by Virna DePaul
He hardly noticed when Ruby walked away. Camille seemed rigid, and she even took a step back from him. “Why so tense, Pollert?” he asked.
“Who said I was tense?”
“Nobody. But you sure look it right now. Was it something I said?”
“I’m sorry, did you say something to me? I must’ve missed it.”
He closed the distance between them, slowly backing her up until they were in an alcove, hidden away from any possible prying eyes. “So we’re back to that. You’re still mad at me because of what happened in high school.”
She glanced at a spot over his shoulder. “I’m not mad. If anything, I’m grateful. You made me realize what type of man I’m interested in: the nice kind. And you’re not it.”
“I’m nice.” Heath pressed closer, until only a whisper of space was between them. He saw her eyes widen and her chest rise faster in quick breaths. He could just barely make out her hardening nipples against the thin cloth of her blouse, and he suddenly wanted to rip those buttons right off. Suck her nipple into his mouth until she moaned and panted. Pressing a hand against the wall above her head, he crowded her. A blush spread across her face, and it made the freckles on her skin stand out. He smiled like a cat who’d just caught its most juicy, delicious prey.
Whispering against her throat, he said, “Let me show you how nice I can be. Spend some time with me?”
She shuddered. He knew he’d gained a victory when she didn’t push him away, but instead arched her body closer to him. “Your bus leaves in 30 minutes.” Her voice was breathy, like she was trying to convince herself.
“I can make you come in five.” He kissed the side of her neck ever so lightly, inhaling her scent as his mouth traced a line down that exquisite curve.
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“Maybe there’s a good reason.” He’d lifted his head, and he watched as her eyes opened. “Don’t you want to find out for yourself?”
She pushed him away, but it was halfhearted. And because he didn’t want this to end—how could he let her go now, when she filled every one of his senses, when he wanted to press his cock against her soft belly and see her chest rise faster with every breath?—he leaned down and murmured, “I’m going to collect my debt now.”
Then he kissed her.
The small hands that had been pushing him away closed like flowers before opening again as she moaned in the back of her throat. She tasted like her cherry lip gloss, and Heath tapped her chin lightly. “Open for me,” he growled.
Her eyelashes fluttered like butterflies. And then she opened her mouth, and he took full possession. He pulled her closer until nothing separated them, and he wished desperately that she didn’t have her hair up. He wanted to curl his fingers in it and feel its silken weight against his palms. But instead he focused on her mouth, which he plundered with everything inside of him. He fucked her mouth with his tongue like he wanted to fuck her body, and he felt her tremble against him. His tongue stroked the inside of her cheeks before he sucked on her lower lip. She gave as good as she got, though, and when her tongue entered his mouth he felt his cock grow harder than iron. Watergirl knew how to kiss, and suddenly, the thought of any other man kissing her filled him with an intense kind of jealousy that he’d never experienced before.
Heath deepened the kiss, wanting to fill the marrow of her bones with his taste and touch. He wanted her to remember this moment for the rest of her life because he was certain it would be a memory—crystal clear and euphoric—that would haunt him for the rest of his.
Just as suddenly as it had begun, though, Camille pulled away. Her mouth was red and kiss-bruised, and he licked the taste of her from his lips.
Her eyebrows lowered and he braced himself for her anger.
Instead, she circled her hands around his neck. Lifting herself up on tiptoe, her breath a hot whisper against his ear, he could barely believe the words that came from her mouth: “You’re down to four minutes, Dawson.”
Chapter Six
Camille knew she shouldn’t be doing this. She shouldn’t be following Heath into an empty lounge, letting him kiss her and touch her and whisper dirty things in her ear. She shouldn’t let him lock them in and guide her to one of the couches—popcorn and beer bottles still on the tables from the game earlier—and she sure as hell shouldn’t be letting him grind his erection against her as they kissed and kissed so much that she felt lightheaded, intoxicated. Like she’d taken a dozen shots of tequila in a row and could barely feel her hands at this point.
The voice in her mind kept sniping at her: you shouldn’t do this. You shouldn’t do this. You shouldn’t do this. He says offensive things to you and he treats you like a sex object and he’s not remotely the type of guy who would fall under the Good Boyfriend section of the feminist handbook.
Yet when Heath groaned against her as she ran her hands down his back, Camille couldn’t be sorry. This was Heath Dawson: football player and ladies’ man and the guy she’d fantasized about since high school. He was the guy she wasn’t supposed to ever get. Unattainable for a regular girl like her—until now.
“Why are you doing this?” she found herself asking. “Our lockers were next to each other for a whole year, and you never noticed me before.”
He looked up. “I might have been an idiot back then, but I’m not anymore. I notice you. Your eyes. Your smile. And your hair smells so fucking good.” He buried his nose in her hair, and she almost laughed at the groan he emitted. “What do you use to make it smell so good?”
“Uh, shampoo?”
“Nice.” He kissed her ear, his tongue tracing its ridges, before he bit lightly on her earlobe.
She was losing control. She should push him away, tell him she didn’t want a hook-up like this, on some random couch after a football game like one of his cheerleader girlfriends. But she’d asked for this, and as he continued to kiss and lick her neck, she couldn’t find the strength to push him away. She wanted to bask in the physical sensations, the absolute pleasure of his touch.
