Twenty Hours in Boston

by Priscilla Darcy

  "What are you doing?” he asked abruptly—because Aubrey was reaching for his sock.

  "I brought ice.” She held up a washcloth which he assumed was full of ice. She had lovely hands. Small like the rest of her. Slender, elegant fingers...

  "I have to go,” he said.

  "You can't walk on this foot. Look at how swollen it is. Let me put some—” She was tugging at his sock now.

  He inhaled sharply. “Would you be careful? It's sensitive."

  "You are quite a baby for such a big man."

  "I think my foot is broken. And I don't think ... I don't think you should be looking at my foot."

  She paused in the process of working his sock off, regarding him curiously. “Why not? Do you have six toes or something? Webbed feet?"

  "No, I just ... As a general rule, I don't let women see my feet until they've seen ... other parts of me.” God, he sounded like a complete idiot.

  "I see. You don't consider your feet to be sexy enough for general viewing?” She lifted an eyebrow.

  "I—Well, that's not—” Gray had no idea how to respond to that.

  "It's okay, Gray,” she assured him earnestly. “I don't find any part of your body particularly sexy."

  This was a lie, but it was totally worth it to see his jaw drop in astonishment. Good-looking men, as a general rule, knew they were good-looking men. And Gray was even better looking than most. Wide shoulders, broad chest, narrow hips, strong features, and a pair of blue eyes that edged toward periwinkle. Everything about him screamed masculine beauty.

  Naturally he knew it. And she enjoyed having astonished him, and took advantage of his momentary distraction to pull the sock the rest of the way off. Ignoring the curse this elicited from him, she regarded the foot she'd revealed.

  It was indeed swollen, and was beginning to bruise, but other than that it was a perfectly respectable foot. “How hard did you kick that wall, Gray?"

  "I was angry. I am angry.” He flinched as she placed the washcloth and ice on his foot. “That's cold."

  "That's the point.” She sat on the bed, keeping the ice applied to his foot. “It was worse that it was just one pitch. Baseball should be ... I mean, it should take a long time, you know? There should be a build-up. People on base. Disintegrations in the form of hits."

  "Ah. You mean the way it was tied up."

  "Yes. That way."

  "What do you think the population of the world is?"

  She shrugged. “I don't know. It's in the billions, I guess."

  "So the odds are billions to one that the Red Sox win this game tonight, and instead we find the one human being—possibly the one living creature on the planet—who leaves Pedro in for that entire inning."

  "I wish I felt angry like you."

  "You mean you don't? Then how do you feel?"

  She sighed. “Sad. So sad.” She shifted the ice a little on his foot, and felt the sorrow settle heavily on her in the ensuing silence. And she couldn't let it take hold. She couldn't keep reliving those awful moments in her head. “Gray, thank you for the drinks,” she said, just to have something to say.

  "Don't worry about the drinks."

  "And thank you also for ... Well, it's nice to be with someone who understands. I mean, tomorrow I'll have to go back to New York and face—"

  "I know. Don't think about it."

  But she had to think about it. She had nothing to think about but that. The following day would be hell. Tonight would be hell, tossing and turning in the dark, playing endlessly over the what-ifs.

  She lifted her head abruptly to meet Gray's gaze. He was watching her, head resting in his hand, but he didn't look interested. His dark eyebrows were drawn together over his blue-gray eyes. He looked intensely thoughtful.

  Probably he was thinking about the game. Probably he wasn't thinking about her at all. He lived in Vegas. He probably slept with showgirls. No one would mistake her for a showgirl.

  But she didn't have to be alone tonight. She could make a move here ... He was a guy. Surely he wouldn't turn down no-strings-attached sex.

  Wait a minute. Was she really thinking of having a one-night stand with this man? She'd never done anything like that in her life. She didn't even know his last name.

  And yet he was almost impossibly attractive, fun to talk to ... and a Red Sox fan.

  Did men get any better?

