far end of the bench, beside the Gatorade cooler. The stadium pulsed with excitement and the anticipation of the exhibition game. The heart of the park beat baseball. He took in the white brilliance of the baseline and bases, and the newly designed on-deck circle. The seats were rapidly filling with Rogues fans, along with those cheering on the Rebels.

  He leaned back, closed his eyes behind his bronzed-lens aviators, and fantasized about the sweetness of Stevie’s mouth. He imagined tasting her. The woman and her cupcakes. Confetti was her favorite flavor. She’d flicked her tongue over the frosting, softly moaned, and nearly had an orgasm just from the taste. He’d gotten hard watching her.

  He should’ve been drained after their night of sex. Instead she energized him. A first. Initially nervous, she’d slowly lost her fear. Of
sex with him. Of him as a man. Once calmed, she’d gained a confidence that matched his own. Even gotten a little cocky. Which made him laugh. Their fantasies fused. They’d fed off each other, the cupcakes a sugar rush. Sexual fuel.

  They’d gotten little sleep, both collapsing near dawn. He’d awakened two hours later, flat on his back, with her by his side, snuggled close. A natural fit. Her thigh and hip curved against his groin. His dick throbbed, and he swore his hellhound panted at her nakedness. Her cheek rested on his chest. When she parted her lips, her breath warmed his nipple. She’d gotten under his skin.

  She made him feel and need. Two emotions he’d survived without until her. Indecision gutted him. What had he lost? What could he reclaim? What had he gained? Being single had always worked for him. He excelled at easy familiarity. Come and go. A relationship bound both participants. Commitment required staying power. For now, he walked away. Wanting time to think.

  He’d lightly kissed her forehead, then rolled out of bed, careful not to disturb her. He’d memorized her body before covering her with a sheet. Sexy, delicate Stevie with her mussed-up hair, closed eyes, puffy lips, and reddened chin from whisker burn. His eyes fell on her garter. He’d tried to be careful with this woman half his size. She had beautiful skin. Sleek and supple. He’d made love with his entire body, and inadvertently bruised her. He hated that it had happened. A heated squeeze to her ribs had left behind his thumbprint. His four-fingertip grip marred her ass. She carried him with her now. Fortunately, no bruise was as visible as his previous hickey. These new bruises were known only to them.

  He’d stared overly long at her wedding dress, hung on a padded hanger on the door of the armoire. Stevie had looked amazing in the gown. She’d been the picture of bridal beauty. Someone had delivered her lost glass slipper after the photo shoot, leaving it outside her door. He’d scooped it up when he’d gone to the kitchen for bottles of water, after they’d consumed the Chateau De Fleur. He’d placed the heels together below the hem of her dress on his return. Completing the fairy tale.

  He’d slipped out, showered, dressed, and then returned. He left Stevie a premium box pass for up to four people, seats within the first five rows behind the Rogues’ dugout. She’d be right on top of the action. Enjoying every pitch and at-bat, as if she were part of the game herself.