She lifted her head abruptly. “I've been remiss,” she told him.
"No, I've been generous,” he corrected.
"You're a little too self-righteous in bed,” she informed him, finally getting around to his zipper.
His hands curled around her hips. She grabbed them, pulled them away, sending him a silky smile.
"You have been in control far too long here."
She was definitely very good at torture, Gray decided. Her thrusts were long sinuous teases. “You're going too slowly,” he chastised.
She shrugged. “You say potato..."
What the hell was she talking about? And why the hell wouldn't she let him get deeper? “For God's sake, Aubrey,” he bit out raggedly.
She contracted around him and for a second he could swear he went blind. And she looked so damn calm. Like she was getting a manicure.
His game, he realized, almost in shock. She was outplaying him at his own game. She should have been far too wild with desire to hold it in check. She wasn't supposed to be torturing him. She was supposed to be giving him the upper hand. She had turned the tables quite neatly.
He would have been feeling admiration—except that he was feeling mostly desperate. And, of course, absolutely marvelous.
"You're very—"and he could hear himself panting to get it out—"very good at this."
"Huh,” she said. “Good? That's it? Guess I need to try a little harder here."
"Dammit,” he gasped as she squirmed, sending sensation singing through him in a foretaste of climax.
Aubrey's breath hitched in the same reaction. She was enjoying teasing this man, but she was also getting pretty close to her own breaking point.
"Aubrey,” he said. “I'll give you anything in the world you want if you'll let me get a little deeper."
She blinked in surprise. Well. That was definitely the first time a man had ever begged for her in bed. Did splendid things for the ego. And also for how badly she wanted him in return. “No need,” she said, unevenly. “I'm also feeling generous tonight."
And she had thought the previous climaxes had been noteworthy. They were nothing—absolutely nothing—next to what he provoked while inside her. When she hit his chest afterward, she felt like she'd been hurtled headlong off a cliff and had hit the ground hard. Pleasure and the aftermath of it slid through her exquisitely, and she gasped for breath and tried to remember if she'd ever felt so absolutely wonderful. Exhausted, but so perfectly wonderful.
She didn't know how long she laid on his chest, in a sprawl of limbs, but at some point she realized that her cheek was against his shirt, not his skin. Frowning, she lifted herself up and realized he was still, for the most part, completely dressed. She looked back at his face. His eyes were closed. He was probably sleeping.
Except he said, without opening his eyes, “If you're going to get off me, that's fine, but the way you're sitting right now is a little uncomfortable."
"You're still dressed,” she said.
"Huh?” He opened his eyes to see a flushed, rosy, naked redhead straddling him, looking like the most delicious of dreams. And also furious.
Great. She couldn't just fall asleep after earth-shattering sex? They had to fight first? “What is it?” he asked, feeling resigned. “What's the matter?"
"You're still dressed."
"Mmm. Aubrey, can we go to sleep?"
"That's not fair."
"Fair? Sweetheart, you have nothing to complain about. And if you are complaining, well, that's just too damn bad. You got the best I could give."
"You're full of yourself."
"But with reason,” he said, around a yawn.
"It isn't fair that I'm naked and you're dressed."
She wasn't going to just roll over and go to sleep. “What's not fair about that?"
"It's not fair to me."
"Aubrey, believe me, you're much nicer to look at than me."
She continued to frown. It just wasn't fair for her to be naked, every silly flaw on display, and for him to be covered up safely in clothing. Absolutely not fair.
"I'm going to take your clothes off."
"That's fine,” he said around another yawn.
She started with his shirt, got it up as far as his chin before she stopped and stared down at his chest in chagrin.
"Uh-oh,” he said ruefully. “You're looking ... thunderous."
"How old are you?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him. “Really?"
He hesitated a fraction of a second. “Thirty-six."
"Are you lying?"
"No. I have a driver's license if you'd like to—"
Thirty-six. Thirty-six, and every part of him was in the most irritatingly great shape. “Do you own a gym?” she asked in disgust.
Technically, yes ... he thought. But he answered, “What is the problem here?"
"You are not a fair man."
"I don't know what that's supposed to mean."
"You're very beautiful."
"Oh, God. Please put my shirt back on."
She laughed suddenly, surprising him. Then she settled back comfortably on his chest, looking up at him. “It's better like this,” she whispered. “Skin to skin."
"Yes,” he managed to say, beginning to question the extent of his exhaustion.
"Mmm.” She licked along the side of his neck. “You up for another round?"
He rolled, flipping her underneath him. “Well, what do you know?” he said. “Indications are yes."
"Wait, wait, wait.” She tugged his head up with hands firmly planted in his hair. “First you get naked, too."
Chapter Three
"I looked at my scorecard to confirm the next Yankee batter—Aaron Boone, who had come into the game as a pinch-runner in the eighth—looked back, and saw the ball and the ballgame fly away on his low, long, first-pitch home run into the released and exulting and rebelieving Yankee crowds. I yelled, too, but thought, Poor Boston. My God.