  She swallowed thickly, realizing that she would have to make the move. How did one go about making a move in this sort of situation?

  "So there's nothing about me you find attractive?” Gray asked abruptly.

  She blinked at him. And then she grinned, feeling instantly better. She'd bruised his ego with that comment. She cocked her head to the side, pretended to consider. “You have nice eyes."

  "Gee, thanks,” he said, narrowing said body part.

  "You don't find me attractive ... do you?” she asked innocently. This was more fun than she would have thought.

  "Of course I find you attractive. I'd be an idiot not to, wouldn't I?"

  And suddenly she just rushed into things, with no second thoughts, but also with no finesse. “Gray, don't go. Stay."

  "I have to go,” he said.

  "No, you don't. There's nothing that says you have to go. And if you go, and we spend the night alone separately, all we'll do is think and think and get more and more and more depressed than we already are. We're here. We're together. Let's wallow a little."

  "Can't."

  A thought struck her. “Are you married?” Please, no. Please, no. Please—

  "No."

  Relief flooded her. “Then what's the problem?"

  Gray tried to smile. “The thing is, I...” He trailed off.

  She arched an eyebrow at him. “The thing is...?” she prompted.

  "I'm trying to think of what the thing is."

  She laughed at him. “Gray, don't you want to have sex with me?” she asked innocently.

  "Oh, I have to go,” he said, standing far too quickly. Swearing, he sat back down in the chair.

  Nonplussed, Aubrey swept up the ice that his sudden movement had upended all over the bedspread. “Foot not feeling any better?” She collected the ice back in the washcloth. “You want it?"

  "You're drunk,” he said, almost sounding relieved. “That's what the thing is. You've had far too much to drink."

  "I don't feel drunk.” She put aside the washcloth on the bedside table.

  He tried not to watch the play of lights in that fiery hair. Damn it, she would be a redhead. “You'll feel it in the morning."

  "So you plied me with drink and now you're not making good on it?"

  "I didn't—What the hell are you doing?"

  She had deposited herself firmly in his lap.

  She pulled his Red Sox cap off. His hair was a very dark brown. Very close to black. He wore it cropped short in the back, longish on top, and, from a night under his cap, it was flattened adorably onto his head. And it was shot through with gray at the temples. Thoughtfully, she tousled her hands through it.

  "Really what are you doing?” he asked.

  Because she was well aware he could just push her off his lap with very little effort, she ignored his protestations and said instead, “How old are you, Gray?"

  "What?"

  "I think you're older than me."

  "I think definitely I'm older than you."

  "Ah. That's why you get to be the responsible one, right?” She nuzzled at his throat, under his jaw, feeling the scrape of stubble, flattening her palms against his chest.

  "I'm also the fairly sober one.” She nipped at his earlobe and his breath caught involuntarily. “Oh, Aubrey,” he said, lifting his hands into her hair with every intention of pulling her away—and instead keeping her firmly in position. “Please stop."

  Her head came up, but she didn't look like she was going to stop. She looked like she was having a fantastic time. She filled his vision. Her eyes were blue. Bright. Clear. Endlessly amus
ed. She seemed to be amused by everything he did, even when he was trying very hard not to amuse her. “You want me to call you a cab?"

  Yes. Yes. He had to go. He had to go. She thought she wanted a one-night stand here, but she really didn't. In his experience, women never really wanted a one-night stand.

  And he wasn't looking for a relationship. He didn't need a relationship. They would never have a relationship. And wasn't there something about honor here? Something about being honorable?

  "Yes. A cab. Please."

  She got off his lap. Thank God. She was a warm, lovely bundle of female, and he'd loved the feel of her against him, leaning on him, teasing him. It was better that she stay on her own two feet, far away from him, while he was trying to be honorable.

  She took off her shirt.

  Then again...

  He reconsidered. She was asking for it, wasn't she? Practically begging. Who would she have to blame when he was gone in the morning?

  And who the hell cared if she blamed him?

  She tossed the shirt at him. “Hold that for me for a second."

