by K. Bromberg
The physical therapist in me wants to give him a standing ovation for understanding the seriousness of his injury, while the child in me understands Easton’s plight in wanting his father to comprehend where he’s coming from.
“I know you’re not. It’s just . . . I can’t quite get a read on Cory yet. And while I may be the face of the club, first and foremost I worry about you as my son.”
“I know you do.”
The elevator dings and the forgotten Chinese food delivery arrives. When Easton walks into the kitchen with the bags in his hand, his father is not behind him.
He doesn’t say anything at first—just sets the food on the island as he gathers plates and silverware from drawers I’m not familiar with. I watch him, wondering if I should leave and let him have time alone with his thoughts, when he surprises the hell out of me by grabbing my waist and pulling me against him.
Strong arms wrap around me, and his chin finds its way onto the top of my head. My arms snake under his and around his torso, unsure what else to do other than be here for whatever it is he needs right now.
I can feel him breathe in deeply, can feel him clench and unclench his jaw, can hear his heart beneath my ear where it rests against his chest. The stirring of desire that is always a constant when he’s around smolders to life, but I know this is so much more than that, so I hang on and let the moment be.
“It’s been a day,” I murmur, drawing a rumble of a laugh from him.
“Yes, it has,” he sighs. “Let’s eat.”
“You will be hungry again in one hour.” Easton laughs when I read my fortune. “Very cheeky, but probably true. What does yours say?”
I glance over at him reading his, and he hands the little strip with his fortune to me. “Here.”
“The fortune you seek is in another cookie.” I roll my eyes. “These are funny. Someone was definitely in a mood when they made these.”
“Seems like it.”
I’m sitting in the corner of the couch, my back against the armrest and my arm propped up on the back. He’s beside me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, turning the uneaten fortune cookie over in his hand. He’s here, but still a million miles away. My eyes wander over the definition of his torso, admiring the obvious work he’s put into his physique, and my fingers itch to reach out and touch him.
“You’ve been quiet. You okay?”
“Yeah, just thinking,” he says with a sigh as he tosses the cookie onto its bag and leans back beside me. He rests his head against the couch pillows, then turns it to the side so he can meet my eyes.
“Care to share?”
“A lot of things.”
“Mr. Forthcoming,” I tease.
“You want a rundown, then?” His smile is wide, and I can sense his playful side emerging.
“A rundown?”
“Yep,” he says with a nod.
“I’m a ‘list girl’ so you’re talking to my heart right now.”
He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “You want a list?”
“Only if you want.”
“She wants a list,” he teases as he reaches out and squeezes my knee like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The casualness of it causes a welcome discord. “Let’s see. The first thing is how you definitely like more than California rolls, but I have to lie and tell you it’s shrimp in order to get you to try it.”
“Oh, God. What did I eat?” His smile is contagious, and even though I’m suddenly alarmed that I ate something off-the-charts odd, I can’t help but smile with him.
“Just a little of this and a little of that.”
“I’m not liking the sound of this.”
“Sometimes the less you know the better,” he muses, and I try not to read into the comment too much. “What else? Hmm. I wondered what you used to be like as a catcher. If you were the quiet but commanding type or the smack talker who annoyed the hell out of the batters.”
“A little of both.” I blush but allow a smirk to play on my lips.
“Ah, so you were a smack talker. That’s good to know. I’m taking notes here on my list.”
“You should. I can be troublesome if you get on my bad side.” His laugh is rich and calls to every part of me. “What else was on that intriguing mind of yours?”
“You’re a damn good runner. I was winded today trying to keep up with you.”
“Oh, please. You could probably run circles around me.”
“Perhaps . . . but if I did that I’d miss the spectacular view of your ass from behind you.”
I swat at his arm while my insides melt a little . . . and my insides don’t melt. Ever.
“Nice. You get to run in front next time so I can watch your ass, then.” I laugh.
“Mine?”
“In baseball pants. That’s a requirement,” I murmur, knowing damn well how fine his ass looks in his pants because I was more than checking him out when he was behind the plate today.
“Oh really? Making demands, now, are we?”
“I can be very demanding. I mean, you said you want to get to know me better. So now you know.” I purse my lips and lift my eyebrows at him. “And I’m stubborn . . . also a stickler for rules. I can’t cook at all. And I have a slight obsession with wintergreen Life Savers, biceps, and romance novels. Oh, and I’ve been known to snore. Horribly.”
“I love that you have no shame.” He throws his head back and laughs before narrowing his eyes as he takes in my smirk. “But why do I get the sense that you’re trying to make me not like you?”
He shifts on the couch and leans toward me, framing my thighs by putting his hands on each side of them. And holy biceps. Right there is exactly why I like them. Firm, sculpted, and so damn hot.
“Who, me?” I feign. “I’d never do something like that.”
“Let’s add manipulative, too.” He quirks an eyebrow and doesn’t relent with his stare, despite his smile disarming me in every way imaginable.
