by Liz Crowe
“I know, guzelim, I know,” he whispered, reaching around to take the holder from her hair so he could bury his fingers in its yellow tumble. “I want to help you. Truly… but you are so… so… kissable, god help me. May I please kiss you?” His lips hovered over hers. Her warm, lush body molded against his, a perfect fit, exactly as he remembered.
But she bit her lip, shook her head, tried to look away from him. “Tell you what,” she said, cupping the back of his neck with her hand. “I’ll let you kiss me, just once more. Then you have to keep teaching me this so I can land a position on a team. And then you can hightail it home to Spain and pick up where you left off with that supermodel, and we can call it even.”
He drew away, his brain awash with feelings that shocked and surprised him. “Ah, my beautiful one, you are more woman than she will ever be.” He ran a hand down her face, loving the porcelain tone of her skin. “I will kiss you. But it won’t be the last time. That much I promise.”
Before she could protest, he slanted his lips over hers and lost himself in her once again. She clung to him, opening her lips to his. His body burned, skin flamed from the inside out, his ears deafened by a roar of need. He had to have her, now, had to put his mark on her before she escaped again.
That sort of macho bullshit had never, ever been a part of his makeup, and it bothered him to even think it. But he had fucked many women, starting at sixteen, learning at the talented hands of an older woman, a teacher who had shown him skills he’d put to good use. And right at that moment, as he back-walked the beautiful Alicia into the dim stadium tunnel—he knew he would have her forever, or die trying. The frustrating, gorgeous, all-American woman would be his—she had to be. She was his destiny.
Chapter Six
Alicia’s heart pounded, her eyes burned with strange, unwanted tears as Metin kissed her, owned her with his lips and tongue and hands. Dear god in heaven, what was she doing? Making out with the king of Euro soccer, in the middle of fucking Ford Field?
She struggled, knowing she should resist, that her sister was right. He held tighter, forcing a sound from her lips as he licked his way down her neck, yanked up her sports bra, and sucked one of her nipples so hard, her knees buckled. The sound she’d meant to relay her intention to stop, coming out more like a moan of pleasure.
He kept moving them off the field, thank god, otherwise she’d obviously let him do whatever he wanted on the fifty-yard line if he kept….
“Oh, shit, Metin….”
Holding her up against the wall of the tunnel leading down to the locker rooms, he pinned her arms over her head, laying yet another tongue-tangling kiss on her. She heard noises that she assumed she made, felt her hips move, betraying her. Her body was a pulsing nerve—an empty, pulsing nerve.
“Stop. We can’t… not here….”
He shifted, forcing her legs up and around his waist. “Shh….” His gaze danced with desire.
“Oh, yes… oh… god….” she whispered, loving the taste and smell of him all around her.
He shoved her shorts aside. A spike of fear lit her brain. She was about to have sex with him again, and without a condom. Worse yet, she wanted it so badly, an actual physical ache churned in her gut. He cradled her face with one hand, the other propped on the wall, holding her up. His dark eyes burned into her soul. An errant tear slipped down her cheek, unexplainable, yet perfect. He kissed it away.
“I want you so badly. Alicia. My darling.” He buried his face in her neck. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t do this. It’s dirty and animal-like. You deserve… better.”
That strange sound escaped her throat again—somewhere between a sob and a groan. “No, Metin.” She threaded her fingers in his damp hair. “It’s perfect.”
“Ah, my love.” He sighed as he eased into her. “Look at me.”
She kissed him then, unable to stop, absolutely loving the soft perfection of his full lips that accompanied the amazing sensation of him inside her, again, finally. It almost hurt but had to be the most pleasant pain she’d ever experienced.
He tore his mouth from hers and stared into her eyes. “I’m …I’m going to…. You are… not… satisfied yet.” Gritting his teeth, he lowered his face to her breast, forcing her up higher with every thrust of his hips.
“Come with me… Metin.”
He groaned, covered her mouth with his, and held onto her hips. With a final shove, he cried out the exact second her own words thrown at her sister ghosted over her brain. The ones about not getting knocked up and marrying a douche bag.
