Playing For Fun

by Tracey Alvarez

  The timbre of his voice kindled a spark in her core, making a liar of her request to keep this visit friends only.

  “I can’t do it.”

  He went preternaturally still, the only movement a muscle bunching in his jaw. “Do what?” he asked after a beat.

  “I can’t move to Invers.” She heard the wobble in her voice and clamped down on it. Steady, now, don’t go all girly. “I mean, they don’t even have a decent restaurant. And the boy racers hooning around all hours of the night? I’d have to kill them—and you know prison orange would clash with my complexion.”

  A dimple appeared in Ford’s cheek, but he still hadn’t moved a muscle. “True. Plus, it’s full of university students.”

  “Don’t get me started on the students.”

  The dimple deepened as Ford’s smile grew. “And you’ll pay three hundred dollars for a two bedroom flat next door to those beer-swilling students, who’ll crank up their crappy stereos with their crappier taste in music until 3:00 a.m. every weekend.”

  “Yeah.” Holly slipped her hands behind her, leaning her butt against them to stop them from trembling. “So I’m staying. And tomorrow, I’ll talk to Carolyn and Murray about cutting my hours down to part time. I’ll work my tail off expanding my client list and maybe even do a masseuse course next year.”

  Ford’s gaze drilled into her. “Working out of your tiny spare room still?”

  Her flat palms-against-the-wall curled into fists. “I’m utilising space.”

  “Which worked with one client at a time. You’re limited with what you can do there, and you know it.” He rested his forearm on the guitar’s curvy waist. “Are you sure that’s what you want? Or are you settling for table scraps of what you could have?”

  “It’s close enough to what I want…it’s a start, anyway.”

  “Gavin’s office space has been empty since he died. It’s being used as storage, but I bet the owner would be happy to see it rented again. The boys and I could do most of the labor, fix it up on the cheap—”

  Her stomach plummeted, and she whipped her hands out to hold him off. “Whoa—hold on. You mean start my own salon? Next door to Bree’s gallery? That’s insane. You’re insane.”

  He grinned at her. “Nope. I just believe you’re selling yourself short.”

  “Oban’s too small to support a full-time hair salon.”

  “Not during the busy seasons.”

  “Tourists who come to hike the Rakiura or visit the bird sanctuary—they don’t come to get a cut and color.”

  He jerked a shoulder forward, pulled a face. “Most of them, no. But your mani-pedi thing or the face gunk you put on those old ladies to make their skin less wrinkly? And those head massages that turn grown men into helpless babies—and Shaye swears by your leg and foot ones after a day in the kitchen—that’ll help keep you in business year ‘round.”

  The hummingbird heart flutter in Holly’s chest turned into a woodpecker pounding. “You think I could start my own salon?”

  “I know you could. It’s about time you started knowing it.”

  “It’s such a risk. That’s why I never dared to dream about the possibility of having my own business.”

  “You took a risk on me,” Ford said quietly, “and you took a risk on this community when you came back to the island and set up a salon in your home. You’ve proven your capability to do this by the continued loyalty of your regulars, so this is just the next step. Have a little faith in yourself.”

  “I don’t really know where to start.” Her voice cracked.

  “Start with me,” he said. “Over pizza and a beer, we’ll hammer out the details, and tomorrow, we’ll talk with West about drafting up a business plan.”

  Holly nodded, keeping her gaze on the striped toes of her socks. “And you? Are you okay with me staying?”

  “Better than okay.” He rapped his knuckles on the guitar. “And ecstatic I won’t have to spend a fortune on fucking ferry fares every month.”

  She glanced up at him. “I thought we’d agreed that me moving to Invers would be the end of us.”

  His eyes drew her in, pulled her under. “I never agreed to anything like that. What’s a one-hour ferry trip and a thirty-minute drive amongst friends?”

  Holly huffed out a sigh. “Jeez, man up and just admit you’d have bloody missed me.”

  “I’d have missed you.”

  His words sent shivers down her spine.

  “Good.” She arched her chin. “Play me something?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Now?”

  “You’ve never played me anything when we’ve been alone together.”