If Heath Dawson kissed like this? She couldn’t imagine how he’d be when he was inside of her.
A part of her had thought he was seducing her simply to show her he could. But when he growled in her ear as she traced a hand under his shirt—a primal sound from the depths of his being—she knew this wasn’t some attempt to one-up her. He wanted her as much as she wanted him, and it was a dizzying thought. She, Camille Pollert, who he’d thought was a boy all those years ago, could drive a guy like him to lose his mind? And they hadn’t even gotten beyond second base.
Realizing she had just as much power over him as he did over her, she pushed against his chest. He shifted onto his back and she climbed up into his lap.
“Enjoying yourself, Watergirl?” He’d already sifted his hands through her hair, pulling the pins out, and it fell down her back. He took hold of a strand and wound it around his finger, drawing her close. “You like dominating your men?”
She ground against his cock, and he threw his head back. “Something like that. I like having you at my mercy.” Leaning down, she kissed him for a long moment, their tongues tangling and teeth nipping, moans and groans emitting from the both of them. They seemed to instinctually know what the other wanted and needed, and it was heady. His hands gripped her hips, sliding his thumbs underneath her blouse. He traced her hipbones. She kissed him harder.
The voice in her mind warning her away had faded. Instead, all she could think was that she hadn’t had sex in years and she wasn’t going to say no to it now. Why should she? She was an adult capable of a no-strings-attached relationship with a hot football player who kissed like a devil and whose body made her own body burn. She was already dripping wet, and he hadn’t even touched her below her hips.
When Camille moved to kiss his shoulders, trailing her hands up his shirt, he bucked beneath her. “I thought you wanted me to make you come in four minutes,” he said in a raspy voice. “By my count, we’re already
down three of those.”
“So make me come in one,” she replied. She didn’t know where this fearlessness had come from. She’d rarely even talked in bed but now she couldn’t stop saying things. “Put those hands of yours to good use, Dawson. Otherwise I’m gonna think you’re all talk and no play.”
Before Camille knew it, she was on her back again, Heath climbing over her. His eyes, dark and intent, gazed at her until she felt split wide open, like he could see into her very soul. Their gazes met as his hand massaged her breast through her blouse, plucking at her nipple. She made a noise in the back of her throat.
“That good for you, Pollert?”
She shifted. She wanted to get closer, so close that she wouldn’t know where her body ended and his began. “If you think a titty grab is going to get me off—”
He leaned down and sucked her nipple through her shirt. She squeaked, her body moving up toward him without even knowing she was doing it. He sucked her hard, even biting lightly, and her vision filled with stars. She’d never come this way, but there was a first time for everything.
That’s when she felt him unzipping her pants, and his long fingers delved into her panties. “God, you’re soaked for me. So wet for me and me alone.”
She murmured something incoherent, focusing solely on his touch. He parted her folds with his index finger and thumb, gently rubbing her wetness until she was coated in it. Maybe later she’d be embarrassed by how aroused she was, but right now, she was pure feeling. His fingers played with her until she groaned for him to touch her where she wanted to be touched. She lifted her hips, and to her dismay, he pulled his hand away.
Looking up, she watched as he licked his fingers, one by one. Her face heated, and she throbbed.
“I’ve been dreaming about how you’d taste.”
“You have?”
“Dreaming about putting my mouth on you and having to hold you down as I licked and sucked and ate you up like the most delicious dessert. You’d be hot and juicy, just for me.” Heath’s eyes had darkened, a slight flush across his cheekbones. “But for now, I want to watch you come with my fingers inside you.”
She moaned as he thrust his hand back into her soaked panties, just barely touching her clit. He slowly entered her with just his index finger, and she bucked. She wanted more. She wanted everything he could give her.
“Patience is a virtue.” He fucked her slowly, methodically, his finger bent at an angle so it rubbed the spot that would drive her wild. Camille couldn’t tear her gaze away from his, and they watched each other as he thrust first one finger, and then two, inside of her. He watched her every breath, listened to every moan, felt her body tremble as it edged toward climax.
“Please, please,” she murmured. She didn’t even know what she was begging for anymore.
He petted her side. Leaned down to kiss her as he sped up his fingers and then began rubbing her clit with his thumb. The pressure of his thumb against that bundle of nerves coupled with the fullness of his fingers inside of her—she couldn’t take it. But she moved her hips along with his rhythm until her orgasm built and built.
I’m going to die, she thought dazedly. And Heath Dawson will be my killer.
Then she exploded. He swallowed her scream, kissing her hard and continuing to finger fuck her. She shook against him, the pleasure so intense she was lightheaded as she began to come down from it.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” she kept mumbling.
Heath pulled his hand from her body, wiping it against his pants. “I’m not a god, honey, but thanks for the compliment,” he said lightly. Heath glanced at his watch. “Though that took a bit longer than four minutes.”
Silence reigned for a few moments. Camille didn’t know what to feel.
Then she did.
