Takes Two to Tackle

by Jeanette Murray

  She reached over on the nightstand and plucked it up. “Suit with tie.”

  He nodded toward the closet door, where his new suit was still hanging in the plastic from the tailor. He’d been too small for his old ones, and no amount of tailoring would make them fit. He should probably donate them, now that he thought about it.

  She started reading the list, and with each item, he added it to one of the two bags. It was pleasant, a calming activity that loosened his tongue enough to joke a few times with her. She smiled and kept her chin propped on her knees, looking younger than normal. He’d never packed with anyone before, he realized. It was always a last-minute dash to grab whatever he thought of as he was rushing out the door to meet the bus . . . for which he was always late and always fined. Inevitably, he forgot something and had to purchase it there, which was never a great option.

  As he zipped the second case and rolled it to rest by his bedroom door, he glanced back. She had laid the list back on the nightstand and was watching him. “What?”

  “You’re just . . . What was wrong earlier? Why did you need company?”

  “I’m scared.” There. He’d voiced his true emotions out loud. His sponsor would weep with joy. “I’m terrified I’m going to get out there and fail.” When he sat on the bed, she came to sit beside him. One arm wrapped around his back, her hand smoothing between his shoulder blades.

  “Muscle memory will kick in. You’re a pro. Literally,” she added with a chuckle. When he didn’t laugh, she sighed and rested her head against his arm. He loved it. Taking a chance, he scooted back and scooped her up to rest across his lap. Mags didn’t protest, and he took that as an even better sign. He just needed comfort.

  “What if it doesn’t?”

  With her temple and cheek against his pec, he could feel the vibration of her voice while she spoke. “Then you work harder than the guy behind you and get it back. I’ve watched you these past few weeks, Stephen. You’re no slouch. You’ve got the drive. You can do this.”

  “And if I can’t?”

  “You can.”

  “If I—”

  She leaned up and silenced him with her lips, which to Stephen’s way of thinking, was the best possible way for a woman to tell a man to shut up. He met her tongue with his, pushing gently against hers, exploring and letting the taste of her soothe his ragged, edgy nerves. When she cupped his cheek, pushing up more fully against him, he lay down until she was draped fully over him, torso to torso.

  His hands were large enough that one, spread out, spanned completely across her back. Stupid sweatshirt was in the way. He pushed it aside, and the tank just happened to roll up with it. But the feel of her beautiful porcelain skin against his rough fingertips was a tactile experience unlike any other. His fingers glided, glided, glided without stopping until they reached the top her shoulders, then back down. Gooseflesh rose beneath his stroking touch, and she wriggled to get even closer to him—not possible—so he could continue.

  His mouth cruised down her jaw, over to her ear to test how sensitive the delicate shell was. When he flicked his tongue over the rim, she shuddered and let out a little gasp that had his semi-erection making the final leap to full-blown. One hand cupped the back of his head, keeping him there. The other roamed over his chest, his arms, down to his waist until she could pull the shirt he was wearing out from the waistband of his jeans and slip beneath to scratch at his abs.

  He grabbed her wrist and pulled it back up and over his shirt. He didn’t want his stomach touched. Walking around shirtless was one thing. But being touched . . . it was hard to remember he wasn’t still the doughy man he’d been. Those ugly reminders of his former body—former self—reared up, unexpectedly. All his insecurities flooded back, sharp and with teeth. But she didn’t seem to mind, keeping her hand outside his shirt.

  He rolled until she was beneath him, her eyes shining up at him. Blue, so blue they practically sparked like a lake with the sun glinting off of it. Christ, she was turning him into a sap. He pushed up her sweatshirt slowly, reveling in every creamy inch of skin he revealed until the fabric caught just under her breasts. Her eyes drifted shut and she reached down to rip the whole thing off herself, throwing it behind her. He heard the lamp from the opposite nightstand crash to the floor, and couldn’t have given any fewer damns about it. Her breasts, pretty handfuls, had rosy pink nipples that strained for his mouth.

