Game On

by Snow, Wylie

  But this wasn’t a movie. It was Clara Bean: Diary of a Selfish Little Girl featuring a character who still had a career-ending secret and a self-conscious unawareness of her own body odor. And as much as she wanted to throw herself in his arms, she wasn’t really that kind of girl. Instead, she gave a nod and said, “Biscuit.”

  “Bean,” he smirked. “What took you so long?”

  Her heart leapt.

  “The flower is starting to wilt.”

  She took it and smiled, touched he came and was sweet enough to think flowers. “It’s lovely, thank you.” Watching his expression, she brought the flower to her nose and inhaled. His expression didn’t change, aside from looking inordinately pleased with himself, which could only mean he didn’t know.

  She sighed with relief. “My bags were last off.” Thank God, thank God, thank God she’d taken the time to freshen up. “And thank you for coming. It’s a lovely surprise, but I could have met you at the hotel.”

  Luc put a knuckle under her chin and tipped her head back. Clara white-knuckled the flower stem as he dipped to kiss her. He paused, inches from her mouth. “I couldn’t wait that long.”

  It was a soft, undemanding kiss, dry and simple yet bursting with promise and things unsaid. Clara pressed a hand to her stomach to keep the butterflies in check.

  “Get a room,” someone heckled.

  “Yes, let’s,” Luc whispered.

  The taxi ride to the hotel pushed her to new levels of self-control. Clara looked out the window, tried to absorb the city, the buildings, the honking traffic, while doing her best to not focus on Luc’s every breath. Conversation was unnecessary because they both knew if they spoke, they’d have to make eye contact and looking at one another without touching, without clinging, without tearing each other’s clothing off, was nigh impossible, a Herculean task. It was far easier to ignore one another, ignore the heat between them, and let the silence act as a buffer. She clung to the stem of the rose and pretended she was alone in the taxi until her knee bumped against Luc’s thigh on a sharp turn and reminded her she was in the company of the finest man on planet Earth. He cleared his throat in response, as though he, too, was thrust into the same combative zone of lust versus restraint. The driver, bless his cotton socks, cracked a window open and the October wind diluted the thickened air.

  “I already checked you in,” Luc said as they pulled up to the hotel. He passed her a registration envelope, his hand lingering on hers a second longer than appropriate. “Why don’t you go on up,” he said in a suggestive tone. “I’ll bring your suitcase and take care of the driver.”

  Clara’s limbic system soared into overdrive while her cerebral cortex warned it was not okay to rip a man’s clothes off in a public foyer.

  “Right, cheers,” she said, and scrambled out of the backseat before the limbic system won. It was just like him to be considerate enough to let her go on ahead to freshen up.

  A tingle of anticipation crept up her spine as she sought out the bank of elevators. Would it be another suite, another whirlpool tub? Would there be views of the Hudson River? Or was it the East River? She had not yet read her New York guidebook.

  As she waited for the lift, Clara brought the flower to her nose, inhaled deeply, and reached into the depths of her memory to imagine the scent of a single rose. Light, spring-after-a-rain fresh. The very recollection made her floaty and content. All that worrying for nothing. The angst, the sleeplessness, the eternity masquerading as three short days…it was over. She could enjoy the next few weeks in Luc’s company, and, as prescribed by Lydia, throw herself into the temporary affair with reckless abandon. Enjoy, avoid emotional attachment, and move on.

  As the lift arrived at lobby level, Clara opened the slim folder for the room and floor number and noticed the registration form clearly stated Clara Bean, single occupancy.

  Single. The box under number of occupants held a bolded 1.

  The rose fell from her fingers as the steel doors slid shut.

  The room was indeed a single. One untouched king-sized bed, one bathroom with nary a hint of male presence, one standard hotel-issue television set with a non-HD curved screen. Bugger!

  Had she deluded herself? Had she read too much into the soft touch of his lips at the airport, mistaken its lightness for restrained passion when it was merely a simple, meaningless greeting?