  “Okay.” He crooked a finger. “Sit down then. You’re making me nervous.”

  “Thought you didn’t get nervous?”

  “Not with a pub audience. But with you looking so beautiful and being instructed not to touch you?” He shot her a lopsided grin. “I’m more nervous than the first time I had to stand up in front of twenty kids and three teachers to play Ten Guitars at the school assembly.”

  “I remember that,” Holly said. “You were an adorable twelve-year-old.”

  “My knees were knocking so hard I nearly fell on my ass. Sit,” he said again.

  Holly perched on the couch opposite him, and he positioned his fingers on the frets. The first riff of notes plucked from the strings tugged tears to the surface of her eyes as she recognized Cyndi Lauper’s classic ballad, True Colors.

  Though someone else’s lyrics slipped off Ford’s tongue in his husky male baritone, the words and simple melody twined around her, slipping under her guard to pierce her soul. She stood and crossed to him, sitting astride one of his long thighs, bracing a hand on his other leg and leaning in to touch her lips to his forehead.

  Her eyes drifted shut as Ford wove his magic around them, all warmth and light and purity. Each note reverberated in her head, each slight hitch as he changed chords drew the bands constricting her heart a little tighter, and each subtle variation of his voice stoked the fire in her belly brighter until the ache of wanting him, of needing those magical hands of his on her bare skin, was all she could think about.

  The final notes died away, and Holly opened her eyes to the hunger in Ford’s. She dipped her head, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. Unable to resist the taste of him, she ran the tip of her tongue along his bottom lip. She leaned in farther until the front of her thigh brushed against the inside seam of his jeans. Already half erect, his cock grew firmer, swelling behind the faded denim.

  “Take me to bed,” she said.

  “Pizza will get cold.” But without breaking eye contact, Ford rested the guitar against the couch.

  Then he gripped her hips, pulling her snug into all that delicious hardness. Holly bunched two fistfuls of his tee shirt and kissed him as if she meant it—which she totally did.

  Once he got with the program by sinking a hand into her hair and kneading her ass with the other, Holly broke the kiss and arched away. Ford had definitely powered up to full arousal. He wasn’t the only one.

  “I happen to like cold pizza,” she said. “So let’s go, Manilow.”

  Chapter 17

  Being scooped up, Officer and a Gentleman style, and carried into Ford’s bedroom would’ve been a highlight of any red-blooded woman’s fantasy. But it wasn’t Ford’s style. He stood in one easy movement—God, the man was strong—keeping hold of her butt.

  “Hang on, monkey.”

  She hooked her ankles around his hips, looping her arms around his neck. Who needed a uniformed Richard Gere when she could be pressed boob to belly to groin against real muscle and bone and warm, sun-bronzed skin? Holly sank her teeth into the strong cords of Ford’s throat while he strode down the hallway to his bedroom. She flicked her tongue against his skin, the rough traces of evening stubble prickling her taste buds.

  Mmmmm. So much better than pizza.

  Ford lowered her to her feet inside his room, moving past her to draw the drapes
and switch on a bedside lamp. Then he returned to draw her into his arms, kissing her until her head swam, until her breath came in choppy gasps.

  They broke apart, and Ford wrestled with his shirt. Holly plastered herself against him while the shirt still covered his face, layering kisses over one smooth, rounded pec. She flicked her tongue over his nipple then blew on it. Adored the tremor that ran through his big body. Her nipples tightened in response, rubbing painfully against the restriction of her bra.

  Holly lowered herself to the bed edge and hooked her fingers in the waistband of Ford’s jeans. She dragged him between her legs until her nose bumped lightly ridged abs. Of course, she had to trace those with her tongue, too. His fingers slid into her hair, tightening slightly as she unbuttoned his jeans. The ridge of him pulsed against her fingers as she continued to pop buttons. She dragged the denim aside, and his cock sprang free of all confines. Thick, a shade darker than the pale copper tone of Ford’s stomach, it strained enticingly toward her mouth.

  “Commando, sweet?” Holly wrapped her fingers around him and bent to swipe her tongue over the smooth tip. “Very considerate.”