  He was the man to oblige them. He cupped one, letting his rough palm rub over the tip. She stretched and arched beneath him, the tendons of her neck straining. He reached up and gave one a gentle bite before moving on to the uncovered nipple, teasing it with his tongue a moment and then sucking in hard.

  The noises she made . . . Christ, the noises. The woman could do dub-overs for a porn studio. Moans, groans, throaty little words that let him know she was extremely into whatever he was doing.

  But he stopped when he felt his hand unconsciously tracing the waistband of her sleep shorts. He wanted her, God knew. There was no denying the evidence tenting his jeans. But was he ready to take that step?

  After a moment frozen, debating, her eyes popped open, and she read the indecision on his face. Taking matters into her own hands, she lifted her butt, wiggled until the shorty shorts moved down to her calves, and kicked them away.

  “I can’t . . . I don’t want to wait.” Her voice was husky, like she’d forgotten how to use it in the past ten minutes. “Don’t wait.”

  ***

  It was the most sexual thing she’d ever said in her brief history of, uh, sexual things. Pretty pathetic, when she thought about it. I don’t want to wait could reference ordering a pizza. Or clocking out of work at the end of a long shift.

  But the way his eyes heated above her, as if she’d said every dirty, lascivious thing in the English language, she figured he got the point.

  She went to pull off his shirt, but he stopped her, reaching for his belt buckle instead. Holy hell, this was getting serious.

  It was serious when you whipped your shorts off without even doing a mental check to make sure you’d shaved recently.

  Oh, God . . . She tested one calf with her other foot.

  She was okay.

  “What’s going on in that mind down there?” Stephen straddled her, jeans still on, hand at the button of his pants. His belt buckle rested against his thigh, and a frown creased between his brows. “Something wrong?”

  “No.” Emphatically, she shook her head. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m good. This is good.” Please don’t stop.

  He stood up in order to shuck his jeans and boxers. And whoa, boy . . . the man was proportional. Her nerves began to dance as he reached into the bottom drawer of the nightstand for a condom. His erection stood straight up, partially covered by the hem of his shirt, which he still wore. But what she could see of it was . . . whoa, boy.

  “I’d ask what’s going on in your mind again,” he said dryly as he fished the condom from the box and let the box fall back into the drawer, “but your face is pretty much saying it all.”

  “It’s just that . . .” She swallowed. “You’re, you know . . .”

  He shook his head, amusement gleaming from his eyes. Damn him for thinking this was funny. “No, what? What am I?”

  “Tall,” she blurted out, then covered her face with both hands. “Long,” she squeaked as he rested beside her on the bed. “Wide.”

  “I’d look pretty ridiculous with a smaller dick, don’t you think? Big guy like me, walking around with a mini–hot dog for a penis?”

  She snorted, but wouldn’t look at him. “Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

  “Why,” he went on, sounding as if he were holding back laughter, “I can only imagine how impressed the ladies would be when I whipped it out. They’d be expecting a jumbo-sized stadium dog and here comes a pig in a blanket.”

  “Stop!” She couldn’t take it anymore; the laughter got the better of her. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and she rolled away, sh
owing him her back while she let it ride. But he didn’t give her long. He pulled her until her butt hit the edge of the bed. She gasped at the sudden movement, feeling weightless for a second, and looked down. “What are you doing?”

  “You’re letting yourself get all worked up over my stadium dog. So we’re doing something else for the moment.” He knelt by the bed, shouldered her legs apart, and went in for one long lap at her center.

  She shuddered in a breath, clenching the bedspread. “Ohmigod. What . . . no, never mind.” Eyes squeezed tight, she enjoyed as he licked and nibbled down below, then zeroed in on her clitoris. Ohmigod, indeed.

  She came with a suddenness that shocked her, enough that she couldn’t even utter the token warning she thought all guys wanted. Stephen clamped two big hands across her hips and belly, keeping her from moving around too much while he rode the orgasm out with her, bringing her down with warm licks, then kisses to her inner thighs, before moving on top of her.

  “That,” he said with a grin, “was seriously hot.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t—oh!” she barely managed as he slid inside without any hesitation. Big, yes, but not impossible. And he showed her exactly how possible with each thrust and rotation of his hips.