“Only the good kind of manipulative.”
“The good kind? There’s such a thing? Well, I think it’s time we get a few things straight,” he murmurs, his lips so damn close I can smell the wine on his breath and see the flecks of green in his eyes. “I like demanding and stubborn. It means you don’t stop until you get what you want how you want it. You’re a rules girl, huh? I’m good with that. Rules are fun because I like to break them, so keep telling me things I shouldn’t be doing, Kitty . . . like wanting to date you . . . and I’ll keep doing them. And cooking? I’m a bachelor, so I’ve got every damn take-out menu in town in the top right-hand drawer in the kitchen, and I can make a mean grilled cheese, if need be, so nice try with that one. Wintergreen Life Savers? I prefer the taste of cherry, but as long as I can put it in my mouth and work my tongue into its center, then I’m pretty sure I can compromise.” His lips quirk and his eyes bore into mine as every single drop of blood in my body ignites from his insinuation.
My breath hitches as he reaches up and takes my hand that’s still holding the fortune and brings it up to the bicep of his other arm. “And biceps. Is this what you’re talking about, Scout? Is this what you like?”
He wraps my fingers around as he flexes so I can feel every muscle beneath twist with the movement. I force a swallow and make myself meet his eyes again. “And what is it about you and romance novels? Is it the happily ever after? Is it the man who’s too good to be true? Because I assure you, we all have our flaws, even the fictional ones. But the happily ever after depends on what you put into it. The hard work, the listening instead of talking, the laughing instead of crying, the sticking it out instead of running away, the knowing that sometimes silence is best but having her wrapped in your arms can still solve a lot of problems. So, you can have your romance novels while I have my King and Follett and Patterson because I don’t want to read about having that kind of love someday. I’d rather be over here trying to take a chance at it in real life.”
I open my mouth to argue, but nothin
g comes out because I don’t know what to say. He effectively just stole a little piece of my heart when it was still under padlock and steel.
“Oh, and snoring? When you’re with me, we’ll both be too damn tired to even worry if you’re snoring, so that’s a moot point. But, uh, nice try.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” His grin is lightning quick as he leans in and brushes his lips ever so tenderly against mine. It’s achingly soft and causes a warmth to spread from my center out, seep into every fiber of my being, and then leave me a little shell-shocked and wanting more. “You smell good,” he murmurs.
“Ewww. I haven’t showered since my run today. I was sidelined by the same person who’s telling me I smell good, so I’m quite sure something is wrong with you.”
He chuckles, and then surprises me by placing an open mouth kiss on my neck and then licking a line up to just beneath my earlobe. The sensation, the act, the everything about it is like a livewire exposed to water. “You taste salty. And all I smell is your shampoo.” He tugs on my earlobe with his teeth, and that slow, sweet ache between my thighs burns bright. “Sweat on you is sexy.”
“Men.” I laugh and push against his chest, all the while enjoying the feeling of him sinking against me.
“I offered you the shower.”
“Yeah, well, good thing I didn’t take it, or else I’d have been standing in your kitchen in a robe or one of your T-shirts when your dad showed up, and we both know how that would have looked.”
“He won’t say anything to anyone.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I kind of like the idea of what you’d look like in my T-shirt.”
I can’t resist. I lean forward and take the initiative by kissing him soundly on the lips. It surprises him. But I love that he lets me take the lead. I love that he allows me to control the depth and the demand and the softness of it. I pour everything that I’m feeling but can’t express into our connection.
We shift some, but the pace never quickens, the urgency nonexistent; it’s just us, with a setting sun at our backs and the fortunes from our cookies crinkling on the couch when we move. No hands wander, no fingers itch to touch more, because our lips, and everything their connection evokes, is simply enough.
It’s intoxicating. It’s unexpected. It’s everything in a kiss I never knew I needed, and yet somehow knew was missing.
It’s not a means to an end, but rather a slow, sweet seduction of the senses, and when it finally ends—when he leans his forehead against mine, with our breaths feathering over each other’s lips, and our minds trying to process the moment—he speaks.
“I’m going to hate myself for this the minute the words are out of my mouth,” he murmurs.
“Then don’t say it and just kiss me again,” I tease before I lean in and bring my mouth to his.
His groan sounds tortured when after a few seconds he tears his lips from mine , sits back on his haunches, and squeezes his eyes tight before looking back at me. “I don’t think I’ve ever said these words before in my life.”
Now he has my attention. “What words?”
“No.”
“No?” I laugh; the pained look on his face is more than comical. “No to what?”
“No to what I want to do to you right now. Desperately.”
“What do you want to do to me, Easton?” My voice is coy, my eyes inviting.
He clenches his jaw, and the muscle that pulses at its corner is so damn sexy. He laughs, a sound like audible restraint. “I want to fuck you, Scout. I want to take you in my bedroom and make you so tired your body forgets to snore. Okay?”