  His intense gaze locked on her face, eyes dark with need. Holly licked him again, from the base of his shaft to the head, angling her chin to watch that need play over his face. Just a little taste…

  Only one was never enough.

  His hands fisted in her hair as she tasted the length of his salty-sweet skin. She gripped a firm ass cheek and pulled him in deep, over and over, working him with her other hand until the motion dragged groans, raw and desperate, from his chest. He broke her rhythm by pulling out of her mouth and cupping her jaw.

  “I’m about a minute away from coming.”

  Holly licked her lips. “I want you to.”

  His Adam’s apple worked. “God, I want to, too. But later. First”—he sank to his knees between her thighs—“I want you naked.”

  He peeled off her shirt and made short work of her bra, pausing briefly to suck a nipple into his mouth, giving it the same loving treatment she’d lavished on his cock. She arched, and firm hands pushed her backward onto the sheets.

  “Lift your hips,” he instructed.

  She complied, and he stripped off her yoga pants and panties then peeled off her socks.

  Ford pressed a kiss to her ankle and then another in the crook of her knee. She propped herself up on her elbows, muscles quivering as he worked damp kisses up her thighs, stopping when his mouth was a breath away from her pussy. God knew, she was soaked for him already. Soaked and trembling uncontrollably by the time his warm breath switched from her upper thigh to directly over her swollen clit.

  “Remember the first time I tasted you?”

  “Yes.”

  He skimmed a finger down the crease between her thigh and outer fold. Her hips jerked, her body’s way of demanding he take that finger and slide it inside her. Ford didn’t get the hint, though his mouth curled into a sly smile.

  “I remember it, too. The frustration of not being able to touch you because my hands weren’t clean.” He held up a hand, rubbing his thumb and first two fingers together. “That won’t be an issue tonight. You’re gonna milk my fingers the first time you come and then my cock as I take you over the second time.”

  He didn’t give her an opportunity to object, he just thrust a finger inside her—the shock of intrusion so intense, so pleasurable that her thighs squeezed his broad shoulders. His smile widened, his finger withdrawing far enough to add a second, then the killer combo of his thumb circling her clit.

  Holly bowed off the bed, and Ford dropped his head, his mouth guided as if by an invisible cord straight to where his thumb rested. He kept his promise, driving her relentlessly toward the edge with firm strokes then teasing flickers of his tongue. Combined with the slow thrust of his fingers, he played her more skilfully than any musical instrument until—

  Holly cried out, white-knuckling the sheets as she came apart for him.

  By the time the last delicious tremor worked its way down to her curled toes and up again, Ford had shucked off his jeans and sat on the bed edge, rolling on a condom.

  Knowing how good it was for him with her on top, Holly got to her knees and tugged Ford’s shoulders. He fell backward onto the sheets, and she straddled his thighs. He smiled up at her, skimming his hands up her legs, settling them on her waist.

  “Sure you’re strong enough to take me for a ride?” he asked.

  Holly reached behind her, found him hard and ready. “I’m stronger than you think.” She reached farther and gently squeezed his balls.

  His breath hitched, eyes narrowing to dark slits. Positioning him at her slick entrance, she dipped the head of him inside her. Just an inch. One single inch that lit her up like a freaking Christmas tree. Then she slid his cock head out and between her folds until it nestled against her still-pulsing clit. She rocked her hips, grinding into him, and it felt so damn good that she couldn’t prevent a needy whimper escaping.

  “Your willpower is killing me, Hol.”

  Greedy to feel all of him, she leaned forward and aligned their bodies again. Ford’s abs bunched as he sat upright, wrapping her tight in his arms. With one thrust, he seated himself deep inside her. She clenched around him, fullness stretching her, filling her, firing off another blissful shockwave.

  Their faces level, he took her mouth, all the time stroking gently, slowly into her. Not enough to propel her into another climax but enough to drive her half insane with the intensity of sensation.

  She squirmed her hips, desperate for the fast slap of friction, but he pulled her more tightly into his embrace.

