Playing Hard

by Melanie Scott

  “Does this mean you want me to come over often?”

  “I think we just established I want you whenever I can have you, Amelia,” he said.

  “Wanting me for now and keys are two different things. Keys imply … longevity.”

  “All I know is that I have no intention of letting you out of my bed anytime soon, should you choose to climb into it.” His eyes looked very dark suddenly. “Unless you’re not planning to?”

  She hadn’t planned any of this. Everything seemed to be moving at a million miles an hour, and she wanted to find a way to stand still and catch her breath. But the weird thing was, when she pictured herself doing just that, she was picturing Oliver standing beside her. She took a breath, tried to reach for that stillness. But found only the need for him. So, no, she wasn’t going to lie and pretend she didn’t want him. She shook her head. “I think we can safely say it’s been on my mind. So I’ll keep the key.”

  His smile made her heart turn over.

  “And you’ll use it tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  One little word shouldn’t feel so big but it did. Huge. But, looking at Oliver, huge wasn’t scary.

  “Good,” he said. “Let’s go watch the ball game.”

  * * *

  Six hours later, her heart was beating almost as fast as the elevator was shooting upward toward Oliver’s floor. Which was dumb. Dumb to be nervous.

  Just Oliver. Who kissed like a god. Who looked like a god. Who wanted her.

  These were all good things. So what was there to be nervous about?

  It sounded stupid even in her head.

  For the hundredth time that day she slipped her hand into the side pocket of her purse and felt for the key. Still there.

  Just a key.

  The key to Oliver’s apartment.

  Just a key. One any injured friend might have given her so she could let herself in. After all, she had one to Finn’s apartment.

  No biggie.

  Except if she used this one then she was stepping over the threshold to more than just his apartment. No denying that. One small step for woman, one giant step into what could only be classified as a suicidal impulse in terms of romantic choices.

  Ollie was an athlete. Gorgeous. Focused. Obsessed with his sport. Just like all those guys she’d watched play their hearts out tonight. And sure, right now he’d turned that focus onto her. But what happened when he could play again? Where did she fit then?

  Would she move down his priority list? Or off it all together?

  He was an athlete. His game was his life.

  And he was perfectly able—and likely—to smash her heart into approximately a billion pieces.

  A smart woman would have returned the key and sent one last gummy bear care package before running for the hills.

  But apparently she wasn’t being smart these days. Not since he’d kissed her. Not since he’d asked her to come here tonight.

  The elevator came to a smooth halt and the doors slid open with a whispered whoosh. The key bit into her palm as she approached the apartment door.

  She made herself relax her grip—and the key slipped through her fingers and hit one of the black tiles with a metallic clink that seemed very loud in the silence.

  For a moment she stared down at it, tempted to take it as a bad omen, an excuse to turn tail and head straight back into the elevator and flee.

  A smart woman would do just that.

  She bent, picked up the key, straightened, and then unlocked the door.

  The apartment was quiet. No music or sounds of TV gave her any hint where Oliver might be.

  Maybe he wasn’t back from Staten Island yet. The Saints had been celebrating their second win. They’d brought the series back to two all. So it would all be decided in the final game. Apparently that meant a little celebrating even if they did have another game to play. Oliver had vanished from the owners’ box after the game ended. She’d assumed he’d gone down to the locker room to be with his friends. But by the time she and the Castros had found Finn in the throng of players, supporters, families, and press, Oliver wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

  But there’d been a single text on her phone saying Don’t forget. Use the key. So she’d come. Let herself in. All she needed now was the man himself.

  She hesitated, looked past the entryway. She could try the living room or the kitchen. She wasn’t going to try his bedroom.

  No way, no how.

  She slipped off her coat and hung it on the coatrack where Ollie’s leather Saints jacket hung, looking vaguely neglected. She smoothed a hand over the sleeve and caught a drift of his aftershave.

  Which made her heart beat fast all over again.

