One-Timer (The Baltimore Banners Book 9)

by Lisa B. Kamps

  She leaned against him, her eyes bright, her face twisted in a grimace. She shook her head, then nodded, then shook her head once more. “I think…I think I hurt my wrist.”

  Dillon looked down, finally noticing that she was cradling her left arm against her chest. Making sure she was still supported against his body, he reached for her arm and gently tugged on the sleeve of her sweater, pulling it up past her wrist.

  Her groan was long, drawn out, ending in a hiss of pain. “Is it broken?”

  Dillon glanced at her, a wave of guilt washing over him when he saw her closed eyes and pinched face. He looked back down at her wrist, which was already swelling. “I don’t think it’s broken, but it’s definitely sprained.”

  “Sprained?” Her eyes fluttered open and focused on his, a little too bright. “What’s that mean?”

  “It means we need to get you checked out. Come on.” He picked her up, ignoring the sharp squeal of panic that pierced his eardrum.

  So much for trying to impress her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “It’s my wrist. You don’t need to carry me, I’m quite capable of walking.”

  Dillon just grunted instead of answering. Maggie thought about arguing again then decided against it. It felt too nice to be cradled against his chest, his strong arms around her, the heat of his body warming her. At least she didn’t lean her head on his shoulder and sigh—that would be too much of a cliché. No, she was happy enough just leaning her head on his shoulder.

  So okay, maybe she really was being a cliché. She didn’t care. It was probably from the pain medicine they gave her, just enough to make her worries—and the throbbing in her wrist—disappear. She’d probably regret cuddling against him tomorrow. If not regret, at least be back to normal enough to be embarrassed.

  But that was tomorrow. For right now, she just wanted to enjoy the sensation of being curled against Dillon’s hard, warm chest as he carried her up the stairs. It was a nice chest, broad and full of muscles that stretched and moved with each step. And he was cute, with his shaggy red-brown hair that was just a little too long and his teasing grin and those adorable dimples. And he smelled nice, too. Kind of a light outdoorsy fresh clean smell.

  “Did you just sniff me?”

  “What? Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.” She closed her eyes and sniffed again, then rested her head back against his shoulder. Definitely a fresh outdoorsy smell.

  He chuckled, the sound soft and low, rumbling through his nice broad chest. She didn’t understand why he was laughing but she didn’t care, not when it felt nice just to be in his arms.

  He paused in front of her door and shifted her in his arms. What was he doing? Oh, getting the keys from his pocket. Of course. She should have known that. His body shifted again as he put the key into the lock and opened the door, moving inside.

  Maggie frowned when she heard another door open. That didn’t make sense. He already opened the door, how could another one be opening—”

  “Ohmygod, Maggie. What happened? Is she okay? What did you do to her?” Cindy’s voice moved up and down an octave with each question: high in disbelief, low in accusation. Maggie peeled open one eye—the other one was mostly pressed against Dillon’s chest—and tried to frown at her friend. Could her timing be any worse?

  “I played hockey.”

  “You did what? You don’t do sports!”

  Dillon coughed. At least Maggie thought it was a cough. Or maybe he was choking. If it wasn’t for the hoarse rumble echoing in her ear, she’d think he was trying not to laugh. Maybe that’s what he was doing: trying not to laugh. There was something not quite right about that, something that told her she should probably admonish him or something. She’d worry about it in the morning.

  “She sprained her wrist.”

  “What? Ohmygod. Is she okay? I mean, really?”

  “She will be. I don’t think she’s feeling much of anything right now.”

  Cindy giggled. Giggled! Maggie should probably say something about that but she didn’t want to, not right now. She was still enjoying being cradled in Dillon’s arms too much to worry about anything else.

  He moved again, his steps a little hesitant then more confident as he carried her across the room. She suddenly wished her little studio was bigger, like the size of a lecture auditorium or something because he reached the sleeping area entirely too fast.