“Alicia… Guzelim, my love.” Metin held her tight as their still-joined bodies calmed. “I am so… sorry.” With a sigh, he slipped out of her and set her down on wobbly legs.
“Jesus. Sorry for what?” she croaked out, reassembled her clothing. “Whoa….” She gasped when he pulled her close again.
“I will not allow you to escape me this time. No more pretending. I want you to… ah, shit,” he said before kissing her.
At that moment, she had her first inkling of what was to come in her life. And for the first time since she’d pulled on a pair of tiny soccer cleats in first grade, it did not have to do with playing the game—unless being with this man counted. He ended the lip lock with a smile that finished what the kiss began.
“You really should not be allowed to do that.” She snuggled into his chest, loving his embrace, Mel’s warnings be damned.
“Do what, my love?” He kissed her hair.
“Smile at women like that,” she declared, arms around his waist, already dreading the moment he had to leave, to go home to his life as superstar and boyfriend of supermodels.
“I don’t know about you,” he said, tilting her face up to his. “But I am bloody well starving.”
She sniffled, shoving away the jealous monster that threatened. Those thoughts were ridiculous. “Yeah. There’s a great barbeque place we can walk to from here.”
“Okay, shower first.” He held tight to both her hands. “I’m a great back washer,” he claimed.
“I’m pretty sure these showers are not co-ed. But I’ll see you outside.” She pulled away and ducked into the locker room, heart pounding, already missing him.
Metin stared in the foggy mirror. How in the name of all that was holy had he met her—finally, the woman of his dreams—at the worst possible moment? He’d made a pseudo-commitment to Graciella, the supermodel who lived a floor down from his penthouse in Madrid. A grasping, selfish, high-maintenance bitch, she’d worn him down with her full-on seduction and determination to join the ranks of the wives of football stars as an angle to kick-start her flagging career.
Running a hand down his face, he contemplated just how unhappy he’d been with her. She was unbelievable really, so perfectly beautiful as to seem unreal, so utterly selfish as to be unlovable. And he did not love her. That much he knew… now.
Smiling, he rubbed his hair with a towel, his thoughts once more on the lovely blonde, blue-eyed woman he’d met and fallen for so hard, he wondered if he would ever get up from the proverbial floor.
He let his thoughts drift to Graciella’s dark-skinned, exotic beauty, and the way he always believed she acted her way through every emotion, hell, every orgasm. He’d been bored by it all, but they looked good together, and it seemed natural. Besides, his mother was relentless in her quest for grandchildren from his loins. He’d figured it for a marriage of convenience. Graciella would probably cheat on him. He’d cheat on her, and they’d raise a couple of spoiled brats and fight off the urge to divorce on principle.
But now… his entire universe had shifted, opening up to him in ways he’d never thought possible. He wanted Alicia by his side, in his bed, bearing his children—the whole deal.
But she seemed destined for something else. She wanted to play professional soccer and, if she worked hard, would likely make at least the roster for the women’s national team for the U.S.—a huge coup. He wanted her to be happy. But he’d be flat out miserable the se
cond he had to board the plane and leave her behind.
Once dressed, he grabbed his bag and pushed the door open into the dark hall. They hadn’t said where “outside” they would meet so he waited a few seconds, then started toward the outer door.
The Michigan spring day was glorious, skies so blue they hurt the eyes, the air warm and with that subtle like-home perfume of his family’s estate on the Asian side of the Bosporus. He shut his eyes and took a long, deep breath, then opened them and saw exactly what he’d expected to see. An empty spot where her car had been.
Chapter Seven
I’m picking you up for dinner. I leave tomorrow, you know. I don’t know why you are avoiding me like I have a disease.
Alicia looked at the text, the fifth or sixth one she’d gotten from Metin in the last twenty-four hours. Curled up on the couch in her childhood family room, she watched a movie she didn’t even register. Every fiber of her longed for him. Mel glanced at her from her perch in front of the computer.