And now it’s my turn to clench my jaw—and my thighs—together as he stares at me with an intensity that only adds to his allure. “So, why don’t you?”
His smile is half-cocked when he speaks, “Because I made a promise to myself and to you. I told you we were going to get to know each other better, build up some trust, and see where this thing takes us . . . and so that’s what I’m trying to do. Even though, currently, where I really want it to take us is my bed.”
“I don’t know what to say.” I’m flattered. I’m dumbfounded. And, holy hell, how I’m turned on from that kiss and the feeling of his thighs caging mine.
“Tell me you understand the sacrifice I’m making, because right now, all I want is you. Under me. On top of me. Any way with me.”
“Then let’s—”
“You don’t get it, do you? I can see it in your eyes, Scout. I can tell you’re spooked, with one foot out the door and one foot in my bed because it’s easier to be in either of those places than it is to be in this position. The one where you have to talk to me, where you have to let me get to know you better, instead of shying away from it. So even though it’s said under serious protest, the answer is no, we’re not having sex tonight.”
“That’s admirable,” I murmur as I lean in and tease his lips with mine, “but we’ve already slept together, so does it really matter?”
He chuckles. “Yes, it does matter because you’re trying to distract me with those lips of yours when all my mind keeps thinking of is all of the other things you could be doing with them.”
“Like what?” I purr.
He leans back and shoots me a warning glare. “I told you, Scout. We’re getting to know each other.”
“So even if I go like this . . .” I run the tip of my fingernail over the more than obvious outline of his hardened cock through his jogging pants.
He groans my name, his body tenses, and his head falls back as I complete one long stroke of my fingertip. And just when I think I might have won the battle, his hands flash out and tighten like a vice around my wrists to prevent me from tempting him any further. “Not going to happen,” he grits out.
I try to move my arms, but he doesn’t let them budge. And there’s something about his reaction and the strength of his hands on mine that urge me to try again.
“And I couldn’t persuade you if I did this?” I lean forward and circle my tongue around the flat, bronzed disc of his nipple before sucking on it gently.
“Goddammit, woman.” His tone is sharp, but the groan that follows it is so damn sexy I grow wet between my thighs.
“What?” I feign innocence as I look up at him and bat my lashes with my lips still pressed against his chest.
His grin is full of warning, and yet his erection is pressing against my thigh. With our gazes locked, I lean forward to lick the other nipple, knowing I’ve put him in a quandary.
And just as I make contact, he makes his move. The element of surprise, and probably my own escalating desire, gives him the opportunity to pull me onto his lap, twist me around so my back is to his chest, and wrap his arms around me so that I can’t move mine.
“There.”
“You bastard.” I chuckle because now his cock pressing against my lower back is his reciprocated torture.
“Is something the matter?” he teases, hot breath against my ear.
I wiggle my ass over his dick and feel his thighs grow tense. He repositions and adjusts so his arms are tighter around me, and he brings his legs over my calves to quiet my wriggling.
All I can do is laugh.
He sighs. “See? Perfect position to watch a movie together.”
“A movie? That’s the first thing that comes to mind right now?”
“Yep.” He shifts so that he can hold the remote in one hand and me between both of his arms. “We’re going to sit here and watch the first movie I come across on the menu.”
He scrolls through the on-screen guide. “Your hair is in the way . . . what’s that one say?” he asks, and I smile, knowing exactly what movie it is. Perfect.
“Click that one.”
And when he does, and the guide cuts to the movie, the screen fills with a very involved sex scene. Moaning and nudity and thrusting and licking. How was I to know it would be at this scene already?
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters with a laugh.
“Perfect.”
“It seems fate is trying to tell you what you should be doing.”
“Fate or a manipulative and determined woman.”
“Maybe a little of both. But this is actually a movie adaptation of a hugely bestselling romance novel, I believe,” I say, tongue in cheek, while my body is reacting to the visual porn in front of me and tangible porn against me.
“Ah . . . and now it becomes clear why you like romance novels.” He laughs.
“It has a great story line,” I say in jest.
“I can see that.”
“Seriously. You can have hot sex and a great story line.” I try to gesture to the television, but my arms are still restrained. “Or we could just have the hot sex, instead.”
“I’m not budging, Scout. You told me I needed to read a romance novel, so no time like the present to watch one. With you.”
“I thought you only liked King and Follett and Patterson?”
“I do, but I’ve recently been told that romances are where it’s at.”
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes and laugh but only get a kiss on my shoulder in response.
So, we sit like this and watch the movie.
And another one after that.
But more memorable than the movies that I can’t quite pay attention to is the fact that when I fall asleep in the late hours of the night, my last thought is I’ve never let myself fall asleep in the arms of a man before without there being sex first.
But this time I did.
And when I wake up the next morning with his body behind mine on the couch, and his arm still holding me tight against him, I realize this isn’t so bad.
But more importantly, as scared as I am to let him in, I’m more scared of walking away.
“I just needed to hear your voice.” It’s all I say but it’s the truth.
