Sure Shot

by Sarina Bowen

  It’s a view that can make any girl feel small and lonely. In New York, everyone is Cinderella. There’s always a party going on somewhere that you weren’t invited to.

  “Would you like a glass of red?” Tank asks me. “Isn’t that how it all began?” He stands at the kitchen counter, uncorking a bottle of wine with a confident twist of his muscled wrist.

  “Sure,” I say as he pours two glasses.

  I watch the burgundy liquid mold to the goblets’ shape. Then my dark prince lifts both glasses and stalks toward me at the windows. “Happy Birthday, Bess” he says, his eyes roving my face.

  “Thank you.” I take a glass, and my hand only shakes a little. Our glasses touch in a silent toast, and goosebumps rise on my arms as I hold his gaze and take a sip.

  “How does it feel to turn twenty-one?” he whispers.

  Since I’m taking a sip, the joke catches me off guard, and I swallow too fast. “Who’s a funny guy?” I say, trying not to cough.

  He gives me a smile that belongs in the bedroom scene of a Hollywood movie. In fact, everything Tank does has a sexual awareness to it. The way he walks across a room? Pure sex. The way he holds his wine glass? He might as well be cupping a breast.

  I’d blame my dry spell, but I’ve always looked at him with my tongue practically hanging out. Always. I’m ashamed to say that I tore one of his underwear ads out of a magazine and pinned it to the refrigerator in my first Detroit apartment.

  He ruined me for other men, I think. Maybe that’s why I’m still single.

  “Serious question,” he says. “If you could snap your fingers and rewind nine years, would you like to be twenty-one again?”

  “I don’t know.” Not that I’m thinking clearly right now. “There are things I’d like to change about my life. But I’ve been lucky, you know? It would be a crime to complain.”

  “Would it?” he asks softly.

  “Absolutely.” I take another sip of wine and then set the glass down on a nearby table, so that I don’t guzzle it.

  Tank sets his glass beside mine, and the moment crackles with tension.

  When I gather my courage and raise my eyes, he’s studying me. Slowly, he lifts a hand, threading it into my hair, catching the back of my head, and angling my face to look up at his handsome one.

  Another man might say something self-deprecating to break the tension. But not Tank. He regards me with a gaze that’s full of expectation. It doesn’t ask permission. He simply dips his head, until his mouth finds the juncture of my neck and shoulder. Then he tastes my skin with firm lips and a sultry tongue.

  At the contact, my body flashes first with chills, and then with heat. This ought to seem incredibly weird. We’ve had two minutes of conversation and barely a sip of wine, and now he’s sucking on my neck. But Tank has always occupied an alternative reality—a foreign place where intimate touch is the native language of the land.

  I’d forgotten this place existed, but it’s good to be back. As he draws me closer, kissing his way up my neck, the scent of his shaving soap washes over me. And my body remembers what to do. Leaning closer, I grip his polo shirt so that he can’t get away before I can take another whiff.

  “Take it off,” he says between worshipful kisses.

  “What?” I gasp, because my executive function is starting to evaporate under the heat of his mouth.

  “My shirt,” he grunts. “Take it off. I need your hands on my body.”

  In the ordinary world, nobody gives me orders. I’ve arranged my entire life around my independence. But here in Tank’s world, up is down and down is up. Before he even finishes speaking, I’m unbuttoning his polo shirt and lifting it off.

  “That’s a girl,” he whispers, and the praise makes my heart beat faster. And now Tank’s chest and I are reacquainted. My hands slide over the ridges of his abs, and I’m just settling in to explore further when he cups my chin and takes my mouth in a kiss.

  I go still with surprise. After all, it’s been nine years since anyone kissed me with such easy arrogance. It was just the same on that fateful night when I turned twenty-one. His first kiss stunned me with its boldness.

  But then his firm lips soften against my mouth, and I’m already pressing back, looking for more. Oh, right. This man has a black belt in kissing. He tilts his head to draw me closer, and I open for him like I always did before. His tongue sweeps against mine as he tastes me.