—Roger Angell, The New Yorker, November 24, 2003
"Gray?” she said. She was blowing in his chest hair and it occurred to him that she was probably still drunk. And why, damn it to hell, hadn't he exhausted her yet? He was so sated he could barely move, and any minute now she was going to pout at him and ask for another round.
She was greedy. But he had to admit she gave as good as she got, so he couldn't really complain.
"Mmm,” he said, and watched his hands comb through her adorable mop of red hair. He really adored red hair.
"Do you know any showgirls in Vegas?"
"Showgirls?” he repeated in confusion. He had not expected that to be the topic of conversation.
She traced a figure-eight through his chest hair with one ridiculously sexy fingertip. “Yeah. Showgirls. Do you know any?” She lifted her eyes to his.
"Well, yes, I know showgirls,” he answered carefully and wondered if the next question was going to be about his sexual habits with showgirls. He needed for the girl not to get possessive here.
"Are their breasts bigger than mine?” she asked frankly, propping herself familiarly on his chest.
Oh, she had to still be a little drunk. His eyes flickered to her breasts. They were really lovely breasts. But no self-respecting showgirl would be caught with breasts even four times their size. “Yeah,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes. Evidently that had not been the right answer. “You're a bastard."
"But an honest one,” he pointed out.
She collapsed onto his chest with a melodramatic sigh. “I always wanted to have bigger breasts."
"You'd look ridiculous. You're tiny. You're perfect."
"Mmm,” she said, and snuggled deeper against him, finally looking as if she was going to let him sleep.
Relieved, he closed his eyes, felt her settle warmly against him, her breaths fluttering over him. With his arm he hitched her in a little closer. It had been a while since he had actually slept with a woman. He had forgotten how nice it was. He was almost aslee
p when he jerked awake, and he could have kicked himself for not having thought of it until that moment.
"Aubrey..."
"Mmm?” she said, so softly that he knew she was close to sleeping.
"Aubrey, we didn't use anything,” he said.
"Hmm?"
"We didn't use anything,” he said again, wishing she'd wake up enough to have this conversation.
"Oh.” She opened her eyes then, briefly, before closing them again. “It's okay,” she mumbled.
"It is?"
She nodded against him. “Mm-hmm."
He relaxed again, deciding to trust her. She would know better than he would, he supposed.
"It's your fault, isn't it?” she murmured.
Uh-oh. His muscles tensed a little bit. Was she already going to start throwing blame around for this little interlude? “What is?” he asked cautiously.
"The Red Sox losing. You said you were jinxing them all night. That makes it all your fault."
"Oh. That's not how jinxing works,” he decided. “I might have ruined their luck, but I'm not responsible for other people's stupidity."
She was silent for a second, apparently considering what he said because she finally decided, “Okay. I absolve you of any responsibility."
"That's kind of you,” he said, amused, watching his hand sweep casually down her back.
"Thank you for staying, Gray.” She moved, throwing off the path of his hand, and she blinked at him with those enormous blue eyes. “I haven't thought about the Red Sox in ages. If you hadn't been here, I would have been thinking about them all night."
He supposed this was some sort of backhanded compliment to his skills as a lover. He smiled and admitted, “That works both ways."
"Mmm. We'll sleep now?"
"I think that would be an excellent idea."
"Good.” She cuddled back against his chest. “I've been waiting for you to get tired."
He wanted to laugh out loud, but he thought his amusement would be lost on her. She'd been waiting for him to get tired? And he'd been praying to God to finally exhaust her.
She started snoring, another thing that made him want to laugh. Light whispers of snores. He looked down at her and felt, strangely, not really tired anymore...
* * * *
Gray's internal alarm woke him, as reliable as it always was. He had no idea how much sleep he'd got, but it clearly wasn't enough—and still he'd awakened in time for his flight. He glanced at his watch, confirming the time, and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.
Then he looked down at Aubrey, who at some point during the night had moved completely on top of him and was now sprawled over him, warm and feather-light. Gray looked at his watch again. Six a.m. His flight was leaving at seven. He wondered what time Aubrey's flight was leaving. Probably not this early. She only had a quick jump to New York, whereas he had five hours across the country and he wanted to be back in Vegas as quickly as possible.
For a very long moment he tried to decide whether or not he should wake Aubrey. Then he decided against it. Yesterday had been a crazy, topsy-turvy, all-over-the-place day. He hadn't acted much like himself. He doubted Aubrey had either.
He didn't want to say some awkward good-bye. He didn't want to have to make a show over asking for her number, over promising to keep in touch when they both knew it wasn't going to happen. And if it was going to disgust her that he'd slink out before dawn ... well, he wouldn't be around to hear it.
Carefully he slid out from underneath Aubrey, gingerly putting some weight on his foot. It held with a dull throb instead of the sharp, cutting pain it had had the night before. Huh, look at that, he thought. A few hours of sex was all it had needed.
