by Honey
With her head tilted toward his, their mouths joined in hot fusion, he slid his hands up to cup the sodden fabric covering her breasts. She leaned her back tightly into his chest, her hands over his, wanting him to bring her to his mouth like he had done once before. She wanted to do these things to him. To make him feel the way he made her feel.
In the hotel, it had been about her. Now, she wanted this to be about him, giving to him that feeling of completeness. An utter and total release that brought with it shock waves.
The breeze from the fan flirted with them, touching, retreating, then caressing. Warmth and stillness. A fluttering, then nothing. It was like a sensual dance that passed over them, catching them in its wake, then receding.
Alex's fingertips teased her nipples as they grazed across the thin wet covering over her breasts. He brought an exquisite pleasure through her and a muted cry rose from her throat, lost on his lips. She gripped his hands, keeping them over her breasts, and kissed him. He used tiny soft pulls to peak her nipples into hard tight buds. Her skin prickled and she could barely stand. She pulled back, turning in his arms to face him. Wanting to feel his body beneath her exploring palms. She stared at him, watching his face.
His brown eyes seemed to grow richer, darker, more intense as she looked into them. The shadow of his beard gave him rugged appeal. She touched him with her gaze, then touched him with her hands. He let her explore him in a timeless way.
She skimmed her fingers across his deep-bronzed skin, warm and hard to her touch. She savored the feel of sinewy muscle that defined his broad chest, his wide shoulders, his granite biceps. The white X she'd painted on him had blurred and she rested the flat of her hand over the smudge of paint. She felt his heart beating strongly. It seemed to leap and join the painted red heart on the back of her hand.
Two hearts.
Together.
She trailed her fingers into the dark hair that lightly covered his chest. He sucked in his breath with a low moan as she traced a path between his flat nipples, around each one, then down, to the corrugated plane of his hard stomach. She dragged her fingertips across the top of his waistband, then a fraction lower, to touch his navel.
He groaned. He caught her by the shoulders, brought his mouth to hers and kissed her until she thought she'd go limp in his arms. She wanted him to show her what sex was like—for two people, not just her. But she didn't know how to ask. She couldn't make him love her, but she couldn't let him leave her again without knowing what lovemaking was like, in every way—for her, for him. Her body tingled in every sensitive place.
Her hands slid down his chest once more. She molded her palms over every contour the white paint touched, and in turn, her fingers went white. In her mind, this was an intimacy in itself Taking paint from him and bringing it to her. It was like being inside each other without doing so physically. The thought was shocking, exciting and wanton. Her desire for him staggered every sense she had.
"I don't want you to leave," was the only way she could voice her true feelings. She looked up at his face for a sign that said he understood what she meant.
The line of his jaw seemed set, his brows black lines of thought. Or was that consideration? She dared not answer. Anticipation, fear, and dread—they held her in their clutches until she had to remind herself to breathe.
He tipped his head to hers; their foreheads met. "Jesus," he whispered against her skin, his hand trailing down the curve of her back, pressing her against his desire. "I want you."
"And I want you." She kissed the bristly line of his jaw; his skin was warm and wet and tasted faintly of salt.
His body stilled and he drew a deep breath, then carefully set her at arm's length. "No, honey. We can't. I can't let you do this."
Alarm mixed with desire. "Why not?"
He ran his finger gently over her cheekbone. "Because." His strong fingers caught her chin as he looked directly into her eyes. "I'm not in a position to make promises. Promises you deserve."
The actual reality of the world beyond this room threatened to press in on her. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that I can't make promises to you. This is now and it's the moment... but beyond..." He said nothing further. He didn't have to.
"I understand." She wet her lips, tasting him on her tongue, then made a decision. "I'm not asking for a lifetime, Alex. I know exactly what this is. And if you walked out the door right now, I'd always wonder. I don't want to wonder. I want to feel." She brought her hand to the low-riding waistband of his nankeen pants. To the buttons that rode up his fly. "I want you." Her lips parted, and her eyes held his. "I want the moment."
