by Liz Crowe
“What the hell, Castillo? Since when you do become my homosexual personal stylist?” She hated it when he was right. She drew the admittedly perfect dress over her head and adjusted the fabric around her hips. A bra was impossible with the low neckline. She threw her shoulders back, hoping her thirty-six year old breasts, always bigger than she would have liked as an athlete, looked younger than they appeared to her.
“Woman, I am about as opposite from homosexual as you can get and you know it. But I need to give you some advice.”
She put her hair up, securing the bulk of it with clips.
“I’m waiting.” An understatement, she realized. Her entire body zinged in anticipation of Ramon’s hands on her. Her face colored. She had not had sex since Joe died. Had not even kissed another man until that very day.
“He is a lot shyer than you think. All the BS about the women in his life is exactly that. Utter bullshit. He kept up appearances. And no doubt had his fair share of pussy, since it got thrown at him daily. But he….”
“Stop right there,” she interrupted, picking up the phone. “It’s only dinner for Christ’s sake. You said yourself he’s leaving next week for good. I don’t intend to be some kind of quickie for this guy. I simply want to thank him for helping with Harrison today, have a nice dinner, whatever. I can’t handle a one-night stand right now, you know that.”
“Maybe you should consider it. It’s been two years. A lovely night in the arms of a talented lover, it would work wonders for you. But what I’m trying to tell you about Ramon is….”
“Look, Dr. Ruth, I can handle this.”
“Okay, okay, but if he seems a little reluctant, going sort of slow, don’t take that personally. He is very interested in you. But he’s not good at following through when it’s not merely his cock that’s involved.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
What I mean, is that I believe our Ramon has fallen for you.”
“Jesus, Jackson, we just met this morning. We spent a whole day together, yes, but this time yesterday Ramon Castillo was only a name to me.” She put a final touch of powder on her face, slipped her feet into sexy, nearly invisible high-heeled sandals.
“Listen, one more second. He’s hurt, damaged; he has lost the one thing he loved more than life—the ability to play soccer. But something happened today that moved him toward healing. I don’t know what, but I think I know who. So, don’t let him play hard to get tonight, querida. Make him yours.”
The frustrating conversation ended abruptly, leaving Gillian holding the phone, every nerve ending on fire with possibility. For the first time in years, she felt truly alive.
Chapter Four
Ramon got to the restaurant early, wanting to find the table and collect himself before she arrived. His heart raced. Nervous beyond anything he’d ever experienced before any game. It was maddening. He gulped down a straight scotch then sipped at a second one.
His jaw dropped when she finally arrived, draped in shimmering red fabric that stopped just below her luscious ass. It was as if a Greek goddess had appeared in the restaurant. He gulped. She hadn’t seen him yet so he studied her freely. The line of her alabaster neck, exposed by her up swung auburn hair begged for his tongue. Those freckles, now covered by a light sheen of powder, beckoned. He gripped his knees below the table, watching as she greeted several people. After what seemed like an hour, her eyes found his. They lit up, and his entire soul fell into their green depths.
Slow. He gritted his teeth. Must go slow.
She made her way over. He got to his feet, feeling clumsy, as the host held out her chair.
“Mr. Castillo, Ms. Winter, welcome to Jacques. Mr. Jackson has taken the liberty of ordering for you, so if you will permit us, we shall serve the first course.”
Jackson, the control freak bastard. Ramon bit his lip to keep from cursing. Leave it to him to keep them from using the menus as an excuse not to talk. He watched her sip the wine that appeared in front of her. Words stuck in his throat. She finally spoke first.
“Listen, thank you so much for today. You have no idea how much it meant to Harrison.”
He blinked.
She continued. “And I had fun, although I think I might have kicked your ass.” He relaxed at the sight of her genuine smile.
Once their first course had been served—a light gazpacho with a dash of crème fraîche on top—they were laughing at the memory of the final winning goal. He took a bite before his throat closed up again. Her intense gaze darkened when he winced at the sudden pain in his knee.
