by Jen Doyle
Or not.
“Well, fine,” she snapped right back. “I don’t want to talk, either.” She walked over to him. Nudged his leg over a little so that she could stand right there in front of him; right up against him, forcing him to lean back against the wall and look up at her.
“What are you doing?” he asked warily.
“Luckily,” she answered, “my knees aren’t the problem.” Then she dropped down to them, her hands going to his belt.
He stopped her, grabbing her hand forcefully enough to leave a mark. “This is not a good idea,” he said. “I’m not in the mood to be nice.”
Looking up at him through her lashes, she gave it right back. “Did I ask you to be?”
He glared down at her. There was a beat of silence, then two, before he said, “I want my mouth on you tonight. I want all of you.”
She went still. It wasn’t like she didn’t want that. It was just that it was a very big step for her—it was a level of intimacy and trust that she guarded closely. And she was afraid that if she said yes, he’d see it as a commitment she wasn’t ready to make, because he knew exactly what he was demanding. He was well aware it went beyond the physical.
And yet she couldn’t deny that she wanted this with him. As foolish as it made her, she wanted everything.
The second she nodded he grabbed her face in his hands and hauled her up against him. The kiss, as he’d warned, was not nice. It wasn’t tender. It was violent and brutal and on the edge of painful. She’d never wanted anything more.
Her hands went back to the waistband of his pants and she fumbled with the button and zipper, suddenly very tight against him. Just as she managed to get it open, he roughly took her by the shoulders and set her back. “Stand up.”
Though she wasn’t usually one to follow orders, she was finding that he was the exception. She did as he said. His eyes took her in as his hand went to the end of the wraparound belt. With one pull, the dress fell open. Surging forward, he gripped her hips as his mouth closed over her breast. His tongue glided over the rough lace of her bra, an appreciative growl rumbling through him. Or maybe that was her, humming with anticipation—then crying out when his teeth closed down over her nipple and tugged.
Knees buckling, she dropped back to the floor, pulling his pants down over his hips. Breathing heavily as he continued to run his hands up and over and around her breasts, she finally freed him, moaning as his erection twitched against her tongue. Then his hands were in her hair as he thrust inside her mouth.
He was on the edge; she could feel it. Taste it. But he pushed her away before she could take him over. He held her at arm’s length until he got his breathing back under control and then stood up, taking her with him. Dress hanging open, she watched as he drank her in, for the first time seeing that she wore thigh-high stockings with lavender lace trim that matched her panties—a thong, as he would soon find out—and bra.
“Sweet Jesus,” he murmured, trailing his hand past her knee.
She was already soaking wet when his fingers skimmed over the silk of her panties. Her breath came in shallow little gasps as he pulled the dress down over her shoulder, her arm, as he guided her by the small of her back until she was up against the wall. He leaned in, kissing her; pinning her in place as the dress, still hanging off her right arm, didn’t seem to want to come free. He was pulling at it and twisting it and it just kept getting caught. With an irritated little grunt, she tried to shake it—
Her eyes flew open when she realized that was by design rather than mistake. “What are you doing?” she asked as he took her now thoroughly bound wrist and raised it over her head.
He gave her a devilish, unapologetic grin. “Not being nice.” He took her other hand and raised it over her head.
Looking up above her, she gave a nervous laugh. “The chin-up bar? Really?”
“Careful, Donelli,” he said, utter concentration on his face as he secured her wrists to the bar. “I have some records of my own for you to break.”
“Like, um, what?” It was hard to worry too much about what kind of plans he might have when he was skimming her neck with his lips and tongue, when he hooked his thumbs in the sides of her panties and let them fall down to the floor. He bent down to help her step out of them, his hand closing around one ankle as he gently lifted her foot up, then the other.
“Guess you’ll have to see,” he said, humming against the inside of her thigh as he spoke.