  "You going to take all your clothes off?” he asked in amusement.

  She shrugged, unconcerned, unclasping her bra. “I figured you'd do it, but you're out of sorts because of your foot."

  "I'm out of sorts, am I?” He caught her bra as she tossed it to him.

  "Mm-hmm.” She nodded, watching Gray's eyes, wondering if she was making a fool of herself.

  "Well, keep going,” he said. “Don't keep me in suspense."

  She smiled at him. “You want me to call you a cab?"

  "I'd get up and undress you but as you can see I'm incapacitated."

  "Ah. So you want the undressing and then the cab?"

  "We'll see ... once I see what you've got to offer.” He sent a wicked grin her way that made her feel light-headed. Maybe he was right. Maybe she was drunk.

  And she was way too far into this to stop now. She was standing here topless in front of this man. She couldn't very well walk over and ask for her clothing back because she'd changed her mind.

  Hesitating, she looked down at her shoes, wondering how women managed to pull off sexy stripteases. Probably they wore killer heels, not practical sneakers. She looked up at him. “I have to take off my shoes."

  He looked amused, which she wasn't sure was a good thing. She didn't want him laughing at her. “Please,” he said, lifting his hands in an expansive gesture, but the effect was ruined by the bra and shirt he was still holding.

  She sat on the bed, her back to him, untying her sneakers and kicking them off. Maybe she should recommend that he get undressed, too. It occurred to her that never in her life had she stood completely naked in front of a man who was still fully dressed and just watching like it was some show he'd paid for.

  She couldn't do this. She couldn't. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't ... It couldn't...

  She stood, turned to face him, opened her mouth to tell him, and felt the words die in her throat. He was watching, yes, but not like it was some show he'd paid for. He was watching her. Like he wanted her.

  There was no trace of amusement left on his face. His gaze was dark and heavy-lidded and made her want to shiver. She wanted him, she realized. She wanted him desperately. Maybe more than she'd ever wanted anyone, which was confusing to say the least, as she barely knew him.

  But the nerves jumping inside her, it became clear to her, were there because she wanted badly for him to want her back.

  She unbuttoned her jeans and pushed them down, panties and all—because it occurred to her that if she didn't take everything off right then, she would panic again and not do it. She wanted to look sexy while she was doing this, mysterious and aloof, instead of struggling to look halfway desirable.

  Note to self: When next attempting to seduce a strange man, wear a dress. Easy and graceful to take off. But no pantyhose.

  She finally managed to get completely naked. It seemed to her it took her an inordinate amount of time to do so. And then she waited for something to happen. Gray's eyes lingered, drank her in, slowly crawling over her. Her breath sounded so loud to her own ears. She hoped he wasn't going to sense how embarrassingly nervous she was.

  The woman was exquisite. All the time he had spent with her that night, he had been noticing abstract things about her body, but he had never actually taken the energy to imagine her naked in front of him—partly because he hadn't thought it would ever happen, mostly because he'd been watching baseball.

  But now it occurred to him that the woman was absolutely exquisite. Perfect. Everything about her was stunning, breathless. His hands clenched in the shirt he was still holding. He wanted to be full of her. He wanted to be lost in her.

  His eyes went back to hers. They looked vaguely nervous. He wondered suddenly how long he'd been sitting there staring at her.

  He cleared his throat. “This is the part where I would sweep you off your feet. Except that—"

  "Right,” she said.

  "So come here."

  She took a deep breath. If she went ... If she went...

  She knew exactly what would happen. She'd asked for it, hadn't she? Even so, she went slowly, deliberately, over to him.

  She was nervous, he realized. Should he tell her that the game was over? She'd obviously got herself in over her head, and he was willing to end it. Okay, willing wasn't really the right word. But he would if she wanted him to.

  Or maybe ... Maybe she just needed to be relaxed. It had been a while since he had wanted a woman as desperately as he wanted her. He thought relaxing her was worth a try.