“Oh, God, we overdid it today, didn’t we? I am so sorry.”
“No, it’s my fault, and believe me this twinge is nothing compared to what I’ve been dealing with. I wouldn’t have missed today, actually. For many reasons.” He grinned and held out a hand, his brain screaming go slow, but his heart and body arguing otherwise. She touched her palm to it.
“Thank you, Gillian. Truly.” He reluctantly let go, the memory of her skin like a live thing undulating on his skin.
“You’re welcome.” She ducked her head, took another sip of wine. He forced himself to lean back, remain nonchalant. But his heart pounded in his ears.
“So,” he said. “Tell me about Joe.”
She gaped at him. He stared back and continued, “Joe Winter was a coaching legend. You guys were quite a couple. But why did you stop playing, really?”
Gillian sputtered, tried not to choke on the bite of cheese that had arrived as a palate cleanser between courses. The nerve of this guy. The band wrapped around her chest since the moment she’d seen Joe’s still, dead face, tightened. But the man sitting across from her now wasn’t being a jerk. His gaze remained soft and open, welcoming her honest conversation, not bullshit small talk. They only had a day. Might as well talk about the big stuff.
“I loved Joe with every fiber of my being, from the moment I met him. As a rookie on the team he’d been coaching three years, I was little better than chopped liver to the rest of the team, including the already entrenched goalie. We, um, had sex within the first month. A bad idea. I knew it. He knew it. But, hey, love, you know?” She shrugged, tried to take a bite, but put it down. Her throat closed with unshed tears. “I played for two years, and we kept it quiet. Then, I got pregnant.” She took a deep breath.
Ramon suddenly leaned forward, both hands on the table this time, beckoning hers. She gave into her need for another physical connection with him, grasped them and closed her mind against the pure chemical reaction she had to his touch. Jesus, this is patently insane. Her mind ticked off the reasons why.
A seven-year age difference, his imminent return to life as superstar, playboy soccer player the day after next. He was Ramon Castillo, for Christ’s sake. She, a mere catering manager, has-been player, widowed mom. But as she drowned in his deep brown gaze, she had to cross her legs against the pressure building up there. She knew her thong excuse for panties had to be soaked.
“I am so very sorry that happened to you. Joe was an incredible coach, as I said. You guys had a great life, a son, a home. I wish….” He looked down a minute then back up at her. She bit her lower lip. “Well, I wish life hadn’t been so hard on you.”
She decided to jump in with both feet. “Tell me about your leg.”
He grinned, released her hands and leaned back. “Touché. You sure you wanna know?”
She nodded and listened to the story she’d heard a million times, this time straight from the horse’s mouth.
It had been brutal, and his honesty about his sudden panic attack that morning at the soccer field was refreshing. She winced in sympathy, suppressing the urge to jump up and cradle his dark head against her shoulder. Any true athlete’s worst nightmare is getting injured. But the nature of his, and the venue where it occurred were etched into anyone’s “top 10 worst ever.” He was matter of fact about his chances of ever playing again, but she knew he would never be able to let go of the game. Her heart ached for
the young man, abandoned as an infant, rescued by the Castillo family and folded into their midst, but never really feeling a part of anything until he became part of a soccer team.
She leaned back, crossed her legs and sipped the rich red wine Jackson had sent with the main course. The emotions coursing over the man’s dark, expressive face were myriad. She had the odd sensation of feeling connected to him, like she had known him much longer than the mere sum total of the few hours they had between them. At one point, as he relayed waking up from the first surgery, terrified, not remembering what had happened and trying to rise from the bed only to be slammed back in place by the pain, tears pressed against her eyes.
