Celi-Bet (Solomon Brothers #2)

by Leslie North

  Her muscles clenched around the invasion then relaxed around the source of the thrilling sensation coiling, tightening, lifting her ass greedily from the slick, watery surface to chase more. The bar-fuck transitioned to his fingers, first two then more, until the ache of a fat stretch of her channel nearly engulfed her. And when she would have testified that nothing else he might have done could have felt as heavenly, he dipped his head and sucked her folds into his mouth. With a ferocity that washed her away on a sharp, blissful edge, her body racked into wave after wave of delicious torment. Her floodgates opened and her moisture joined the water sluicing over her throbbing folds.

  When she opened her eyes and returned to the moment, this place, she flushed at how quickly she had reached orgasm. How woefully inexperienced he must think her. Water splattered her open lips, and she gasped for air, until he was there with a kiss that tasted like musk and coconut and the tinge of a new flavor she knew to be her. She was grateful for the water to hide the silly tear of joy that sprouted in her eyes and charged down her temple.

  “Thank you.”

  He smiled. She was pretty sure he laughed, too. Mostly, he kissed her and inspired thoughts of other, better ways to thank him.

  “My turn for a request.”

  “Anything.”

  He reached for the shower’s main controls and shut off the water. Steam crowded them, the heat cloud wrapping their nakedness until it was nearly unbearable.

  Door propped open, he reached for a long, terry-white towel on a nearby warming rack and wrapped it around her. With another, he patted and wrung out her dripping hair, then he slung the towel low around his hips.

  “Wait here.”

  His soft command heated her more than the towel. He returned with a fresh number twenty-eight jersey and an explanation poised on his tongue.

  “I’ve wanted to see you in this—only this—since the night you wore Tarek’s number. No one else has ever worn mine.”

  “Original?”

  “Team-issued.”

  “What if I come all over it?”

  He barked out a laugh, his eyes glistening with surprise. “Then we’ll wash it in the shower, together.”

  She dropped the towel and slinked into his uniform. He gathered the armholes front and center and hooked them around her cleavage so that both breasts hung from the openings.

  “Now it’s fucking perfect.”

  He grasped her breasts with both hands and squeezed them together, high, extreme, fully erotic. She backed against the bathroom wall and hooked a leg up over his hips. They mimicked the dance of penetration, his length seeking, probing. It would have been so easy for him to drive straight into her.

  He didn’t.

  “Fuck!” His voice was bereft with intense need. “I want to enter you so fucking bad right now, but I know what you must think of me. I need you to trust me. I would never do anything to hurt you.”

  He had lost her. She wasn’t sure what he was talking about until he picked her up, caveman-style, and hauled her into the bedroom, his fingers taking the opportunity to piston inside her along the way. He laid her gently on his bed, opened the bedside table, and pulled out a condom packet.

  “I’ll get tested tomorrow. Prove to you I’m not the reckless playboy the media would have you think. But for now, it’s all about you and you deserve to be protected.”

  Her throat constricted. This was his end game. And it was sublime.

  She took the package from him and dressed him for the occasion then teased him just out of reach—standing over him, straddling; off the bed, booty-shaking. It reminded her of putting on a compression sock in nursing school—so tight, so big. He swiped for her in an attempt to grab nipples or ass or wet hair, anything to distract her from her mission. By the time his impressive shaft stretched the rubber to maximum capacity, they had dissolved into the familiar place of Willow and Chase.

  Unabashed fun.

  Finally, he caught her wrists and tugged her down, backward, her clit hovering just over his face. When she tried to squirm away, he consumed her once more until their laughter died in the wake of a powerful need to finish what they had begun. She hauled herself down his six-pack, nestled the tip of his cock against her opening, wriggled the full hilt of him inside her, and rode him backward.

  The stiff angle of his length necessitated a calculated entry, but the reward of his tip against her hyper-sensitive spot more than made up for the limitations in movement. That, and him lifting the hem of his jersey to drop appreciative comments about her fit ass and the erotic view of her lips swallowing him. He might have climaxed then, so expressive were his outbursts, but he lifted her free of him and reminded her that she was his sole focus. As he had with the water, he was giving her the ultimate decision about her pleasure.

  There was only one way to leverage all Chase had to offer.

  She tugged him off the bed to standing then scaled the high mattress on her hands and knees, wiggling her ass and backing up in invitation. He needed no guidance to thrust back inside her slick folds. She accepted every relentless inch he had to offer. As he had always been on the court, his rhythm was swift and determined. Blood engorged the tissues surrounding him. Shuddering vibrations scaled her higher, higher, and begged her to let go. When ecstasy broke, he gave a fevered push to his peak, sank into her until she was convinced he had ruined her for any other, and came, joining her with a husky cry that echoed through the darkened penthouse.

  They collapsed to the bed. He stayed inside her and curled her to him while they found their breath. One thought came to her, loose on the tongue because she was still in that place of paradise.

  “The Chase Show is so much better than I imagined.”

  He chuckled against her ear, pulled her closer, and kissed her shoulder.

  “You haven’t seen anything until the sequel in the back of the Vega.”