And then he was pulling her up to him, his hands molding over her hips as though her body was a chalice and he was dying of thirst. The stubble of his chin was rough against her as his tongue lashed over her clit. She lost her footing entirely, trembling and twisting with need. His tongue and teeth and, oh God, fingers, were teasing and tempting her, bringing tears to her eyes as she ached for—began to plead for—release.
His mouth vibrated against her as he laughed, lifting her legs up over his shoulders and tilting her back, controlling her entirely. Holding on to the bar so tightly that she was afraid it might break, she was begging and bucking and trying so desperately to make him allow her to just come, damn it, that when he pulled away abruptly—just faded back, letting her legs fall away from him as he let her go—she screamed in frustration.
Breaths coming in ragged gasps, body limp yet trembling, the only thing that kept her from just hanging there was the death grip she had on the bar. That, and the dress that bound her to it.
Head so heavy she could barely lift it, she looked up to see Nate staring down at her, his hands braced against the wall on either side of her head. He was still wearing the T-shirt and his pants were back up around his hips, though unbuttoned and resting loosely. He was, to put it simply, gorgeous. That she stood there bound in front of him, his plaything in four-inch heels, thigh-high stockings, a bra and a pearl necklace—should have made her feel cheap and used.
But it didn’t. She felt powerful. Beautiful.
Stunning.
Smiling slowly, she leaned forward and let the tip of her tongue slowly circle his nipple through the cotton of his T-shirt. Voice hoarse and ragged from all that begging she’d just done, she said, “So, Hawkins, you just going to stand there? Or are you planning to fuck me?”
He surged forward, hitching her legs up around his waist and twisting her. Slamming her back against the doorjamb, her spine aligning with its frame. Though she wanted to wrap her arms around him, she had to make do with clamping her forearms against his neck as he pushed his pants the rest of the way down. And then he was inside her. Her legs a vise around his hips, she gave as good as she got, tilting her hips and brushing against the base of his cock with every thrust he gave. She came in a frenzy of cries. He followed quickly, his head falling against her forehead as he gave a shuddering groan.
“Holy Christ,” he finally said.
After another few minutes he reached up to untie her. Then he cradled her in his arms and carried her to the bed.
Chapter Twenty-One
For the third morning in a row, Nate’s first waking thoughts centered around Dorie. He was alone, like he’d been after their first night together—was that seriously only three nights before?—but unlike Friday morning, he could feel her presence.
He rolled over onto his back, his hands going behind his head as his eyes caught sight of the chin-up bar, just past the closet door.
He had no idea what had come over him. He’d been possessed. Hell, he’d wanted to possess, which was ironic since Dorie was the last woman on earth who’d allow it. And yet last night that’s exactly what she’d done. She’d let him take everything he wanted; she’d opened herself up and let him in.
Of course, she’d also made it abso-fucking-lutely clear to Bobby and Lou that she wasn’t planning on sticking around. Maybe if they hadn’t gone immediately into the whole contract thing he would have ha
ndled it better.
Okay, fine. New day, new game.
Nate pulled on a pair of sweats and went to find Dorie. She was in the kitchen—not a big surprise. What did surprise him enough so that he stopped short was that the T-shirt she was wearing didn’t say anything about Boston. It was a Chicago jersey; with his name and number on the back.
Not that he hadn’t seen a thousand other people wear that shirt. Though it had taken some getting used to way back when, it no longer shocked him. But to see it on her, to see her wearing his name...
He’d covered the distance to her, wrapped her in his arms and buried his head in her hair before he even realized he was moving.
She laughed and leaned back into him. “I hope you like eggs and bacon, because whoever grocery shops around here hasn’t done it in a while.”
That was one hundred percent true. “I tend to order in a lot.” Leaving one arm in place to hold her against him, he let his other hand travel down the front of her, brushing between her legs on his way back up and underneath the jersey.
Turning in his arms, she laid her head against his chest. Now it was her arms going around him, her hands cupping his ass—none too gently—and pulling him up against her. “So what’s on the agenda for today? More ordering in?” Then she reached down the front of his sweats and lightly slid her hand down the length of him.