His flippant, funny descriptions of the ensuing torturous round of therapies made her laugh, but she knew he covered an undercurrent of frustration and anger. She wished she could figure out the best way to let him know that she knew exactly what he was going through—that they shared devastating losses between them. Floating through the days, going through the motions, was all well and good for the outside world. But the gaping chasm in her life, and in his, could never be truly comprehended by anyone who hadn’t lived through something similar. Her mind suddenly, for the first time in years, seemed laser-focused.
Ramon startled her when he put his napkin on the table and got to his feet. Had she said something wrong? He looked down at her, ran a fingertip along her face briefly, before laying his palm on her bare shoulder.
“Thanks for listening. Really. I’ll be right back.”
She watched him go, trying not to stare too hard at the amazing view of his tight, soccer-player’s ass encased in expensive wool and silk trousers. She shook her head.
He’s leaving, remember?
He said himself he looked forward to getting some structure back in his life. She sighed and emptied her wine glass. This proved harder than she had thought. She knew she wanted him, badly. But how to break through and prove it to him? A smile played at the corner of her mouth. She glanced around, put her napkin next to her plate and slid out of her seat.
***
Ramon’s entire body hummed with energy as he stared at himself in the men’s room mirror. His need to escape from her or risk his go slow vow to Jackson had become imperative. Her laugh, the line of her jaw, the tops of her breasts, her bare thighs as she crossed and uncrossed those amazing legs combined to make him nearly demented with desire. He sighed and leaned his hands on the granite counter. His cock could cut diamonds and his balls were starting to ache.
His natural tendency to go overboard with women, to fall madly, deeply in love with every single one of them, had gotten him in trouble before. But his publicist had always spun him as super playboy, master cocksman of the soccer world. It worked for all concerned.
But this was different. He refused to let this one get away, goddamnit. They had a connection beyond physical. It was as strong as the deep throbbing in his lower belly. He looked up into the mirror, straight into Gillian’s deep green eyes. There she stood, bold as brass in the men’s room, a wicked smile on her face. He turned.
“Look, um, I don’t think….” he started to say. But she reached out, hooked a finger through a belt loop and pulled him close. Before he could say another word, her arms were around his neck and her mouth covered his, her tongue caressing his lips. He moaned and gripped her closer, yanked her hair out of its flimsy clips, and buried his hands in the tangle of red that spilled over her shoulders.
He walked her backward, hands on her ass, holding her as tightly as possible. Their tongues collided, teeth clicking in urgency. She broke away to catch her breath, giving him access to the neck he’d been eying all night. He ran his tongue down a line from her jaw, caressing the porcelain length of it, keeping his hands fisted in her hair. When she looked at him again, her eyes shone.
“God, Gillian….” He gave into the mind blowing necessity to flick his tongue over her freckles. She smiled. “I knew it.” He muttered, as he buried his face in her neck again. “Tastes like cinnamon.”
She drew him back toward the long chaise lounge conveniently situated in the large, men’s room sitting area. He eased her down and slid the flimsy strap off her shoulder, cupped the exposed curve of her breast, so perfect and heavy in his hand. The proud, hard buds of her nipples begged for his mouth. He pulled one between his lips, sucking hard. His head buzzed. He tried not to rub against her body, afraid he’d shoot his load in the expensive trousers Jackson had sent up, like a high school kid in the back seat of his dad’s car.
“Wait, Ramon,” she whispered.
“I’m not waiting. Not another minute.”
“Good.” The one word made him shiver with anticipation. As their lips met again, a firm pounding on the door broke the moment. He propped himself on his hands, eyes locked on hers as the noise became more insistent. She raised an eyebrow and grinned. He regained his feet, reluctant, laughing as he helped her up and readjusted her dress.
“Let’s dance,” he muttered into her ear. He could drag this out, if it meant what he thought at the end. And the dance floor held all sorts of opportunities for touching her in public. Sore knee be damned, he grinned and pulled some ibuprofen from his pocket, dry swallowing them with hardly a grimace. I’m gonna show this woman the time of her life.