  So. Choose one and stop standing in the hall like a dweeb. It was just Oliver. Hardly bearding a monster in his den. Just a partly wounded baseball player.

  Or perhaps a very wounded one, she amended as she pushed open the door to the living room and saw Oliver lying on the long leather sofa, staring up at the ceiling, his bandaged hand resting on his chest. His face, unguarded for a moment, looked almost … grief-stricken.

  He looked up as she closed the door behind her, the sadness vanishing in an instant. “You’re late.”

  “I didn’t think we’d set a time,” she said. “The traffic back was awful and I had to take the Castros to their hotel.” Her tone was crankier than she intended. Maybe it had been the wrong decision. If he was upset about not playing this might not be the ideal moment.

  “I’m not mad,” he said as he sat up. “Just … impatient.”

  “Impatient is good,” she said. Impatient for her, she could live with. If that was all there was behind it. She wasn’t so sure it was.

  “Are you happy about the win?” she asked.

  He scrubbed his good hand over his face. “I’m happy for them. I’m less happy for me.” Dark eyes studied her. “Is that want you want to hear?”

  “Just seeing where we are.”

  “Where we are right now involves me wishing there could be less talking and more getting naked with you.” One dark eyebrow arched at her. “I want you, Amelia. That’s all that matters right now.”

  She bent down, eased her shoes off, trying to pretend her pulse wasn’t pounding. “How much is this you wanting me versus you wanting a distraction?”

  “You want a percentage?”

  She shrugged. “Humor me.”

  “I met you before I needed a distraction, remember? If that night at the party had gone differently, then this moment would have arrived a lot faster.”

  “It’s been one whole week. I think that’s pretty fast. So … percentage?” She knew it was kind of dumb to ask. She doubted she was going to leave no matter what he said. At this stage, she wanted to know what sex with him would be like. To give herself that moment even if turned out to be a dumb decision. To let the beautiful man take her clothes off and make her come her brains out.

  She might pay in the morning. She was willing to pay.

  But it might be easier to know what the chances of paying were from the outset.

  The silence stretched. She held her breath.

  Then “Eighty twenty,” he said. “Happy?”

  “It’s honest. So, yes. I can live with that.”

  “Honest is good. Come here, Amelia.”

  She walked slowly. There was something about her having him at her mercy that suddenly caught at her imagination. After all, it wasn’t as though he could run away. He couldn’t even run after her if she ran away. And she doubted he could sweep off her feet right now.

  That was okay. She looked forward to the day the pirate side of him was let loose, but right now she was the one who got to do the plundering. She’d pulled her hair up roughly for the drive back from Staten Island but now she tugged at it and let it fall down.

  “So how do you see this working?” she said. She waved at the sofa. “There isn’t really that much room on your sofa.”

  She stopped moving whe
n her knees touched his knees.

  “We did okay the other night,” he said.

  “Yes, but that was just playing around.”

  “I’m good with playing around for a little while.” His good hand reached out, caught her wrist, pulled her closer. She let herself be coaxed, hitching up her skirt so she could settle on his lap.

  “So you like playing games?” she asked.

  “That depends what you had in mind. I’m not in the mood for Words with Friends.”

  “Word games weren’t what I had in mind.”

  She bent and kissed him, cradling his face in her hands. Sheer pleasure washed over her from the simple act of putting her mouth to his.

  “Something simpler?” he said when she pulled back.

  She nodded, words escaping her.

  He laughed, and the sound was a low rumble of wicked in the darkness. “How about you show me yours and I’ll show you mine?”

  “I can do that.” She peeled off her jacket and discarded it. Then studied him. He had a shirt on. Tricky to remove with one hand. So she should be helpful. She leaned closer again, started undoing the buttons, pushing back the cotton as she went, baring skin to her gaze. Very nice skin. Dusted with dark hair. Smooth. Hot.

  “I see you know how to play this game,” he said.