  And holy cripes, had she made the bed this morning? Picked up the pile of laundry and put it away? A sliver of panic shot through her as she tried to remember. Yes, yes she had, because she had known he was coming over.

  “Was she really being hockey?”

  “Um…” Dillon’s voice trailed off and Maggie frowned. He shifted her in his arms and then she was falling. She reached for him, a hiss of pain escaping her when she tried to use her left arm. “Easy, I’m just putting you into bed.”

  Maggie nodded and tried to ignore the new throbbing in her wrist. She didn’t want to look like a big baby but cripes, it hurt. Dillon said something to Cindy, Maggie didn’t hear what—she was too busy trying not to focus on the throbbing.

  Then she was in her bed and this time she really did moan. Not because of her wrist, but because she really liked being in Dillon’s arms and now she wasn’t. Maybe if she asked—

  Gentle hands lifted her left arm then eased it back down. Okay, that felt a little better. He must have propped it on a pillow. A weight settled on her wrist, not exactly uncomfortable but definitely unexpected. It took a few seconds—or maybe minutes—for her mind to realize what it was: an ice pack. Or something like that, anyway, because soothing coolness slowly settled into the throbbing, easing it.

  “Better?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  Another chuckle, low and deep, then something soft brushing against her forehead. Had he just kissed her? On the forehead? Cripes, not exactly what she had been hoping for. Didn’t getting hurt playing her very first hockey game deserve more than a brush of lips on her forehead?

  Her tongue moved around in her mouth, searching for words. Words…what words? They were right there, she just couldn’t find them—

  “Get some sleep. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

  Maggie forgot the need to search for words and nodded. Dillon was staying. Good. She liked that idea for some reason, liked the warm tingly feeling spreading through her. The gray behind her eyelids darkened, settling over her, and she felt herself drifting off.

  A minute later, her lids popped open as panic pushed through her. She tried to sit up but a gentle hand on her shoulder held her still. “Slinky! I need to take care of Slinky!”

  Dillon leaned forward and brushed his lips against her forehead again. He grinned and pushed the hair away from her face. “Don’t worry about your rat, I’ll take care of her.”

  “She’s not a rat.”

  Another chuckle, another gentle brush against her skin—her cheek this time. “She’s not a rat. I know. Now get some sleep.”

  Maggie’s eyes drifted closed once more, the darkness settling around her with a welcoming warmth.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Something wasn’t right. Maggie wasn’t sure what, just had this niggling feeling that something was…off. She struggled to open her eyes, wondering why her lids felt so heavy, why her body felt sluggish. She took a deep breath, forced her eyes open, and pushed herself up—

  “Ow!” She dropped back to the bed and cradled her left wrist. Throbbing hammered through her arm, a heavy pulsing that kept time with the rapid beating of her heart. Cripes, that hurt. Like, really hurt.

  “You okay?”

  Maggie’s eyes flew open at the deep voice, so close to her bed. Dillon. He was still here. She had a vague memory of him saying something about staying but she was surprised to actually see him standing there.

  Probably because she thought she had dreamed the whole thing. Yeah, not so much. The throbbing in her wrist let her know that.

  He moved closer
and sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “How’s the wrist feel?”

  “It doesn’t tickle.”

  He chuckled then shifted on the bed, leaning closer. She watched, afraid to move when his hand reached for her. Was he going to brush her hair away again, or stroke her cheek? She was pretty sure he had done that earlier. Or maybe she had just been dreaming. She held her breath, waiting—

  And no, he was only adjusting the pillow under her arm from where she had dislodged it when she tried to sit up. Maggie swallowed back her disappointment—and her hiss of pain.

  “I’ll get you some more ice. Are you ready for another pill?”

  “Didn’t I just have one?”

  “Not since you left the clinic, which was five hours ago.”

  “Five hours? It doesn’t seem that long.” At least that explained why the light in her apartment looked funny. It also explained the sudden rumbling coming from her stomach.

  Heat filled her face at the loud noise and she really, really hoped Dillon hadn’t heard. But of course he did. How could he not, when he was sitting right next her? He grinned but didn’t say anything, just pushed himself off the bed.