Chapter Five
The Castillo resort chain used the Las Vegas location as a flagship. All their party spots and restaurants around the world were based on the successes they managed in Sin City. The penthouse nightclub, Taboo, was no exception. By the time Gillian and Ramon entered, escorted past the very long line straight to their private booth, it teemed with well-dressed people.
The combination of desire, a deep rumbling of emotion, and the heat of all the bodies made her woozy. She let him lead her to the table. The bass from the latest house mix hip-hop settled deep in her chest.
They drank, kissed, and showed off for the crowd on the dance floor for a while as she worked herself into a horny state worthy of the best bodice ripper. The noise precluded that. And after about an hour, the sight of all the sweet young things angling for her date’s attention had pissed her off one time too many.
Granted, the man had no right to look so good. Dark trousers and a stark white, slightly textured shirt that had started out topped with a blue tie at dinner, caressed his amazing body like a glove. His glossy black hair had grown since the last time she’d seen him—on television—being carried off the field on a stretcher. It touched his collar, inviting her fingers. She used the dance floor as an excuse to grind against him, to thread her hands into the silky strands, teasing him, using her body and lips to entice.
They collapsed into their booth, sweaty from three songs worth of bump and grind.
“Ramon.” She had to shout over the din.
He leaned in, seeking her lips, but she pulled away.
“Can we go?”
He nodded so eagerly she wished she’d suggested it earlier. She followed him from the nightclub, into the crowded elevator, through the loud casino, and onto the sidewalk. Once out in the steamy summer night, surrounded by tourists, he crushed her to him. She let herself relax in his arms. There, outside the usual crush of Vegas bullshit, on the sidewalk, they connected.
She parted her lips, let his tongue invade, and relished the feel of his strong body. It had been so long since she’d shared anything of herself with a man. And something about this particular man seemed right, but terrifying to her wounded heart.
She stepped out of his strong embrace, needing some air, and starting to panic. It had gone too far. The whole thing felt like too much about pure physical satisfaction, in a town where that was easy to accomplish. She wanted more.
But this guy? He had one foot out the door already.
Ramon’s body was zinging, light as air. He’d never dreamed Gillian would instigate that bathroom scene. And their dance floor moments had been so hot. He’d stuffed the tie in his pocket, danced his ass off with her to the point his bad kne
e had started a low grade hum of dissatisfaction. And his cock still throbbed with unconsummated lust. But worse than that, he could picture himself with her, with her kid, staying for the duration. That nearly blinded him with terror.
Once they’d escaped the nightclub madhouse, his need to really kiss her, somehow prove his intentions, overcame his promise to Jackson. The evening had stopped being about a one-night-stand hours ago for him. As he held her in his arms, tasted her lips, his decision solidified in his head, his earlier panic subsiding. But he had no idea how to tell her. She’d think him weak, unwilling to even try to regain his former glory.
They strolled along the Strip, hand-in-hand, cooling off from the overheated atmosphere of the dance floor. He steeled his resolve. Stopping on the busy sidewalk, making the tourists and drunken assholes move around them, he cradled her face in his hands.
“Can I buy you a nightcap?”
She threw her head back with full-throated laughter and linked her hands in the small of his back, holding him close, making him even harder, were that possible. Her full lips touched his. “I think we’re a little beyond that, don’t you?”
He nodded, took her hand and led her through the throng, his entire soul suffused with happiness. He knew this had to be the right thing, for the very first time in his entire life.
***
People watched them as Ramon lead her through the large, tastefully decorated Castillo lobby. Her head buzzed, but she’d been drinking water for the last two hours. Where she was headed with this man, his body, his lips—that made her drunk with anticipation.
The mirrored elevator trebled her image from many angles as she wrapped around the amazing dark-skinned young man. His arms, chest, face, tongue, all combined to invade her senses. Her natural reserve drifted away. He hit the stop button on the panel while he kissed her, possessed her. His entire being intoxicated her. She tried not to moan too loudly.