  She tugged the shirt away from his jeans. “I’m getting the hang of it.”

  “You might have to play both sides.” He held up his bandaged hand. “I’m not sure I can return the favor tonight.”

  “Oliver Shields, are you telling me you haven’t mastered the art of undressing a woman one-handed?”

  She leaned back, ran a finger down the line of buttons that held her shirt together. Flicked the top one open with her left hand. “See, easy.” She arched her back a little, hoping he enjoyed the view. “You try.”

  Long fingers splayed across the vee of skin she’d already bared. She wondered if he could feel how fast her heart was beating.

  His hand slid over the curve of her breast, thumb dragging over the peak of her nipple before his fingers grasped the next button and undid it with a quick twist of his fingers.

  She laughed. “I think you’ve done that before.”

  “Maybe I’m just a fast learner.” He undid another button, then another. Soon enough her shirt was open like his.

  She’d worn her sexiest bra, a bit of deep-red silk-and-lace nothingness she’d bought in a fit of whimsy. Apparently whimsy was paying off. The look on Oliver’s face as he took in the bra was heated.

  She decided to take care of the buttons on the cuffs herself so she could get rid of her shirt altogether.

  He made a noise of approval. And cupped her breast again. Which meant it was her turn to make incoherent noises as his fingers set to work. Maybe it was just as well the man didn’t have two good hands right now. She might not have survived double the rush of sensation.

  “Good?” he asked and she nodded, wordless again.

  “Let’s go for better than good,” he said and this time it was his mouth on her, tongue dampening the lace so the fabric dragged over sensitive skin, the texture enough to make her squirm in his lap. She put her hands on his shoulders and braced herself so he could do what he wanted. Apparently he still felt impatient because in the next second he proved that he definitely knew how to take off a bra one-handed.

  His mouth on bare flesh felt even better.

  He played with her for a long time. Until she was breathless, pushing herself against him to try and ease the need.

  “I think it might be time to relocate,” he said.

  It took a few seconds to get her brain to function. “Does relocation involve a bed?”

  “A big one.”

  “Good plan.” She wriggled off him. Then held out her hand. His fingers gripped hers and he stood.

  “Do you need the stick?”

  “I can manage. It’s only about twenty feet down the hallway.”

  Twenty feet took longer than she thought. Because he kept stopping to kiss her. Long, drugging kisses. She would have been happy to stop where they were and let him take her on the floor, but the kisses were too good to interrupt him with suggestions. Eventually he pushed open a door and pulled her through into his bedroom.

  Big room. Big bed. Huge. And high. Well, he was a tall guy. And a big bed just left more scope for … experimenting. She pushed him toward the bed. “Sit down. I want to unwrap you.”

  “Your wish is my command.” He sat. Then stuck out his foot. “Better start with the boot if you want to get into my pants.”

  “You don’t have to keep it on?”

  “It’s just a sprain. I might not be up to the more exotic parts of the Kama Sutra tonight, but we can lose the boot.”

  “I don’t need the Kama Sutra.” She undid straps and eased the boot off his foot. Then dispensed with his other shoe. She slid her hands up strong denim-clad thighs. Gripped his waistband.

  “I don’t need the Kama Sutra, either,” Ollie said. “Just you. Come back here, Amelia.”

  That was an invitation she wasn’t about to refuse. She stood. Shed her skirt and stockings. Time enough for more exotic games later. When Oliver was better. But now all she wanted was him. The touch and feel of him. Wanted it so badly, she had to clench her hands not to just throw herself on the bed next to him.

  Oliver had lost his jeans and the shirt. The sight of him wearing only black boxer briefs and a smile was enough to make any woman lose her mind.

  God. She’d forgotten this. Forgotten the glory of a supremely honed male body. Wall Street guys worked out and ran and did all the right things, but she’d never slept with a guy with a body like this.