  "Why don't I show you all those things I usually show women before we get to my feet?"

  It worked. Thank God, it worked. She smiled broadly. “You need help?"

  "Oh, tons of help."

  "Yeah, I figured.” She sat on his lap, reaching for the hem of his shirt.

  And the impulse took him by surprise, but he caught her chin firmly and jerked her head toward him and kissed her hard, startled by how much he needed to taste her.

  He'd taken her by surprise, too. He could tell by the lag time in her response. And then she kissed him back. Almost bewildered him by how eagerly she kissed him back, shifting, squirming to get closer to him, her hands dragging through his hair.

  At some point Gray decided this woman was going to kill him, curled and cuddled naked on his lap, his hands full of skin that felt like satin. She'd forgotten about taking his clothes off, which was fine by him, because as much as he wanted to be inside her, as much as he wanted that skin against his skin, he wanted more to taste her. Oh, every blessed inch of her. He wanted to lap her up like cream.

  She was breathing like she was running a marathon when he tore his mouth away from hers and tugged at a breast that looked like it was pouting just for him. She made a noise that might have been his name, and her hands closed in his hair. And she was trembling. He could feel it. The shivers wracked through her body.

  He drew back. Her eyes were half-closed and unfocused with pleasure. Dark blue. Her eyelashes were like her hair. Fire. Warm. Who the hell was he kidding? Hot.

  He meant to ask her ... something. What had stopped him? Something had. She was shivering. Yes. He meant to ask her—

  "I want you everywhere, Gray,” she said, her voice low and husky with desire.

  "Okay,” he said stupidly and, forgetting the fact that he'd done something very bad to his foot, stood with her. The foot gave out, but that was okay, because they collapsed onto the bed and he didn't feel any of the pain, because she was eager and lovely and tasted like Christmas cookies.

  He devoured her mouth while he let his hands roam. If she wanted him everywhere, he was going to damn well comply.

  He licked every inch of her until she was gasping his name, and then he teased her further by catching the gasps in his mouth, kissing her but not quite. He sucked at her breasts until she squirmed in desperation. He lavished kisses on the lovely slope of abdomen
until she moaned, whispered teasing nuzzles along the inside of her thighs until she was practically sobbing for him.

  Then he took a deep breath and went back for more.

  "Gray,” she whimpered, and he had the idea she was not happy with him—except that she was far too happy with him, and that was the problem.

  He measured her racing pulse points with his tongue—on her wrist, then her neck, and finally between her legs.

  She exploded around him immediately, the force of the heat of her almost knocking him backward and kicking his own desire up several notches. He waited through the climax, trying to catch his breath, trying not to admit that he may have miscalculated and waited too long, because now he wanted her too badly to show her much of a good time once he was inside her.

  And maybe she wouldn't mind so much, because she was relaxing slowly under him. He could feel the uncoiling of the muscles he had tensed with his ministrations, feel the sweat cooling on her skin. Her eyes were wide open with what he took to be amazement, and he felt immediately flattered.

  And immediately determined to take her there again. If he was only getting one night, he was going to acquit himself damn well.

  "You're not done yet,” he told her.

  Aubrey, tremors from the climax still running through her, thought she had to get him to stop. She had to catch her breath. She felt like there wasn't enough oxygen getting to her brain. She felt feverish and light-headed and his tongue slid up her thigh and she dropped her head back and lifted her hips for him.

  What the hell. It was quite the way to die.

  He rocketed her brilliantly through another climax and, while she was still gasping, still trembling from it, he rolled with her and she collapsed in exhaustion on his chest.

  "Don't tell me you're going to sleep now,” he teased.

  "Gray,” she gasped, although she didn't know what thought she meant to express.

  "Okay, we'll let you catch your breath here, and then we'll get around to me."

  Around to him? For a long moment she couldn't imagine what he meant. She lay wilted on his chest, legs straddling him, and finally, as she began to come back to a semblance of herself, she realized what he meant.

  Him.