  “I’ll get you some fresh ice, a pill—and some toast.”

  “I don’t want toast. I want pizza. I smell pizza.” Or maybe she was just hallucinating.

  Dillon glanced at her over his shoulder as he pulled something from the tiny freezer. “Cindy had some pizza delivered earlier.”

  “Perfect. I’ll have some of that.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Your stomach might not like it.”

  “My stomach always likes pizza.”

  “Yeah, mine too. But not after getting hurt. Toast and some tea. We’ll see how you do with that first.”

  “I don’t want toast and tea.” And wow, could she whine any harder? Probably, if she really concentrated and put her mind to it. At least Dillon didn’t call her on it. He didn’t have to, not with the way he was grinning at her.

  A few minutes later, he was helping her sit, his arm supporting her as she shifted on the bed. The pain in her wrist throbbed then slowly settled back into something more bearable as he placed ice on it. He handed her a small pill and a glass of water then moved back to the kitchen area, returning with a small cup of hot tea and two slices of toast.

  “Why are you punishing me?”

  He chuckled and settled next to her, holding the plate of toast while she sipped the tea. “I’m not punishing you. Trust me, your stomach will thank me later.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.” She handed him the cup in exchange for the toast. Back and forth: a sip of tea, a bite of toast. A sip of tea, a bite of toast. She thought about telling him she could manage on her own but she didn’t—there was something too enjoyable about him sitting next to her in bed, helping her.

  Maggie finished the first slice then eyed the second with caution. She reached for it then let her hand drop. Cripes, he’d been right. One slice of toast and she was finished. There was just something wrong about that.

  At least he didn’t say anything when he took the plate and cup back to the kitchen. He didn’t say anything when he returned, either, just settled on the bed next to her. He shifted and draped his arm around her, holding her against his chest. As hard as his chest was, she shouldn’t be comfortable, but she was. Yes, she’d take his chest over a pillow any day.

  “Better?”

  “I guess.”

  “Close your eyes, get some sleep.”

  “Don’t you have anywhere to go? Or anything to do?” And cripes, why had she said that? Was she trying to get rid of him? No. Not on purpose, anyway.

  “Just study, and I can do that here.”

  “Oh.”

  “Unless you wanted me to leave?”

  “No. No, this is good.”

  “Because Cindy could come over if you wanted me to leave.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want Cindy to come over.” Which was a lot better than saying she didn’t want him to leave. So what if it mostly meant the same thing? At least it didn’t sound as desperate. Or needy. Or whatever.

  Several minutes passed by and her lids drifted shut, her head easing against his chest. His hand moved along her shoulder, his fingers gently brushing her hair. She sighed and snuggled closer, enjoying the small caresses.

  And telling herself not to get used to them, no matter how good they felt. He probably didn’t even realize what he was doing. Or he was doing it because he felt guilty. Or worse, because he felt sorry for her. She didn’t like that last thought, not at all.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me.”

  His hand paused and she sensed him looking down at her. She didn’t open her eyes, couldn’t bear to see how he might be looking at her.

  He made a little sound, a cross between a snort and a grunt. His fingers moved again, stroking her head, playing in her hair. “Trust me, I don’t feel sorry for you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Sorry is the last thing I’m feeling.”

  “Hm. Good.” She snuggled even closer, the grayness settling over her. “That is good, right?”

  A minute went by, maybe longer, and she drifted deeper into the fuzzy gray warmth surrounding her. She may have dreamt it, but she thought he might have dropped a kiss on the top of her head and said something.

  “Yeah, I hope it’s good.”

  At least, that’s what she thought he said. Or maybe she really was dreaming. If she was, she didn’t want to wake up.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dillon was dreaming.

  No, dreaming was the wrong word. It was more like fantasizing, the stuff of those hot but embarrassing dreams from when he was a teenager. Shit, wasn’t he too old for that?