  “Slow down,” he whispered against her lips, rubbing a hand lightly up and down her spine. “I got you.”

  She stilled under his touch, her breath shuddering out of her lungs as all her focus honed in on the intimacy of their connection. Wrapped around him, his cock buried to the hilt inside her—she could swear he pulsed against her womb—she ached in a way she never had before. Ached for Ford, in a way she never had before.

  The ache intensified as their gazes locked, until it hammered through her blood like a second pulse—two heartbeats in synchronisation. Two pulses with one simple beat repeated over and over…I-love-him-I-love-him-I-love-him.

  Her internal muscles clenched in shock. Love him? She’d fallen in love with him?

  Ford groaned, his eyes sliding shut and throat working.

  “I was wrong,” he said, his voice coming in short, rough gasps. “You’ve got me, baby. Right in the palm of your hand.”

  Then his eyes opened, spearing her right through the heart.

  Oh, she was a goner. Gone burger. Exposed and vulnerable, a billboard that screamed, “Hey, Ford. Guess who’s in love with you?”

  And when he let go of her long enough to cup her face, to kiss her with the sweetest of kisses, her stomach dropped. He’d given her nowhere to hide, nowhere left to keep her heart safe. His tongue danced against hers, a flicker mimicking the tiny shifts of movement he made deep inside her.

  The subtle movements grew faster, and she responded, pleasure twisting out of control. Ford’s shoulder muscles tensed under her hands as his body shook. He wrapped his arms around her, his cock sheathed so tightly that she felt every single shudder as he came in long, sweeping waves.

  Before he’d finished, Ford rolled her onto her back and bore her into the mattress, thrusting into her over and over until her second orgasm turned her muscles to jelly, loosening her tongue, so instead of crying out soundlessly, she moaned, “I love you,” into the straining muscles of his throat.

  ***

  I love you.

  Not many ways to misinterpret that, even in the heat of the moment.

  Ford hooked his fingers around the necks of empty beer bottles and picked up the two dinner plates with his other hand. Behind him, Holly stretched on his bed, rolling onto her side with a gigantic yawn. Beer, pizza, great sex—no wonder they were both tuckered out.


  He carted the bottles and plates to the kitchen. Dumped the plates on the counter, bottles in recycling. Stood staring out his kitchen window at the sliver of ocean peeping between two spindly manuka.

  I love you, she’d moaned against his neck.

  But even in the middle of a blow-his-brains out orgasm, the words smacked into him with the force of a head-on collision with a tanker. And like a car crash test dummy, he’d said nothing. Pretended he hadn’t heard. Held her close—snuggled, if you will—and silently freaked the fuck out.

  No woman had ever told him she loved him. None. And he’d never been in love. He had a twenty-nine-year-old Love “V-card” he’d never turned in, for God’s sake.

  Ford picked up Holly’s plate and tipped a solitary nibbled pizza crust into the trash. He’d eaten the crusts from the other two slices she’d left—as usual, taking them off her plate without asking for permission. It was their thing. She loved pizza, loved bread, but hated the crusts, and Ford the garbage-guts took care of it.

  Took care of her.

  Like she took care of him in subtle ways he didn’t often think about. Hair care products magically appeared in his bathroom—not that he’d tell the guys about that one. She’d show up for lunch once or twice a week to enforce a break—since he often forgot—usually with coffee and food in hand. Foil-covered casserole dishes left in the workshop’s fridge, chicken soup and tissues and nasty-tasting, homemade cough mixture she swore by when he got sick.

  She cared for him.

  Ford rinsed the plates and stacked them in the dishwasher.

  And said she loved him.

  He shoved the door shut on the dishwasher and spun the dial.

  What the hell was he supposed to do with that? What the hell should he feel about it? Ford’s lip twitched. Well, he wasn’t such a numbnuts he hadn’t figured it was more than just sex between him and Holly.

  Ford rubbed a fist against the ache in his chest—which, damn it, was indigestion, nothing more. It felt as if a big-assed anvil was poised above his head, ready to squash him like a cartoon coyote when he screwed up everything.