  Oliver was all long, powerful muscles. He looked lean in his clothes but she was realizing that was deceptive. Somehow his height had disguised the power in those thighs and arms. The strength under his skin. The fact that his body had been honed to perfection with sweat and work and skill.

  All lying there waiting for her.

  “I thought you were coming over here?” he said.

  “I lost my train of thought,” she said. “You shouldn’t just spring that”—she waved her hand at him—“on a girl.”

  He laughed. “I could say the same about the underwear you’re wearing. Come over here and let me appreciate it some more.”

  She shook her head. “Nope.”

  “No? You changing your mind here, Amelia?”

  God no. “Oliver, wild horses aren’t going to drag me from this bedroom. But I thought if I did this, it might make things easier.” She shucked off her bra, then her underwear. Her fingers trembled as she pushed the silk down her legs. Unlike Oliver, her body wasn’t perfect. She had curves. Wobbly bits.

  But as she straightened, the look on his face made her worries disappear.

  “God, your skin,” he said. “I vote for you to always be naked in the moonlight.”

  The low thrum in his voice made it hard to breathe. “Might make it hard to get much done,” she managed.

  “Getting stuff done is overrated. Now please come here and let me touch you.”

  “What was it you said? Your wish is my command?” She moved back to the bed. Oliver lifted his hips and pulled off his boxers. Then she was speechless all over again. He’d been impressive before. Fully naked he was kind of astonishing.

  She crawled onto the bed as he moved backward and somehow they were kissing again and his hand skimmed over her hip, dipped between her legs. God. Yes.

  She hooked her leg over his hip, pressing closer.

  “Good?” he asked.

  She nodded. Kissed him again. Good hands. The man had very good hands. Or hand. God. She couldn’t think. It was all about the feel of his fingers sliding over her, teasing her. Making her mindless. Making her want.

  “You feel good, Amelia,” he said. “So good.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself.” She gasped as his fingers slid inside again, hitting just the right spot. “God. Do that ag
ain.”

  “What? This?” He repeated the motion and she moaned. “If you keep making that noise I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “What I want is you,” she said with an effort. His hand slid free.

  “Whatever you want.” He rolled away, came back with a condom. Held it out to her. “Not sure I can do this one-handed.”

  “I got it. Lie back.” Now that she thought about it, there might be benefits to his injury. Like him letting her take the lead. She slid her hand over his cock, and he shuddered. So she did it again.

  God. She loved the feel of him. Hot smooth skin over all that hardness. All that waiting for her. She dealt with the condom, and then swung her leg over his hips to straddle him.

  His eyes locked onto hers. “Whatever you want,” he repeated.

  She bent so they could kiss again. She was never going to get tired of kissing him. But the feel of his hardness between her legs was irresistible and she straightened again. Lifted her hips and fitted herself over him. His hand gripped her hip fiercely and she froze, worried for a moment, but then he pushed into her, pulling her down at the same time, and any thought but the feel of him fled from her head.

  She put her hands on his chest and moved with him. Rising and falling. So good. He was strong and hard and sure beneath her, his hand holding her hips, keeping her where he wanted her. Where she wanted to be. She’d thought it might be slow and sweet with him, that he might be cautious given his injuries, but he drove them faster and harder, no letting up, not letting her lose the building wave of pleasure rolling through her, not letting her move her eyes from his, falling into those dark eyes as she melted around his body and finally came, shouting his name.

  Chapter Ten

  She nestled against him, breathing in the smell of sex and fresh salt-sweat and Oliver. A tantalizing combination. Even now, boneless and sated, it made her want more.

  “I think I just found my incentive to do all my hand therapy,” he said, half laughing. “Because I want to make you feel as good as you just made me feel.”

  “Trust me, I feel pretty damned good.” She felt the aftershocks of him in her body, satisfaction singing through her. There was maybe a little hunger still building there beneath the immediate post-orgasm glow, but she had no doubt they’d take care of that.