  Suddenly I’m twenty-one again, and totally bowled over by Tank’s tongue in my mouth. It happened just like this. Red wine, followed by sudden kisses in a hotel room. Strong arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me in. A wide palm on my ass, nudging me nearer to the column of his erection.

  I’m all in. I don’t try to resist him. I can’t think of a reason why I should. I can’t think at all.

  His kiss grows deeper and more demanding. My poor little body puts up no defenses. I melt against him. My head is full of peaceful static. I’m perfectly content to stay here in this quiet place, lip-locked and breathing in sync with the best lover I’ve ever known.

  But eventually he breaks off our kiss and lifts me.

  “Tank,” I whisper as my feet leave the ground. This is my last chance to be rational.

  “Yeah,” he grunts, carrying me toward what I can only assume is the bedroom.

  “What are we doing?”

  He doesn’t answer for a moment, possibly because I weigh a few more pounds than I did at twenty-one and he needs to concentrate. He drops me on the bed and answers the question. “What I always do, Bess. Just seeing what I can get away with.”

  He settles beside me on the mattress, scrutinizing my heaving chest and the way my dress rides up on my thighs. His body flexes as he leans over me—sculpted by intense physical conditioning, plus a generous helping of genetic good fortune.

  And I forget why I asked the question at all.

  Six

  The Cave Man in Action

  Tank

  Bess stares up at me with wide-eyed wonder. But a second ago, she’d tried to call me on my bullshit. What are we doing?

  Like I even know. Like I ever know. She might’ve thought I’d seemed wise at twenty-three, but I’d been a stupid kid with three skills—hockey, smack talk, and sex.

  Now we’re having another go at that last thing. I feel wild tonight, and I know Bess feels it, too. I’ve spent the last couple of weeks trapped deep inside my head. I want out, and I know just how to get there.

  “Kick off your shoes,” I growl. “Let’s go.”

  For a split second, I think she’s going to roll her eyes and tell me to fuck off. She pushes me out of the way and stands.

  My heart drops.

  But instead of leaving this madman’s hotel room, she takes my face in two hands and kisses me sweetly. And then? She toes out of her shoes.

  Hallelujah. I lay another scorching kiss on her. We were always so good together. And maybe it’s like riding a bike, because the kiss goes from zero to sixty in under six seconds. I push my tongue into her mouth to show her just what I need. And her hands skate across my chest as she lets me know that she needs it, too.

  I lift the little dress she’s wearing and shove her panties down. Bess moans, and unbuttons my khaki shorts with quick fingers.

  I’d weep with joy if it wouldn’t slow down the action. Instead, I yank down her zipper, remove her dress, and toss it aside. And—holy hell—I’ve got a hot, naked woman in my arms. Her face is flushed, her lips bitten by my kisses. And the expression in her eyes is one I haven’t seen from anyone in years. Pure lust.

  “Goddamn, honey,” I babble, my gaze sweeping down her lovely body. “Thirty looks hot on you.” I skim a grateful hand down her milky skin, my fingertips just brushing the trimmed red hair at the top of her sex.

  “Fuck,” she gasps.

  The shocked, dirty word makes me absolutely throb. I yank my shorts down, finishing the job she’d started, kicking off my briefs after that. “Lie down,” I practically snarl, my
self-control paper thin.

  Bess steps back to do exactly as I say, and I feel another rush of gratitude, followed immediately by a wave of white-hot desire as she lays herself out for me on the white duvet.

  It’s like being handed a full platter of food after a year of near starvation. I don’t even know where to begin. I prowl the bed, lean down, and take one of her pert nipples into my mouth.

  “Oh, Tank,” she moans, arching off the bed, threading her fingers into my hair.

  The sound makes me ache. I can’t even remember the last time I heard my name as a moan. I’m trembling now as I kiss my way across her chest, swirling my tongue around her other perfect breast, taking the pebbled tip against my tongue.

  My cock is as stiff as a pipe, bobbing heavily against the bed as I lick and kiss and nibble my way down her body. I part her legs with shaking hands and then drop my mouth unceremoniously onto her pussy. She sobs my name again, and I’m drunk with the taste of her on my tongue, and the tug of her hands in my hair.