The fanned air caught them in its web, suspending time with each slow pulse of warm air over their bodies.
"Are you sure?"
With those few words, she almost grew weak. "Yes."
The color of his eyes deepened and she knew he wanted her but wasn't convinced.
Only when her fingers slowly worked each closure free did his hands rise to her bodice. He began to flip open the row of pearl buttons. Untried emotions rushed through her. Her rapid heartbeat slammed into her ribs; she had no doubts. Excitement flooded her senses. She couldn't slip the heavy, wet cotton down his thighs over his underwear and she wasn't sure what to do next. That she had taken such bold initiative as to unbutton him, and now to ask for his help with it—
But that thought dissolved as he opened her bodice, separating the gathers of lavender. He slid the sleeves down her arms and pulled her free of the fabric. The dress slipped off her waist and hips, pooling around her bare feet in a wet circle.
As she looked down at herself, the airy linen of her chemise appeared paper thin against her skin. With an agile motion of his wrists, Alex removed her corset and flung it on the counter. Her petticoat followed. She wore only her shimmy and knee-high drawers. Both did nothing to hide the rosy tips of her nipples or the pale blond curls at the juncture of her legs.
She didn't shy away from him but boldly stood before him so that he could see her. She wanted him to see. Just as she wanted to see him. Her hand rose to his fly once more and she slipped her hands inside the elastic edge of cotton drawers. He kissed her before putting a hand on the table so he could kick off his shoes. She put her hands at his belt loops and tried to slide his pants down his legs. But he gently moved her hands away and, in an efficient tug, removed them himself. He wore nothing but drawers that hugged and cupped every part of him... and a disarmingly slow smile that held her captive.
Her arms slipped about his neck; hands rising to the nape of his neck; his hands closed in around her waist. They kissed once more, this time with a fire and intensity, an urgency that had her frantically seeking. Her fingers tangled in his hair, brought his head closer to hers. She felt herself moving, being walked toward the center of the kitchen... out... away... to the dining room.
"No..." she mouthed against him. "We'll get paint on the rugs." And if I have to walk through my house, up the stairs to my bedroom, my courage may falter with each step I take. "Stay here. Stay with me here."
"Do you want to change your mind?" he asked on her lips. "You can change your mind."
"I don't want to."
Alex backed her into the edge of the kitchen table. The smooth rim of wood pressed against her buttocks. His hand reached between them to touch her breast, to coax her nipple to a hard point. She felt herself tighten, tingle. A shaft of pure fire went straight to the place between her legs. As he gently pulled and fondled, her fingertips curled into the flesh of his bare shoulders.
With an easy glide of his hand, he had her drawers freed of her legs so that only the hip-length shimmy with its thin ribbon straps remained on her body, a body that was straining and pulsing with need, that had paint smeared here and there. It was nothing short of wicked to see that paint contrasting with the rich color of Alex's skin.
She reached out to him, brushing her fingers against the hot, straining bulge behind the soft cotton he wore. He moaned i
n the back of his throat as she stroked him, gently, curious. She liked that she could make him feel this way.
Alex took her hands, lifted them over her head, and bent her backward over the kitchen table. She lay on its flat surface, staring up into his face. The tablecloth of appliqué apples and cloves cushioned her as she pressed her shoulder blades and the bottom of her spine into the top. My God...
She should have been mortified and at least... for her fall from grace... considered her bedroom.
But there was something about the table that got her pulse to trip and flow through her like an electrical current. They collided, warm and cool and fully alive. And she liked the feeling—liked it so much she was anxious and almost writhing, waiting for him, anticipating and breathless.
Alex's hand rode her thigh, higher, bunching her shimmy in his hand until her woman's place was exposed to him. The heel of his palm brought a friction that had her parting her legs. The sound of her heart seemed to fill the kitchen, flowing with the low hum of the fan and the soft-sounding ripple of the tablecloth as it swayed on the current.