  Her hands came up, sliding under his shirt to scratch at his back. He rolled his head, then nuzzled at her neck, and she knew he liked it. Wanting to feel the hard muscles of his chest while he moved, she ran her hands down his sides and up a few inches, but he froze a moment. Then, without warning, gathered both of her hands and pinned them above her head.

  “Okay?” he growled, keeping them shackled with one hand.

  Oh, it was only the hottest experience of her entire life. She shrugged one shoulder and said, “Meh.” But he was on to her, and he gave her a playful nip on her bottom lip as he surged inside her once more.

  A few more thrusts, and he asked her to plant her heels on the mattress and lift. She did, changing the angle, and nearly wept with the pleasure of it. He was everywhere inside her.

  Then, after a few more thrusts, he growled his warning and came. His hand released her wrists, planting beside her on the bed to keep him from collapsing.

  When he rolled onto his side, she went with him. He was so warm, so steady and sturdy and real, she didn’t want to lose the connection.

  It would be nicer without a shirt between them, but he wanted to keep it on, and she’d let it go. Looking at him now, it was hard to remember the man he’d been less than a year ago. Fifty pounds heavier, and unhealthy. It had to be hard shedding that, and coming to grips with the new him.

  He moaned, rubbed a hand over his face and sat up. She slumped to the mattress divot he left behind. “Be right back.”

  In the quiet of the room, as he closed the bathroom door to dispose of the condom and do whatever else in there . . . doubt crept in.

  Was he expecting her to get dressed and go? Still be naked and available? Be dressed but stay?

  Maybe she could go back to being five, when the hardest thing was not grabbing the blue crayon first, because everyone liked blue, and getting stuck with yellow. Those were simpler, less emotionally complex times. She missed those times.

  The door opened faster than she anticipated, and she jolted in surprise. But he didn’t seem angry she was there. The opposite, in fact. His smile lit up the room, and he walked over to bend down and press a noisy kiss to her stomach. “Up. Let’s get the bed turned down.”

  So . . . she was staying. That wasn’t her normal job, so it had to be because he wanted her to stay. Should she grab her pajamas? She didn’t normally sleep in the nude—who would, when they were alone?

  Okay, fine, she didn’t sleep naked even when she’d spent the night with someone. It just felt weird.

  But when he stopped by his bedside first to pull on boxers before sliding into bed, she hesitated only for a second before grabbing her sleep tank and shorts, putting them on and crawling in next to him. He opened his arm, inviting her silently to join him. She rolled into his large arm’s cradle, sighed, told herself not to get used to it, and fell asleep.

  ***

  Stephen’s skull felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and someone with a squeaky toy mallet was beating him repeatedly on the temples. Squeak bang. Squeak bang. Squeak bang.

  He cracked one eye, glanced at the clock, and realized his alarm was going off. God almighty, it was early. He shut the eye again and thought quickly. Why had he set the alarm at all?

  Bus. Training camp. Early start.

  Mags.

  He jolted awake, moving his arm carefully in case she was still using him for a pillow. But his shoulder was empty, as was the rest of his bed. He should have known, given the lack of her clean scent and warm, feminine body pressed against him. He was shocked he hadn’t woken up just from that alone, given how comfortable and . . . right it had felt when she’d curled against him and sighed into sleep.

  One glance at the bathroom door—wide-open—told him she wasn’t there. Probably downstairs getting breakfast started or something. He grinned at that. She was the kind who would. Her pajamas were gone from the floor, so he got up and pulled his own boxers on before heading to the top of the stairs.

  “Mags?” He scratched at his stomach, realizing he still wore his T-shirt. Normally he didn’t sleep in one, but last night . . . he just hadn’t been comfortable taking it off. Stupid, probably, but Mags hadn’t pushed.

  With no sound coming from below, he frowned and turned back to the hallway. Her bedroom door was closed. Had she . . . no. She’d been comfortable sleeping with him. In the night, he’d turned to her and made love with her again when she was still sleepy and in that half-dream status. Then they’d curled right back up and gone back to sleep.

  She wouldn’t have left their cocoon and slept the rest of the night in her own bed . . . would she?