  Did this have something to do with Valentina’s appearance? Had her sheer stunningness reminded Luc he could do better than barely-above-average Clara? Or maybe Val was still here? Maybe she had followed Luc to New York and was in this very hotel and he had gotten two single rooms to keep up appearances.

  Or perhaps the drama of the past few days gave Luc pause for thought and he realized they’d moved ridiculously fast, catapulted their relationship to stage seven in less than as many days.

  There was a very good chance sleep deprivation and extreme stress had messed up her judgement so thoroughly that—

  A loud knock interrupted her mental flagellations. She went to the door and checked the peephole but saw no one. She opened the door and looked up and down, but the hall was completely empty. With a shrug, she closed the door, only to hear the knocking again, and realized it was coming from the closet.

  “What the—”

  Not a closet. Luc was standing in a connecting room holding her rose. “You dropped this in the elevator.”

  “Clever boy,” she said with a cheek-splitting grin. “I thought you’d grown tired of me.”

  “I didn’t want to appear presumptuous.”

  Luc lifted her suitcase onto the luggage rack with ease, as if the bright orange heavy baggage sticker meant nothing. A dash of lust coursed through her as his biceps flexed.

  “So? Why did Charlie drag you back to England?”

  “That’s a dreadfully boring story, and we should probably go check out the restaurant,” she said a little too quickly.

  His eyes locked onto hers and she could see the question forming on his face before he spoke the words. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Why, what did Val tell you?”

  “Val?” He narrowed his eyes for the briefest of moments, then shook his head. “What does she have to do with this?”

  He was so beautiful, so trusting. She couldn’t bear lying, but she couldn’t bear losing him, not when they had only a handful of moments left. Less than three weeks—so fleeting! It took her three weeks to get a reservation at Gordon Ramsay’s in Chelsea, and that flew by.

  “It’s just that she was with Lydia in Italy, and I guess they didn’t get on too well, and I think she went and complained to Charlie. But that happened before I got there, so I don’t know the details and really, that’s all water under the bridge now, so shall we go check out the restaurant? I understand it’s a casual affair, so we needn’t gussy up.”

  “I’m not sure I followed all that,” he said with a puzzled oh-you-women smirk. He pulled Clara toward him. “But I don’t think a public venue is the best place for me at the moment.”

  “Why? Are you alright?” Clara asked, concerned he was having a wobbly moment of anxiety after the crowded airport.

  “Fine, but I’d have a hard time controlling myself,” he said, his voice husky with lust. He cupped her cheek, sliding his fingers into her hair. “And the only thing I have an appetite for is you.”

  It felt so good to be back in his arms. So right. She wanted him. Naked, skin to skin. “I need to shower first. It’s been a very long day.”

  “Don’t think I can wait that long.”

  Me either. “Want to come with me?”

  Luc made a noise low in his throat and kissed her. Tasting him again after so long set her heart fluttering and her toes wiggling.

  Clara didn’t know whose bathroom they were headed toward as t
hey backward walked, undressed, and kissed. They eventually made it into a glass shower stall and became two slippery bodies pressed together, desperate, grasping, and hungrily devouring each other under a spray of hot water. His need seemed as raw and frantic as hers. She didn’t even try to stifle her mewls and moans.

  Standing with her back to him, Clara pushed her derriere against his erection. She reached up and hooked her arms around the back of his neck and brought his open mouth down on hers. While their tongues parried, Luc roamed her body, learning her curves. His touch felt degrees hotter than the water.

  He took a bottle of shower gel and squeezed an arc of soap across her chest. He entwined his hands with hers and led her on a guided exploration of her own body. Together, they lathered her chest, her ribs, her torso. They palmed her breasts, pausing for him to roll and pinch her diamond-hard nipples until she writhed against him.

  Then lower, over the swell of her hips and around her belly button. Sensually, slowly, he moved toward her thighs until their joined hands slipped between her legs. She tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let her go, not even when he slipped their fingers into the seam of her sex. She bit her bottom lip as he pressed the pad of her own soapy digit against her clitoris.