And somehow, despite having sex more times with her in the past several days than, possibly, he’d had in years, he was ready to go again. Up until a few days ago, he would have said that wasn’t physically possible. Yet here they were.
He closed his eyes and gave in to the sensations rippling through him. For just a minute. Okay, maybe two, he thought, as he bent down to kiss her, her lips so sweet and soft that he could happily spend his life tasting them.
“I wish,” he said. Maybe groaned, although for a second he did wonder if perhaps she was just determined to get in as much as she could before the deadline she’d set for them to be over. “But there’s another meeting.”
The sigh she gave was just dramatic enough for him to realize that she was neither surprised nor overly disappointed. “Wait, let me guess... The mayor? The president? Or maybe just Brad Pitt, saying he wants to do a movie about you.”
The mayor, maybe. The other two, however, he was pretty sure that Mark would have been beating down the...
He belatedly realized that she was laughing.
“The scariest thing about that?” she said, a huge smile on her face as she elbowed him away from her and turned back to tend to the eggs and bacon. “You actually had to think about it.”
“I didn’t—” He started to protest, but then he started laughing, too. Giving her a little space, he went about the business of setting the table, pouring the coffee and OJ... All the little domestic-type things that he was used to doing alone. That he didn’t want to be doing alone any longer. That he didn’t want to think about because his throat turned scratchy and raw. With an effort, he lightly said, “Just for the record, I’ve only met the president twice. And Brad Pitt doesn’t know me from Adam. Now Ben Affleck is another story entirely...”
The sharp laugh she gave was full of both delight and resignation. “I don’t even want to know if you’re joking.” She shut off the burners and brought the skillet and plate of bacon over to the table. Sitting down, she placed the napkin in her lap as she let him serve her. “So, give. Who’s the meeting with today?”
“The Watchmen. The GM and coach.”
Bacon halfway to her mouth, she sighed. With a faint smile on her face, she shook her head. “Of course it is.”
* * *
This time they walked. Or, rather, snuck out the back, jumped in a cab that they took for two blocks, and then Nate gave the driver a tip that was about five times the actual fare and they got out and walked the ten or so blocks to Mark’s office. Although they did get a few double takes along the way and there were at least five ‘Is that...?’ head turns as they walked by, no one stopped them and, Dorie tried to tell herself, it was just like any other walk she’d ever taken. Except not.
She gave a deliberate shake of her head. She was beginning to understand why run-of-the-mill fun was so hard to come by. “This isn’t what it’s like in Inspiration, is it?” she said.
Nate laughed softly. He didn’t question what she meant by “this.” “No. Not quite.”
When he didn’t say anything else, she asked, “Is it hard?”
Though his hand tightened briefly around hers, he didn’t answer right away. He waited until they were halfway across the street before he said, “I can’t say it’s my favorite part of the job, but let’s be honest. I get paid a lot of money to do something I love. How many people can say that?”
She had a feeling he had no idea that his hand had betrayed him or that the smile he gave her didn’t carry to his eyes.
They window-shopped their way down the street and it didn’t take nearly long enough. Coming with him had been a much bigger issue than she’d realized. She wanted more of this; more of him. She hadn’t expected to feel so...happy. In a euphoric, walking-on-air kind of way. It even made her start to think that maybe this could actually work. She’d been able to put the finishing touches on a grant proposal this morning while he’d watched a video of the pitchers on his new team, and later today they’d be visiting the library. So, hello, having her cake and eating it, too. Look at her being all professional and the supportive girlfriend at the same time.
Fling. Not girlfriend. It was still just a fling. But yes, she was pretty sure she could do this for at least a few weeks.