  With a dark feeling in his gut, he turned the doorknob and slowly opened her door. But the room was empty.

  No, not empty. Still full of her scent, her things, her . . . presence, he supposed. The bed was made, but her things were all still there. The little pots that held the stuff women put on their faces lined the dresser top, a stack of her books were on the nightstand, some of her clothing was visible from the partially opened closet door. She hadn’t packed up and run away.

  So, where the hell was she?

  His cell rang and he darted back to his room for it, knocking his knee against a door frame on the way. He cursed, barely managed to grab the phone before collapsing on the bed and hissing out a short “Hello?”

  “Your ass better be out of bed. We’ll be there in twenty.” With that, Josiah hung up.

  “Bite me,” Stephen grumbled and tossed the phone on the bed. With a sigh, he rubbed a hand over his head and looked around the room. Maybe . . . maybe she’d run out for some gourmet coffee, or breakfast. She might not know how early he had to go. He got dressed and started lugging the suitcases downstairs. The smell of coffee teased his nose, and he sighed. She was back.

  Leaving the suitcases by the garage door—where he would leave and close it behind him with the code—he walked into the kitchen, prepared to claim a morning kiss from Margaret.

  Instead, he found a full pot of fresh coffee, a travel mug, and a note.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I left a note.” Margaret let her face fall into her hands and groaned. “A note.”

  Mrs. McGovern rubbed her back soothingly. “I’m sure it was a nice note.”

  “It said Good luck, I believe in you.” She groaned again and let her forehead hit the marble countertop in her ex-landlady’s kitchen. “I think my eighth-grade science teacher wrote that in my yearbook. I’m an idiot.” She picked her head up an inch and let it fall again with a soft thump. “Idiot.” Thump. “Idiot.”

  “That’s not productive. And trust me, nobody looks pretty with a lump in the middle of their forehead like a third eye.” When Mags lifted her head for one more thump, Mrs. M slid a pot hol
der under to cushion the blow. “Why did you run? What did he do that was so bad?”

  “Nothing. That’s the worst part. He did nothing wrong.” Really, he’d done it all right. Over and over again. Her skin tingled just from the memory of his hands gliding over her body. He’d mastered her like an instrument.

  “You’re blushing. Are you warm?” Mrs. McGovern’s hand felt the back of her neck in a very motherly gesture. “Or maybe it’s memories of that young stud.”

  “Mrs. M!” Scandalized and a little embarrassed, Margaret straightened on the kitchen stool and stared.

  “I’m old, not dead,” the elderly woman said, then went to the fridge and pulled out two bottles of water, handing her one. “Did he push you for more than you were willing to give?”

  “Definitely not.” She’d been willing, very willing.

  “Perhaps moving in was a bit premature.”

  Margaret didn’t answer, just took a sip of water and then rolled the bottle over her neck.

  “Whatever it was, I’m sure you can work it out. He seemed like a lovely young man. Not like those hooligans you read about in the news, with their drugs and prostitutes and violence.” Scowling, Mrs. M walked to the counter and continued smearing peanut butter on the bagel she’d toasted before Margaret had knocked on her door at the ungodly hour of five in the morning. Mrs. M was an early riser, as she’d said when Mags had sniffed and asked if it was too early to chat. Might as well get your day started with the sun.

  “He’s not a hooligan. He’s just . . . Stephen.” Resting her chin on her hand, elbow propped on the countertop, she watched the woman who had become a surrogate grandmother to her finish fixing breakfast. “He’s this amazing combination of humility and ego, and brains and brawn . . . though he wouldn’t believe you if you told him about the brains part. Do you know what xi is?”

  “Xi?” Blinking, Mrs. M set a bagel in front of Margaret, then settled on the second stool with her own plate. “I don’t think that’s a thing, sweetie. It sounds Chinese.”

  “Greek.” That made her smile a little. “I ruined it. I’m not even sure what it is, but I ruined it. He’s gone for three weeks, and I wasn’t even there to say good-bye. Now he’s already halfway to camp, and they were asked not to take their cell phones for zero distractions, so I’ve got no way to reach him.”