His finger slid inside her, and she whimpered, unsure of what she should do. But those fears and uncertainties vanished. With light rubbing motions, he controlled her. Everything there felt swollen and wanting. She wanted too much to—
He leaned forward and gave her breasts soft and tormenting kisses that rocked her to her toes. His tongue circled each nipple, sucking, licking. She squirmed beneath him, her neck arching. Once more, her fingertips reached out to touch the length of him behind the soft cotton. He jolted, his legs tensing as they crushed into her inner thighs. She was able to slip one hand inside the cotton and touch. Feel the hard and marble-smooth length of him that seemed to pulse, strain, grow even thicker.
Then he lifted his head and stood before her, his feet planted apart on the floor... and he slipped his ribbed drawers from his legs. She looked at him without flinching, without worry.
He was beautiful to her. Large and full and hard. She didn't know what to expect, what to feel, when she saw him. But she knew she wasn't making a mistake. She wasn't afraid.
The very sight of him made her need rise another notch. This was a place that she hadn't gone before. A joining of need that put them both in the same place and same moment together.
Alex braced his arms on either side of her, his hair falling away from his brows. The strands had dried to a glossy block that ruffled as the air stream passed over them. He gave her a kiss that was surprisingly tender.
The low rasp in his voice brought out her goose-flesh as he spoke. "If we..." He cleared his throat. "Tomorrow, you can't go back to today and wish this away."
That he would give her every opportunity to change her mind made her love him all the more. She shook her head. Tomorrow didn't matter to her. "I want to go with you... right now."
Moving his mouth to her ear, he teased its outline with the moist tip of his tongue. "Then let yourself come, honey. Don't hold back."
Then he was against her, the long smooth length of himself that was hot at her entry, probing and so full she thought she might have to say she couldn't. Her hands lifted to hold him by his shoulders; she needed to feel him, connect to him. Her legs came up to lock around his hips. Gradually he slid inside her. Slowly. The pain was sharp and she flinched, her breath a wounded cry.
Disoriented, she felt tears threaten.
"That's the worst, honey." He kissed her lips, pulling her back to his world where kisses and mouths and hands on her body were the things she longed for, desired.
He pushed into her tender skin until she thought she'd taken him. But he pulled back, not all the way, then pushed in. He continued this slow way of entry, in and out, until the apex between her legs felt thick and warm and beyond the initial pain she'd experienced.
When at last he pushed into her all the way, she was ready. A strange thrill consumed her. Her fingers bit into his skin, her hands grasped his biceps tightly. She was intimidated to look at him as he looked at her. She didn't want to imagine what she looked like with her braid over her shoulder, her breasts jiggling. She didn't want to confront the wanton in herself. So she watched where they joined. How he fit into her so perfectly. How this dance between man and woman was joy on earth. A lovely torment made more lovely when they reached that edge of the plateau and their bodies sang.
With each slick stroke that moved within her, he kindled flames in her, a hot ember that built and grew. Hotter. To a field of wildfire that nothing could put out other than Alex himself as he brought her to a new crescendo of fiery explosions. They began small—first a spark, tiny embers that grew. Then rolling heat that covered her skin, made her damp with perspiration. The wiry feel of the hair on Alex's legs abraded the sensitive skin of her thighs, stimulating her more than she thought possible.
Sounds vibrated in her throat, nothing coherent—a lingering moan, a whimper, the soft utterance of his name.
"Come with me, Camille." His whisper was like kerosene on a matchstick. An instant torch of fire. He moved harder and faster, his arms on either side of her shoulders, his head down. A droplet of water rolled off his nose and onto her lips. She licked it, as if she had kissed him.
In those seconds of floating time, she knew she'd been fooling herself. She would never be satisfied with just this one time. Heaven help her, she wanted him forever.
Then he took her with him, in one deep thrust, and she shattered. He filled her, made her drift on a cloud in heaven. The intense heat cooled to a rush of liquid warmth that she could feel quivering and pulsing. Was that her or him? Or both? His rapid motions slowed to a final strain as he swelled inside her and a low moan of ecstacy escaped his throat.