Until the moment the elevator doors opened up onto the reception area of Mark’s agency. And there, right opposite the doors, was a larger-than-life—honestly, it was at least fifteen feet tall—copy of the Vanity Fair picture. It took her breath away. Literally. She felt her chest tighten. And she suddenly felt faint. Very, very faint. She may have actually squeaked.
Nate’s arms went around her. “Shit. I...I totally forgot about that. That’s... Just... Nothing. It’s nothing.”
She was shaking her head. Shaking everything, her body trembling uncontrollably. “I don’t...I’m sorry. I just...I forgot. I forgot who you were.” Though she couldn’t believe she was capable of it, especially given the men she’d played poker with the other night and the fact that she was now aware of what it meant to have to evade the press.
“Don’t say that.” His words came out in a whispered rush. Hands gripping her shoulders, he was suddenly bending down so he could look her in the eye. “You know me, Dorie. You know who I am. That’s just a picture. That’s all it is.”
A bark of hysteria-tinged laughter escaped her mouth. “Right,” she murmured, trying to get her breathing under control. “That’s all.”
Before he could do anything to try to convince her further, there was the soft sound of a door swishing open. “Mr. Hawkins?” a woman said, her footsteps drawing near. She stopped abruptly when she realized that there was, well, a moment happening. Not wanting to draw any more attention to herself than she’d already done, Dorie turned her back on the woman and tried to step away. But Nate wouldn’t let her. He’d moved his hand from her shoulder down to her hand, his firm grip making it clear he had no intention of letting her escape.
“Jacqueline,” Nate said. “Hi. They, uh...They made you come in today?”
With a deep breath or four, Dorie regained enough control to turn back—just in time to see the surprise cross over his face.
Jacqueline gave him one of those ‘You’re kidding me, right?’ looks. Except that he was, in fact, Nate Hawkins—not “just Nate”—and Jacqueline, with her cute little skirt and perky blouse, was clearly a woman used to attracting a man’s attention. So what in ordinary human standards would have been a look to kill, came off more as an if-you-weren’t-so-beautiful-I-mig
ht-have-to-hurt-you-but-since-you-are-who-you-are-we’re-going-to-let-it-go type thing.
She smiled as she said, “We’re here whenever you need us to be.”
“Christ,” Nate muttered, bewildered enough that Dorie truly believed he had no idea that when he said jump, people didn’t just ask how high, they killed to be the ones who had the chance. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”
“Hawk!”
They all turned to see Mark striding down the hall, a huge smile on his face. He clasped Nate on the shoulder, then bent down to give Dorie a kiss on the cheek. “Good to see you again, Dorie. Quite the dinner last night, huh?”
“Um, yes,” Dorie answered, glad that his appearance meant that Nate had let go of her hand. Her now clammy, lifeless hand. “That it was.”
But now Mark’s hand was at the small of her back, propelling her down a hallway full of other larger-than-life-size, equally iconic photographs as he chattered on. There were other athletes, actors and actresses...a former president.
“Seriously?” Her eyes found Nate’s and he quickly looked away, his face unreadable.
His only response was a muttered, “Christ, Mark, shut up,” after several minutes’ worth of the agent going on about Nate’s talents, including a lot of emphasis on him being their number one client. Or, to be specific, “numero uno cliente.” Nate just rolled his eyes.
They came to a large glassed-in conference room in which stood a young woman. More conservatively dressed than Jacqueline, she was talking emphatically to Pete, whose benign and slightly amused expression didn’t quite match up with the tension in his arms, clasped tightly around his chest. Both Pete and the woman turned when the door quietly opened, Pete with relief and the woman with, well...apprehension, maybe. A little bit of anger, possibly. The thought passed through Dorie’s head that this might be another ex-girlfriend, but Nate’s reaction was entirely unexpected.
“Alexis,” he said, more relieved than anything else, although there appeared to be a little apprehension on his side, as well. He moved forward, though, giving her a hug that was almost brotherly. “I’m sorry. I had no idea that...” He took a few steps back and shook his head. “That you were fired. Because of me.”