  12

  Rain that night tapped a barely-there rhythm against the window. The reason sleep eluded him.

  At least, that’s what Chase told himself.

  Willow burrowed deeper under the covers beside him. He took her movement as an opportunity to slide his arm free, pull on some shorts, and try to find sleep at the bottom of a glass of milk.

  In the kitchen, where he had stripped himself bare—heart, head, everything—he poured a drink and settled on the counter in darkness to watch flakes in their downward spiral on the terrace.

  Their time together had been incredible. She was as generous a lover as she was giving in every aspect of her life. He believed, inside her, existed an entire world that would take him a lifetime to discover. A world of depth and color, shades of struggle and joy and mercy, and all the exhilarating chaos of a life fully lived. And as much as he worried that he might quickly drown in that kind of chaos, he worried about something else even more.

  Being attached to any one person, any one thing, had never played out well for him. Time and again, those he allowed a permanent piece of him had made it conditional. His parents loved him if he stole a bottle of J.D. from the corner store. His grandparents loved him if he didn’t remind them of what a failure their son had turned out to be. Sol loved him if he toed the line, studied hard, kept his nose clean. His Iowa coach loved him for bringing them to the Sweet Sixteen two years straight. Coach Perkins loved him because he filled seats. Fans loved him when he led the team to victory and crucified him when he had an off game. Time and again, love had proved elusive, fleeting, based on what he did, not who he was.

  And then, there was Willow.

  She existed inside a bubble of unconditional love, the likes of which he had never known. No matter how many times she made mistakes, her family was there to pick her up. At the previous night’s game, Chase had spotted her mother and father in the stands. They came right before Bolt’s big performance between the third and fourth quarters and left directly after Bolt’s performance. It was no wonder they didn’t know Chase from the other scabs Willow had dated. Not ever
yone deserved love and acceptance like that.

  Certainly not Chase.

  A text tone from Willow’s cell on the counter snagged him from his thoughts. He shouldn’t look. But the rain tapped and the milk had yet to kick in. He gave into temptation.

  Dylan.

  You get close enough to Chase to get that invite yet? Probably like Lebron. Nearly impossible without a death wish. lol.

  Milk curdled in Chase’s stomach. That someone would make a joke about dying to get close to him. That Willow had any hand in it.

  He hopped off the counter, feeling as if he’d gotten a size fourteen sneaker straight to the nuts. Everything he knew, everything he believed about Willow reshuffled, recalculated, re-assimilated back into two fundamental beliefs about his life: people enter my life for the wrong reasons and everyone has conditions. Who was this fucking Dylan? Why had Chase been all up in Willow’s crazy fucking world for weeks and he’d heard no mention of the guy?

  As if on cue, he heard the shhp-shhp-shhp of her unicorn slippers crossing the penthouse tile toward him. He was grateful for the darkness. Would make this easier.

  “Get your shit and get out.” Tendons in his neck tensed. He catalogued the raindrops.

  “What?” That one word from her lips had two distinct layers: sleepy and horror-struck. “Chase, what’s wrong?”

  He slid the phone across the smooth granite toward her. She pressed the home button and scanned the message.

  “Chase…”

  “Don’t fucking Chase me. It was bad enough you used me for a place to live. I could live with that because you give away every goddamned thing you own—at least I believed you did until five minutes ago. But to insinuate yourself in my life so some guy named Dylan could meet me? It’s fucking wrong, Willow. Get out.”

  “I never took the money. Listen to me…”

  “Take your Central American god of bullshit betrayal and the rest of your crazy-assed junk and get out.” His voice felt unhinged and raw screaming past his throat. He picked up the ugly mask off the kitchen counter and smashed it to the floor.

  Willow jumped and scrambled backward. Her eyes were wide. She straightened. With as much height as she could summon, chin parallel to the floor, she quaked out a response.

  “I see your ego-driven reputation is holding firm.”

  Her bottom lip trembled. He convinced himself he didn’t care.

  “Take off my goddamned jersey on your way out.”

  Chase stormed to the terrace and punished his barely-clothed body in the cold rain. He wanted numbness to settle in so he didn’t have to feel the pick axe she had wedged in his chest and pried open with her intent. The numbness came.

  The hurt remained.

  Chase knew two minutes into the away game in Dallas he was done. The Maverick’s defense out-hustled him, Tarek out-shot him, the net had plastic wrap over the rim on every goddamned jumper, and the rabid home fans in their quest for a playoff slot wormed into his head and crowded out his focus so he couldn’t think.

  Coach sent him in the final stretch. Probably as punishment. This time, Chase was on the receiving end of humiliation. No chance to catch up, but something more powerful would happen tonight. Coach kept Tarek on the court, too. No one wanted to sail into the record books from the bench.

  Wilcox passed it to Chase on an inbound. Tarek would have his time. Chase just wanted one. more. shot. He tried to pump-fake but the defensive player read his eyes, was younger, faster. Colin Mackley paralleled his rising action and slammed the ball to the court, dishing out a decisive block. The mics near the rim picked up the denial, like nails driven into a coffin. The mics also picked up the collective Oh-s! from the fans. The ball bounced out of bounds. Whistles blew. Chase’s gaze drifted to the key.