  “Like this,” he said, directing her movements, showing her how he wanted her to touch herself before leaving to explore the rest of her.

  Clara didn’t want to stimulate herself when there was a steely cock pressing against her backside, waiting, hot and impatient. She didn’t want to come first, she wanted to feel him, wanted to taste him, wanted him to impale her, now. She reached behind her and gripped his hard length.

  “Not yet,” he growled and took her hand, moved it back to her pussy. Again, he pressed her fingers into herself. “Keep going,” he ordered, strumming with her. “Don’t stop.”

  She obliged while he massaged her buttocks, coaxed her legs further open, and reached underneath to spear her with his fingers. Clara gasped as a gush of heat rolled through her.

  “That’s it, love,” he said, leaving her channel to spread her slick juice up her backside.

  Oh God, she couldn’t hold on, couldn’t keep up, but if she slowed her pace, his hand came back over hers, setting her back into the rhythm he demanded. Dangerously close to dropping to her knees, she cried, “I need you inside me. Please Luc, now.”

  I need you to make me forget that I don’t deserve you. I need you to make me forget who and what I am.

  At last, he leaned her over and plunged into her from behind, every deep thrust hitting her at an angle that made her gasp, that made her plead for more. He gripped her around the hips and drove into her, relentless, a machine bent on total domination, while she clawed at the tiles and moaned his name until an orgasm rendered her speechless.

  Chapter 25

  Clara awoke to the delicious feeling of Luc’s hand cupping her breast, his lips on the back of her shoulder, their calves entwined. She moaned and stretched, content as the proverbial cat, horny as the proverbial rabbit. The bedside clock read six thirty, but it was the collection of foil packets next to it that caught her attention and gave her the first naughty thought for the day.

  “Sorry to wake you, ma belle, but we have someplace to be.”

  “How soon?”

  “Couple of hours. Why?”

  She’d never been more aware of time, of how one day turned into the next. She wasn’t going to have him much longer, but while she did, she was going to enjoy him, enjoy the sex, and pretend he wasn’t going to look at her with disappointment in his eyes when and if he ever discovered her truth.

  She turned in his arms, threw her leg over Luc’s hip, and wrapped her fingers around his cock, already semi-erect. Selfish little girls took what they wanted, so why not?

  A satisfied sound came from his throat as he hardened under her touch “I think we’ve time to—” But he didn’t finish because she’d already sheathed him and was guiding him in.

  Luc’s movements were slow and lazy. He teased her entrance, sliding inch by inch, then pulling out before coming back a little deeper, until he finally filled her.

  Clara clung to his shoulders. The position wasn’t optimal for depth, but she ground her hips against him, relishing the stimulation of her tender, throbbing clitoris.

  They watched each other with sleepy-eyed tenderness until their eyes screwed shut and their breathing turned to hot, shallow pants.

  And though she would go to her grave with this little fact, while her muscles convulsed around him, while he whispered of God, of passion, of her, Clara heard the strains of Ave Maria.

  She was glad she didn’t tell him her secret and ruin everything. And she wouldn’t. Not yet. Not while she was busy falling deeply and irrevocably in love.

  “Before you dress, come here and listen to this,” Luc said as they wrapped themselves in plush white hotel robes.

  “The mysterious podcast?” she asked, fighting the urge to finger comb the wet black curls at his neck.

  “Yes. Bartel keeps bugging me about whether you’ve heard it yet. He called the morning you left. He’d conferenced in Riley and Spencer James and a half a dozen people from marketing, went on and on about his predictions coming true and how BMG was once again on the cutting edge.”

  Luc cracked his laptop open and queued up the file. Clara sank into the chair and concentrated on the progress bar. For her own sanity, she needed something to stop her eyes from zinging back to Luc like a spoon to a magnet. She needed to maintain some semblance of composure. It was undignified to lust after a man’s body so… so hungrily.