She held onto him as he collapsed over her. His chin burrowed in the moist hollow of her neck, his nostrils next to her skin. Their breath came together in ragged pants, mingling like mists on morning roses.
There were a great many things she wanted to say, but they would have been too poetic, and in her present state, she probably would botch all the words anyway. So she simply said the one thing that she knew would matter to him.
"I'm not sorry," she said, her hands cupping his head, fingers sinking into his hair. "I'm not sorry."
He held her close, so close that she could feel the pounding of his heart. "I only hope you still feel the same way tomorrow."
Chapter 22
Somebody sabotaged the jockstraps with Doctor Schmaenkmen's Gold Seal itching powder.
It hit Specs first. One minute he was joking with the guys; the next, horror flashed across his face and his hand inched its way to his cup. The maneuver was subtle; he appeared only to be engineering a minor adjustment, but in reality, it was a scratch. Specs, who had devoutly avoided scratching that particular location on his body, looked left and right to see if he was being observed doing the unthinkable.
"Uh-oh," Specs mouthed as the men around him fit pants up their legs and jerseys over their heads. He gave himself another scratch, a vigorous scratch. Then some more scratches, and still some more.
Alex narrowed his eyes and gave Specs a hard stare, a niggling sense of foul play at the back of his mind. Having been in a professional league before, he never took anything for granted and supplied his own jockey. Always had. Always would. And a time like this proved him right in his dis- trust of how low one team would go to disable another.
"Everyone stop dressing!" Alex yelled just as Specs moaned.
"Did the regular laundry do the uniforms and jockeys?" Specs's tone was high-pitched as he sat on his locker trunk; he crossed his legs so tightly, he looked like he was going to crack his kneecaps. His cheeks colored pink as he tried desperately to refrain from scratching.
"What's going on?" Duke asked, absently scratching his parts.
"Something's wrong," Specs snapped, "that's what!"
"The jockstraps aren't pure cotton," Alex said, stepping into his pants.
Specs wailed, "Itching powder?"
&nbs
p; "Charlie." Noodles motioned to the centerfielder with his chin. "You were the first one in here—anything different about the laundry?"
Charlie paused in putting on his pants. "The uniforms were on the desk, paper-wrapped like they always are. Along with a new box of Spalding jockstraps. I figured Kennison sprang for them, so I doled them out."
"Well, whoever sprang for them sprinkled itching powder in the cups!" Specs shot up as if somebody had given him a hotfoot. "These jockstraps," he said while scratching, "have been sabotaged!"
The players stared at one other. Some of them had been in midscratch. Because they'd always had relaxed manners in that department, it had gone without saying that scratching was regular part of getting dressed. But now that Specs had brought it to their attention, their hands suddenly became restrained—as if they were testing Spec's theory. But the no-scratch concept didn't last long. Soon, the Keystones were scratching en masse.
Everyone except Alex.
And that's how Camille came into the clubhouse and discovered them. At first, she didn't see anything out of the ordinary—she'd been looking right at him as she walked to her desk.
Their eyes met, then her gold-tipped lashes cast shadows on her cheeks as she looked down. Her face turned as pale as the ivory shirtwaist she wore and he thought she might cry. It stabbed at him to be the cause of her tears.
Since the afternoon they spent together a week ago, he hadn't been alone with her. He wanted to talk to her, badly. Because in spite of what he'd told her, he had found himself going to her house the next night. The night after. And the following night. But he'd made it only as far as her gate before he stopped himself. He stood there, in the darkness of the sidewalk, and stared at the house. He watched lights turn on and wondered what she was doing, what she was thinking. Sometimes he'd catch a glimpse of her moving in the front room, then into the dining room. Then later, the lights would dim, and like a slow-fading haze, they would diminish from one riser to the next on the stairwell as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. Alone.