  This is everything I forgot I needed. I bury my face between her thighs, losing myself in the clutch of her legs and the slide of my tongue against her slick heat until she’s shaking and sobbing my name.

  She has no idea at all what this means to me. I haven’t felt desire like this in years. Haven’t been desired in years.

  When I can’t stand it any longer, I hoist my hungry, desperate body over hers. I grip her hips, knowing that if I hesitate, we’ll both just think too much. I slide inside her tight heat, my jaw clenching against the sudden, unbearable heaven. We inhale sharply and in unison.

  Propping myself on my elbows, I look down at Bess. She’s staring right back up at me as if she’s just woken from a dream, her breath fast and warm against my face. We both blink at each other as if we can’t quite believe our luck.

  Being here again with Bess? Miraculous. I’m overwhelmed by all the intimate, familiar details of this moment. The texture of her hair against my skin is just the same. She still has freckles on her chest, and I want to kiss each one of them. She still has a strange, round scar on the inside of her arm.

  That look on her face is the biggest miracle of all, though. She’s just as stunned as I am. We’re the two craziest, luckiest people in the world right now. And it makes me feel wild.

  “Hold on tight,” I grunt like the caveman I’ve become. “Gonna be a rough ride.”

  Breathing hard, eyes still locked on mine, Bess reaches up and grips my shoulders. And I finally let myself go. My hips draw back on their own volition, and I begin to move.

  This is a moment that deserves to be savored. But there’s no way either one of us could manage to go slow. Within seconds I’m picking up the pace, until I’m thrusting like a stud horse—more power than finesse. Our mouths join and our teeth click and our tongues tangle. It’s rough and graceless, but I’ve never been more alive than I am right now.

  The last nine years never happened. There’s only heat and Bess’s knees clamping around my eager hips. She tastes like red wine and sex and everything I ever wanted in my whole goddamn life.

  She’s on the same page, straining against me, boobs bouncing, hips lifting to meet mine stroke for stroke. She takes a deep, hungry breath and then gives me exactly what I need—a high, keening moan, followed by the telltale clench of her pussy around my rock-hard cock.

  That’s what finishes me—the utter joy of making Bess come. My balls tighten, and I experience a bright, energetic wave of jubilation as I pour myself into her quaking body. Once. Twice. Hell, I need one last hard thrust to wring myself out. And then I collapse like a sweaty dead man, sliding halfway off her body and onto the bed.

  “Holy shit,” I gasp. I let out an exhausted chuckle.

  “Holy shit,” she echoes, her chest rising and falling like she’s just run the hundred-meter dash.

  My brain is full of static. I smile as I close my eyes and stroke Bess’s skin, enjoying the rhythm of her heart beneath my palm.

  “Tank,” Bess whispers before I’m ready to talk.

  “Hmm?”

  “Is this a terrible time to say that I was sorry to hear about your divorce?”

  A bark of laughter escapes me. “It’s as good a time as any.” I try to slow down my breathing. I roll my head and glance at her pink-cheeked face. “You’re not feeling guilty right now, right? If you are, don’t.”

  “Okay,” she says, sounding unsure.

  “Really, don’t,” I repeat. “You have no idea how badly I needed that just now.” I raise my head to look at her. The room is lit only by the city lights outside, but it’s enough to see the uncertainty in her eyes.

  “I would never want to make your life more complicated,” she says softly.

  “You couldn’t possibly,” I insist. She doesn’t know the magnitude of the gift she just gave me. I haven’t been to bed with a woman who didn’t resent me in years. I’d forgotten how it even felt to use my body for pleasure and nothing more. But I can’t explain all that to her. I won’t ruin the bright, shiny moment we just had. “Please don’t make me talk about my divorce right now.”

  “Okay,” she says, smiling. “Sorry.”

  I shake my head before settling it on the pillow again, willing to forgive her anything. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure. Anything.”

  “Why did you ghost me before? When I played for New York. You just dropped me, and I never knew why.”