  “Our blog was discussed on a radio program called ‘Morning Ride with Hodgins and Marcy’ based out of Chicago. At first I’d thought Riley must have changed my report to save our asses because there was no way in hell I thought he’d let me get away with the chauvinist bullshit I’d submitted.”

  “Mine was rather suspect, too,” she said, recalling the piece she’d typed while she fantasized about Luc and that glass table. Less than a week had gone by, yet it felt like years.

  “Just listen,” he said as the audio file began.

  “Hodgie, you know who my celebrity crush is, don’t you?”

  “Marcy, most of Chicago knows who your celebrity crush is. And for those who’ve been living under a rock for the past decade, we’re talking about ex-pro-hockey-player-turned-sports-analyst, Luc Bisquet.”

  “So Hodge, I flipped open my morning paper and see Luc’s killer smile staring back at me, enticing me to check out a web link, so I go click on it and my hot buttered Biscuit is featured on some blog about dates.”

  “The fruit?”

  “No Hodgie, not the fruit—but I understand your confusion, not having been on a date since 1996! It was on how to get your woman to go to a hockey game with you, that kind of date. He and this other journalist, whatever her name is, are co-reporting on sports and restaurants, like a perfect date night combination.”

  “I don’t care how fancy the post-game food is, Marcy, there’s no way I’m getting my girlfriend to anything with that much testosterone in the air.”

  “She might change her mind, Hodgie. Let me read you what my Luc has to say about the first part of the date. They had dinner at Silk and Ivory. Have you been there, Hodge? You’ll want to go after this. My Biscuit talks about the atmosphere, yadda, yadda, yadda, ah – here’s the good part: The portions were as generous as advertised but this poses a potential problem, so gents, be warned. While you lustfully admire the way she unhinges her jaw to span a wedge of sourdough bread, she’ll admonish you for not paying attention to the conversation. My advice? Keep the charm on high-burn between courses, ignore as best you can the waitresses in their skimpy tight black minis and, once the main course arrives, encourage her to tell you about her childhood, her relationship with her parents, anythin
g that will leave you free to masticate your juicy Kobe beef in uninterrupted, blissful peace. To make up for your silence, order the most decadent dessert on the menu. In this case, it was the mocha maple chocolate cake, with two forks. Do you see why I love him so, Hodge? He’s macho, considerate, and funny as hell.”

  “And what does what’s-her-name say about all this?”

  “Oh, you’ll love this, Hodge. She writes, Preparing for my first live hockey game was more daunting than I’d imagined, my initial struggle being wardrobe choice. What outfit does one wear to an ice hockey arena that’s also suitable for a pre- or post-game dinner? Too dressy and you risk looking woefully out of place while too many layers can look bulky and unsexy. And what on earth will he think of your woolly knickers if the date ends in the bedroom? On the other hand, will the lace demi-cup bra under your cashmere sweater give appropriate nipple insulation in an icy arena or simply serve to alert everyone to the fact you’re both chilly and horny? (Note to my fellow hockey virgins—the arena was surprisingly un-chilly. Apparently, they freeze the ice from beneath!). Isn’t this priceless, Hodge?”

  “Does what’s-her-name actually say anything about the game?”

  “Her name is Clara Bean—her bio says she’s a British food critic—and yes, Hodge, she has quite the interesting take on the fighting. I was not at all prepared for the regular tossing of gloves. I am admittedly not a connoisseur of athletic pursuits, but I don’t recall ever having read that Tiger Woods clubbed a fellow golfer in the ankles, or that a Williams sister beat her opponent about the head and body with a racket. These hockey fellows seem to take an inordinate amount of pleasure in initiating hand-to-hand combat for no discernible reason, at least none which I observed. It got me thinking that perhaps they don’t need referees on the ice, but mothers. Mothers who would send them to kneel in corners for their misdeeds rather than these lenient striped-shirted gentlemen who insist on sending them to sit in a private rinkside booth to watch the game like a VIP. That’s not a punishment. Making them clean blood off the ice with a toothbrush during intermission, that’s a punishment.”