“Just don’t say anything, okay, Mel?” She sank deeper into the blanket.
“Wasn’t going to.” Her sister had been decidedly cool to her since she’d stumbled into the house after her “session” with Metin. Alicia’d had every intention of going out with him, which would have undoubtedly led a direct path to his hotel suite. And god knew what or where after that.
Instead, she’d panicked, thrown her stuff in her bag and snuck out, tiptoeing past the locker room door where he’d been showering.
“Here, you should see this.”
She frowned at Mel’s phone screen then tried to process that Metin had sent a message to her sister, asking if Alicia was okay.
She flopped over on the leather couch arm and let the tears flow.
“Answer him anyway.” Mel dropped the phone onto the table in front of her face.
“Why? You’re right about him. And me. I can’t keep from… letting him… and it’s bad. I mean it’s great, it’s amazing actually, but it’s… wrong.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Mel snatched her phone and stomped away.
She closed her eyes and let sleep take her, anything to ease the ache in the middle of her chest when she thought about the impossibly handsome, charming, sexy Turk.
“Hey, Alicia.”
She started, sat up, and came face to face with Metin himself. He stood, holding a dozen roses, a signed Real Madrid soccer ball, and….
“Please do not me tell those are….”
“None other….” He shot her that painfully charming smile as he set the box of See’s Candies strawberry truffles on the table in front of her.
She groaned, sore from their workout, both on the pitch and off. Her face felt puffy, and she was sure it had pillow prints on it—she’d slept so hard, and for god knew how long.
“I also have tickets for the last friendly match, tomorrow night, for you and….” He looked at Mel who hovered, radiating disapproval as only she could. “Um, your sister gave me the idea. Told me about the candies and invited me over.”
He rose to his feet. Mel blinked, her dark eyes unreadable. Tucking a lock of her curly brown hair behind an ear, she shrugged.
“Whatever. You’ll be gone soon enough, and we can get back to our lives. And your texts were sort of pitiful.”
Metin clenched his jaw, obviously resisting the urge to snap at her. The air crackled with tension. Alicia uncurled from the couch and got in between them—a place she would undoubtedly find herself plenty of times if she followed this thing down its seemingly inevitable road.
“Yes, well, thanks, Mel. You could have warned me. At least he didn’t catch me drooling in my sleep.” She tried to defuse things and was never more grateful for her younger nephew, who barreled into the room, followed by his giant, lumbering mutt of a dog.
“Hey, Mom! I heard the doorbell, is it… holy… shit.”
“Watch your mouth,” Mel snapped, yanking Tanner in front of her as if he were a shield between herself and the handsome, famous soccer player standing in their midst. “Say hello to Aunt Alicia’s guest.”
The boy brushed his hair off his forehead and stared, gape-jawed at Metin.
“Pleased to meet you. Tanner, right? Here, I brought you something.” He picked up the red and gold ball, covered with signatures of the team, and tossed it to Tanner, who grabbed at it with delight.
“Wow,” he whispered. Mel pushed him forward. He held out a hand, and Metin shook it.
“Okay, enough hero worship for now. Where’s your brother?” Mel asked, hustling her son out the door. “Go out with Metin, Alicia. You know you want to,” she tossed over her shoulder. Alicia’s skin flushed with heat all the way up from her toes.
Metin tucked his hands in his jeans and stood there, so edible and adorable, she giggled involuntarily. She slapped her palm over her mouth, but the laughter had bubbled up from someplace deep and would not be tamped down. Falling back onto her pity-party nest of blankets, she laughed until tears streamed down her face at the crazy ridiculousness of the whole situation.
He took a seat across from her, a worried expression on his face, sending her over the edge into hysteria. Finally, she wiped her eyes, hiccupped, and grabbed her favorite candies on the planet and opened the box.