She was still high off of her orgasm, but now mortified that she’d given into her attraction to Heath so easily. Ten years had gone by, yet it had taken her less than twenty-four hours to fall under his spell again.
She pushed Heath until he stood up. She zipped up her pants and put her hair up as best she could. She couldn’t walk out of here looking like she’d just been thoroughly screwed—even though she obviously had.
“Ugh, where are my shoes?”
He pushed her shoes toward her with his foot.
She shoved her feet into her shoes, anxiety roiling in her gut.
What if Heath bragged about what had happened between them? What if everyone found out? What if she were branded as a slut and maybe even lost her chance to be hired as a photographer for the NFL, which was the whole reason she’d taken this job in the first place. So she could further her career. So she could achieve something she’d dreamed of for as long as she could remember.
Had she thrown that all away just to fuck Heath Dawson? She felt ill at the thought.
“Hey, hey, don’t freak out. Everything’s going to be fine, okay?” He took her hand, forcing her to look up at him.
She found herself surprised at his gentle tone. What had happened to the asshole who’d just wanted to rile her? Or the hotshot who only wanted to get into her pants? This side of Heath was entirely new, and she rather liked it.
“I’m good,” she replied. “We need to get going, though.”
He took hold of her lanyard, swiping one of the business cards she’d placed inside it. “I’ll go out first. And just so you know, this isn’t over.”
It isn’t? Somehow, she’d been expecting him to treat this like a casual hook-up, over and done with. Or rather, over now that he’d done her. She scrambled for words and for the strength to put some distance between them. “Heath, this was good, but it was also a mistake. I—”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t a mistake, Camille. And I’m calling pass interference.”
“What do you mean?”
“You distracted me and it took longer than four minutes.” He leaned down and lightly kissed her lips. “Gotta go for a new record.”
She rolled her eyes. “Right. It’s all about winning the game.”
His expression grew serious and he cupped her chin, then kissed her again, and this time he lingered until she was breathless. Finally, he pulled away and said, “This isn’t a game to me. But whatever it is, I’m gonna win it, just the same. And so are you.”
Eyes widening, she sucked in a breath.
With a smile, he saluted her, stuffing the business card in his back pocket. “Until we meet again, Pollert.”
Chapter Seven
Camille Pollert, the business card read. Photographer. A clean, straightforward logo marked the left side, and her website, phone number and email were printed on the right. Heath couldn’t help but be impressed. Watergirl had certainly moved up in the world since he’d last seen her, going beyond publishing yearbook photos of him with Jason’s face in his crotch for all of the school to laugh over to taking photos at NFL games.
“Earth to Dawson.” Kyle waved a hand in front of Heath’s face. “You there, dude?”
“Yep, I’m here.” He stuffed the card into his back pocket. For some reason, he didn’t want the guys to know about Camille. To ask him questions he didn’t want to answer. Or rather, didn’t know how to answer.
“Kyle here is having a party at his house later. You game?” Alec took a swig of his beer.
After arriving back in Savannah, the three of them had stopped at a bar for a drink. Usually there was always some party or another thrown after a game, and usually Heath was happy to drink and carouse with his fellow players. More often than not the evening ended with him taking a girl—or two—to a hotel room. He never got sloppy drunk, but he wasn’t averse to getting buzzed and enjoying some female company, either.
But tonight…tonight his mind wandered instead to the curvaceous figure of the woman he’d been kissing earlier that night. Kissing and caressing and… He stifled an internal groan of pleasure. Camille was gorgeous, her skin like silk, and she smelled so damn good that just thinking about her sweet frag
rance made him hard again. He hadn’t gotten to see her completely naked, but he knew she’d be spectacular. Hers was the type of body a man could sink into as he fucked her, her head thrown back as she tightened around his cock.
What made her so intoxicating, though, was that she had no idea how beautiful she was. On some level, he suspected she still thought of herself as the boyish, awkward girl from high school, and he hated that he’d contributed to making her feel the slightest bit insecure about herself.
Thank God she hadn’t lost that spark he’d glimpsed—that spark that had led her to publish that infamous photo in the yearbook. In all honesty, he really should thank her for doing it. Not only had it given him a good laugh, but it’d brought everything into perspective. Reminded him that he wasn’t infallible and that life was too short to keep everything serious. His dad had driven into his mind that he had to focus solely on getting ahead, on being the best player in the game, on earning those scholarships. But Camille’s prank had reminded Heath that life could be random—and hilarious—at a time he’d desperately needed it.
He thought about how she tasted, all of the little noises she’d made when he touched her and caressed her. How wet she’d been before he’d really stroked her. How she’d writhed and moaned and squirmed beneath him. Her responses had been earthy and honest, and he hadn’t had a lover as uninhibited as her in a very long time.
“Man, when’s the last time we’ve ever seen Dawson here this out of it?” Alec asked Kyle with a laugh. “Either he’s high as a kite or he’s thinking about how he almost got fined for being the last one on the bus.”
“My bet is that he’s dreaming of how Coach yelled at him today. Hey Dawson, do you get off when Coach yells at you? Because you sure do make him madder than a wet hen all the damn time.” Kyle finished off his own beer and motioned at a waitress to bring him another.