  No, you never got too old for that. But damn, he didn’t want to wake up and embarrass himself. He wasn’t home, in his own bed. He was conscious enough to realize that. And he didn’t want to wake up from a wet dream in bed, next to Maggie. He’d be fucking mortified.

  But shit, this dream was a good one. Warm lips trailed along the hot skin of his chest. Lips, and the teasing ends of soft hair. Back and forth. Gentle, playful. Lips closed around one flat nipple and bit down, the pressure just hard enough to make his cock twitch. And fuck, this would be so much better if his cock was free instead of being held back the confines of his jeans. But even that didn’t matter, not when a delicious pressure traced and cradled the length of his cock through the soft denim.

  No, he was a fucking liar. He wanted to feel hot flesh along his cock, rubbing. Gliding. Squeezing.

  In his dream, a soft hand popped the button of his jeans and eased the zipper down. He sucked in a sharp breath and held it, waiting. Yes, there, finally. His cock sprung free and a warm hand closed over him, stroking the length of his cock from tip to base and back again.

  And fuck, he needed to wake up, before he did something stupid. Before Maggie woke up and saw him jerking off right next to her, in her own bed. He’d never be able to look at her again, he’d be too mortified.

  But fuck, it felt so good.

  In his dream he moaned, his hips thrusting up as the hand grew bolder, the strokes longer and more intense. He’d give himself another minute to enjoy it, another minute to revel in the sensation of the hand stroking his cock and the hot mouth trailing along his chest, down. Down…

  The hot mouth closed over him, sucking. Dillon moaned and thrust his hips up, sinking his cock deeper into the warm wet dream mouth. He groaned and thrust again, harder. Over and over. And fuck, he needed to stop, needed to wake up. Maggie must hear him, he could hear her own little moans—

  Dillon’s eyes shot open and he froze.

  He wasn’t dreaming. Fuck, this wasn’t a dream at all.

  He reached down, his hand closing over the back of Maggie’s head, his fingers tangling in her hair. Desire swept through him, burning and intense,
threatening to push all reason from his mind. Fuck, her mouth felt so good on him. Slick and hot. Tempting. Demanding. It would be easy, so fucking easy, to just give in, to let himself be carried away.

  But he couldn’t. It wasn’t right, he couldn’t allow himself to get carried away, to be swept into this dream-turned-reality. He tightened his fingers in her hair and tugged, gently pulling her mouth away from him. A gasp of loss escaped him and he swallowed, fighting for reason.

  “Maggie.” Her name was nothing more than a harsh gasp. He swallowed again, searching for his voice. “Maggie. What are you doing?”

  She moved her head to the side, trying to shrug away from his hold. “Shh. I’m dreaming.”

  Fuck. Not good. So not good. He shifted, moving his hips—his cock—away from her hot mouth. “Maggie. Sweetheart. You’re not dreaming. You need to stop.”

  “Don’t want to.” Damn if her mouth didn’t find his cock once more, taking him all in and making him lose his mind. He couldn’t, he needed to find control. Take control.

  But fuck, it felt so good.

  A shudder wracked his body and he groaned. No, not like this. It wasn’t right. He groaned again, this time from frustration as he called on the last ounce of willpower from somewhere deep inside him. He loosened his hand from her hair and grabbed her shoulder, tugging her until she finally moved away.

  No, not away. At least, not all the way. She pushed her way up his chest, her lips trailing kisses all the way to his neck. He tightened his hold around her shoulder and rolled, mindful of her left arm as he pinned her beneath him. Warm brown eyes looked up at him, the desire in their depths clear even through the shadows of the darkened room. He took a deep breath, doing his best to fight for control as she wriggled beneath him.

  “Maggie, you’re not dreaming. You need to wake up, sweetheart.”

  She sighed and ran her good hand along his arm, her fingers tangling in the hem of the shirt that was bunched under his armpits. “I am.”

  “You are?” Dillon held his breath, waiting. Then he let it out, deep and slow. “You are what?”

  “Awake. I just wanted to pretend.”