“Okay, I give. Let’s go out. But we have to have some rules. I am not having sex with you. Tonight or any night. Ever again. You are… an amazing guy. And I am terrified I may be falling for you.” She popped one of the rich morsels in her mouth and chewed, kept her gaze on his. Slowly, she got to her feet. He rose and started to speak, but she held up a hand. “No, no, just listen. You know we can’t do this. You live in Spain. I don’t even know where I’ll be in the next few weeks. I am not a WAG, nor will I ever be. I am a soccer player in my own right, Metin Sevim. I don’t care how gorgeous you are or how good you kiss or… oh….” When he closed the gap between them with the casual grace of a natural athlete, her heart raced. “Or that.” She pushed him away, using every ounce of self-control she possessed, keeping him at a comical arm’s length.
“I don’t understand,” he said, simply.
“I will go to dinner with you, Metin. But the day after tomorrow you are getting on a plane, and I will never see you again.” She blinked away yet more stupid tears. His gaze never wavered from hers. “So, let’s go have some food and a drink, and we will part ways. For good.”
He tilted his head and grinned at her.
“Don’t do that,” she muttered through clenched teeth.
“Sorry.” He kept smiling. “So are you gonna change, or are we going to McDonald’s for dinner?” He nodded at her sloppy sweat pants and ripped T-shirt. “Wrong colors, too. Jesus, Maybe I shouldn’t take you to dinner.”
She frowned and looked down at herself. The emblem of the Barcelona team, Real Madrid’s mortal enemy, graced her ratty jersey.
“Right.” Turning on her heel, she headed for the stairs, then closed her eyes when a firm hand gripped her arm. She found him looming over her, tracing the line of her jaw with a fingertip. She filled her nose with his scent, an ever-present leathery, grassy smell underneath his subtle, woodsy cologne. “Stop it.”
“No,” he said, giving her a soft kiss. “Go get cleaned up. I’ll visit with your charming sister.”
She smacked his chest and cursed her weak self before dashing upstairs, more excited than a girl on prom night… on her wedding night. Stop it, Alicia. Stop it right fucking there. You have a goal. And it does not include hooking up with some Euro-stud.
As Alicia shut her bedroom door, her sister’s voice filtered up from below. “Metin, please join me for a glass of wine.” Wincing, but sending him a silent wish of good luck, she jumped in the shower.
Metin studied the attractive woman sitting across from him at the huge kitchen island. Musing that she probably would just as soon pour him a lovely glass of cyanide as sit and drink red wine with him, he smiled, trying not to overreact to her thinly veiled hostility.
“So,” she said, sipping. “How is Graciella?”
He forced an ever-wider smile. “Fine, I am assuming. She is on a photo shoot in Italy for a month. I haven’t talked to her in… a while.” He lifted the glass to his lips.
Melanie Matthews Miller could be a model herself. Something surely she’d heard plenty of times. A riot of chestnut-brown curls, barely contained by a headband, famed her face. Dark eyes shone in her angular, compelling face. Her hand shook when she put her glass on the granite surface. Unable to resist, he reached for it. She yanked it back as if he’d touched a lit match to her flesh.
“Your mother must have been a stunning woman,” he said, softly, as if cornering a frightened animal.
“Yeah. She was.” Mel polished off her first glass. Metin poured her some more. “I’m not an alcoholic.”
He looked up, shocked. “I wouldn’t think of calling you that.”
“Sure you would. I see it in your eyes.”
“The only thing in my eyes right now is terror.”
She scoffed, left the newly refilled glass on the counter and propped her chin on her hands. The defeated slump of her shoulders made the natural caretaker in him want to soothe. But he knew better than to comfort her, at least at that moment. He took another drink of his wine, and the silence took on a life of its own. Clearing his throat, he put his glass down, deciding if anyone could take it straightforward, it would be this woman.
“I love your sister,” he said.
Mel glared at him, her face betraying nothing more than visceral dislike. “No, you don’t. You’re a collector of women. And Alicia is something new and exotic to you. Get over yourself.” Her sharp voice fit her, as if she had edges he’d injure himself on if he were not careful. Her nearly perfect face —high cheekbones, large expressive eyes—did hold appeal. In a different situation, she would be his type. Her next words startled him. “I won’t let you hurt her, soccer boy. We clear on that?”