  Tarek had been wide open.

  Chase drilled the ball into the worn paint, set his feet, and executed a near-perfect three-pointer. Net only, no sound. And no one inside Sol’s darkened gym but him to acknowledge it.

  At least, he thought.

  “Best arc in the NBA.”

  Willow’s voice hit him like the ball hit the floor after his shot—a slow, decisive beat that echoed through the hollow spaces of his chest. He hustled after the ball because he didn’t want her to see the guy he was before she walked in. The guy who alternated passing tantrums against the concrete walls and sat on the basketball, forehead gripped in his hands.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Henry called me.”

  “He had no right.” Chase banked another close-range shot.

  “I’m sorry about the record.”

  So very Willow. Blunt to a fault. He didn’t dignify the statement with an answer. She wouldn’t have liked his response. He dribbled. Hard. Established eye contact with her and released a blind shot.

  Swish.

  His way of proving she had no part in his game, no power over him, whatsoever.

  “I feel responsible.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. Contrary to what your family would have everyone believe, the world doesn’t revolve around Willow.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He propped the ball against his hip. “They have seats most people would kill for yet they come to the game for three minutes to watch their daughter romp around in a fucking costume then leave. What the hell is that?”

  “Those three minutes are gymnastics lessons and failed Olympic tryouts and five seasons of mediocre basketball and everything else I have epically failed at.”

  “So why bother?”

  “Because it’s important to me.” Her words treaded against tears. “It isn’t about performing. It’s about them supporting me in what I love. That’s family.”

  He set his feet and shot. Swish. “Yeah, well. I wouldn’t know.”

  “You would if you opened yourself up to the chance.”

  “Basketball gives me my family.” He chased down the ball, pinned it to the wall, and grabbed his keys. When he turned, she stood alone on the court, fighting for one final shot.

  “You are so arrogant. Fans pay a fortune to come and see you play night after night and that somehow gives you validation. But what really matters is the reason people come to see you. All these people recognize you, but they don’t know you. You put up this mask of playboy and bachelor about town to keep people at a distance. To keep them from knowing the real you. The you I fell in love with.”

  So very Willow. Blunt to a fault.

  “Don’t…” His voice cracked on the warning. He cleared his throat. “I could say the same about you—hiding behind a costume, being everything to everyone else because you have no idea who you are or what you want.”

  She swiped at her cheek. In the darkness, she might as well have been brushing aside a wayward hair, but he knew she was crying. He had heard it in the distressed notes of her voice.

  “I finally know what I want. That didn’t change that night you asked me to leave. It still hasn’t changed. I want the kind of love that doesn’t end with a season.”

  Fuck. He didn’t navigate tears.

  “We’re done, Willow.”

  “People who give unconditional love, through all the mistakes, are the ones who deserve it back. I made a mistake not telling you about Dylan. I’m sorry. But he’s the real reason I took the bet. He’s my fifteen-year-old nephew who would have met you months ago if he hadn’t given away his Make-A-Wish to someone who is dying faster than he is.”

  Her explanation—the one he never allowed the night he kicked her out—was an icy fist around his heart. Winter had blown in on a blizzard that buried his chest. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

  “I took the bet so I could find out if you were the stand-up guy Tarek said you were. Dylan idolizes you, but his heart—the one that’s three sizes larger than mine will ever be—can’t take another disappointment. I had to find out if Chase Holbrook was worthy of that kind of unconditional love.” She removed a piece of paper from her pocket
and laid it on the court. “Turns out, he’s not.”

  Her footfalls subsided until quiet reigned once again.

  He waited until she was gone, long gone, then crossed to her offering and picked it up. It was a newspaper article. An obituary.

  Javier Christian Villanueva. Presidential whiz-kid. Wearing number twenty-eight jersey in his last picture.

  Chase collapsed to the wood and wept.

  Estelle’s back porch was an unlikely refuge. The legs of the iron patio chair wobbled. The polar west wind skated along the river and curled through the alcove created between neighboring houses. The night was restless with emergency sirens and somewhere, nearby a stray cat had marked its territory.

  Willow had mummified herself in a lumpy down comforter and parked where she could see a sliver of the city. Somehow, pulling the icy air into her lungs was a tangible reminder of life and its fragility. Blessings. She was here. Javier wasn’t. Dylan soon wouldn’t be. Why was a girl who had nothing to show for this life still here, when others with immense talent, others who had more to offer, were taken too soon? She thought of Chase’s success, his singularity of focus. Since the age of fifteen, he had dedicated himself to one thing and one thing only. Maybe that was the key. Pick one thing, forsake all others.

  Or maybe the answer was somewhere between the two extremes.

  Around midnight, Estelle hobbled out with a cup of abysmal coffee and a sassy mouth.

  “You’ll catch your death out here.” She zipped her old woman marshmallow-puff coat and settled into another iron chair beside her.

  “Might be an improvement.”

  “Bite your tongue, young lady. The good Lord may have deemed me too mouthy to serve him as a sister, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do his work before he calls me home. Life is good. And no man—not even the Chase Holbrooks of the world—are worth believing any different.”

  “Not even your Liam?”