  She’s silent for a moment. And then she asks, “Nine years later, does it even matter?”

  “I guess not.” I give her half a shrug, like I don’t care. “I’ve always been curious. But you don’t owe me an explanation.”

  She sighs. “I was twenty-one, Tank. I was young and green and afraid to screw up my life.”

  “I get it,” I say quickly. “I wasn’t much of a catch back then.” I’d put hockey first.

  “No—you don’t understand,” she argues. “Don’t ask a girl for an explanation and then interrupt her.”

  “Okay. Sorry. Carry on.”

  “This is actually embarrassing,” she whispers. “Nine years later, I still don’t like thinking about it. But something happened at work.”

  “Hey.” I put a hand in the center of her smooth tummy. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “No, it’s okay.” She tucks her head against my shoulder. “Do you remember Jane Pines? She covers golfers and tennis players.”

  “Sure.” She’d been Kassman’s partner at the time. “She left the firm, right? But I think she’s still in the business.”

  “Yeah. Well, she called me into her office nine years ago.” Bess takes a deep breath. “She told me that there was gossip about you and me.”

  I yank my head off the pillow again. “No shit? I never talked about you at all. You asked me not to.”

  Now it’s her turn to shrug as if it didn’t matter. But I’m getting the feeling that it did. “I don’t know who talked. But we weren’t that careful. You rented an apartment with other players, right? They picked up the landline sometimes when I’d call.”

  Oh hell. It had never occurred to me that Bess might get in trouble at work. “What did Pines tell you? Did she say you had to drop me like a hot potato?”

  “She told me that if I slept with the athletes, my reputation would be ruined. That nobody would take me seriously. It’s not the same for women in this business. Her exact words were—‘What do you call a woman who takes money from the man she’s banging? You call her a whore.’”

  “Jesus Christ,” I hiss. “That’s harsh. It’s not like you were my agent.”

  “Oh, please. My boss was your agent. I knew Pines was right.”

  It’s dark in the room, and I can almost feel her blushing from embarrassment. And it pisses me off on her behalf.

  “She wasn’t right,” I scoff. “It wasn’t her place to lecture you like that.”

  “Wasn’t it?” she argues. “I didn’t enjoy hearing it, but she did me a favor. I didn�
��t want that reputation, Tank. I needed to be taken seriously. And that’s why I told you that I was too busy to see you anymore. If that seemed like a brushoff, I apologize.”

  “You could have explained. I would have understood.” Even as I say the words, I wonder if they’re true. I was an arrogant little fuck at twenty-three.

  “I was so embarrassed,” she whispers. “And so young. And more naïve than you can imagine. It was my first real job, and I needed to do well. I just…”

  “All right. Don’t sweat it now. Not after that spectacular encore performance.” I lean over and kiss her quickly.

  She laughs, and her tummy quakes against my hip.

  “Should I find our wine glasses?”

  “I need a shower so badly right now.”

  “That’s a fine idea,” I say, swinging my legs off the bed. “Step right this way.”

  Seven

  Employee of the Month

  Bess

  I’d been expecting to shower alone, since that’s how I usually do it. I need a minute to process what’s happened and to put my game face back on.

  But Tank follows me into the walk-in shower, whistling and gloriously naked. He turns a dial, and water begins to rain down from a luxury showerhead the size of a large pizza. Then Tank pulls me under the warm spray with him and kisses me again.

  My game face is probably destroyed forever. Who could spend an evening under this man’s hard body, drinking down his kisses, and then manage to look rational afterward? Not me, that’s for sure.

  I’ve been very reckless tonight. I’ve violated my cardinal rule—no sleeping with players. And the man is still married—at least on paper. Nobody can ever know about this.

  His hands are tender as he slides the soap up my back and kisses my neck. I know I’m just his rebound girl. Tonight is a fluke—a fantastical moment brought to us by luck and memories. We’re both feeling a little wistful and lost, right?

  He pushes me up against the tile wall and sighs into my mouth. “You’re just what I needed tonight,” he whispers, as if reading my thoughts. “Happy Birthday.”