He turned back to Aubrey and pulled the cover up over her to compensate for the loss of his body warmth. Then, feeling unexpectedly affectionate toward this poor fellow Red Sox fan who had to go face triumphant New York City today, he tousled the wild red hair on her head fondly.
"Good luck today, sweetheart,” he whispered. He leaned over and kissed gently behind her ear.
Then he found his clothing and pulled it on quickly, quirking an ironic smile at himself. When the hell was the last time he'd slunk out of a girl's room before dawn, hoping not to wake her? Damn Red Sox did strange things to a person, he thought, and softly clicked Aubrey's hotel room door closed behind him.
* * * *
Aubrey's first thought upon waking was of the stupid, stupid Red Sox, who had so effectively managed to ruin her life. Who felt like getting out of bed? Facing all those people who didn't understand? She decided to tell Gray about this, and that was when she abruptly realized that Gray wasn't there.
She sat up, blinking, and immediately regretted that, because the room spun around her. Hangover. Just great.
Squinting, she surveyed the room. The room wasn't that big. Certainly no place for Gray to be hiding.
He wasn't there.
She scrambled out of bed, went to the bathroom, where he also wasn't. Then she had to thank Gray again—because instead of feeling depressed, she felt furious. He'd left? He'd left without waking her? Without saying good-bye?
Bastard.
Then she noticed the time and started in surprise. Had she really slept that late? Damn it, she had to get back to New York. Still cursing Gray, she leaped into the shower, pulled some clothing on, raced around the room doing a last-minute check to make sure she'd left nothing behind.
And came across his Red Sox cap.
Her first thought was, admittedly, vindictive. Obviously the Red Sox cap had meant something to him. And in his haste to make sure he left without waking her, he had left it behind, and now he would never get it back because they had absolutely no way of contacting each other, no knowledge of what the other did for a living, or even their last names.
Served him right for sneaking away!
Her second thought was repentant. Poor Gray. The cap had meant something to him. He would regret its loss. Feeling sorry, she decided it should at least be treasured by another Red Sox fan. So she snagged it and stuffed it into her bag.
She was back at the museum where she worked by one o'clock, and immediately she decided it was going to be one hell of an afternoon.
"Tough break last night,” said the security guard as she walked in.
"How was Boston?” asked the clueless Ancient Civilizations curator brightly.
"Have a nice trip?” asked Karla, as Aubrey walked into the Impressionism wing.
"Shut up,” snapped Aubrey, dropping her stuff on her desk. She'd come straight from the airport. She hadn't slept much. Her one-night stand had stayed true to form and left her naked in bed without even saying good-bye. She had a horrible hangover. And the Red Sox had lost.
"Get up on the wrong side of the bed?” asked Karla mildly with a lift of her eyebrows.
Aubrey glanced over at her. Karla was a nice person, a good friend, but definitely not a baseball person. She had the sunny side of the small cluttered room that was known in the museum as Imps—a nickname Aubrey had always thought was some sort of sly backhanded comment on the two women who worked the department.
Karla was every bit as petite as Aubrey, only dark-haired and dark-eyes and a lot more even-keeled. Aubrey had given her the sunny side of the office, the side with the view, because she felt bad that the woman had to share an office with her at all. “Did you even watch the game last night?"
"No. But I saw that they lost. I hope it was worth the money.” Karla was also unfailingly practical. She hadn't approved of Aubrey spending an exorbitant amount of money on a last-minute ticket to Boston for a game that, after all, was taking place right in New York.
"Of course it wasn't worth the money,” Aubrey muttered and leaned over to turn on her computer.
"Paul's been looking for you."
"Naturally,” drawled Aubrey, pushing the jagged edges of her hair out of her eyes.
"But maybe you should get in a better mood before you go looking fo
r him,” Karla suggested.
"I'm not going to be in a better mood for a while. And if the Yankees win the World Series, possibly I will never be in a good mood again. Is this about the Monet show?"
"Yeah. He's concerned about the order of the paintings. Something about the times of day—"
Aubrey waved her hand as she watched her computer struggle its way to life and hoped the nausea would start to settle in her stomach. The museum really needed more money, she thought, so that it didn't take half the day for their computers to warm up.
Paul had been worried about the order of the paintings for a while. He was also worried about the time of year she'd scheduled the show for, the length of time the show was going to run, the cost of the tickets, and did they even really need a Monet show in the first place? The last thing she felt like doing was arguing about this yet again. Impressionism sold tickets. She didn't know why Paul was the only person who didn't understand that. Certainly the fourteenth century European art division would have killed to generate the interest a few Monets did.
"Aubrey! I see you've decided to join us back in the real world."
Aubrey looked up from her computer, where the hourglass was still stubbornly turning itself over and over. Paul was standing in the doorway frowning. Typical.
"Didn't Karla tell you I wanted to see you?"
"I literally just walked through the door,” Aubrey replied, and gestured to her computer. “See? Not even on yet."
"Did you even comb your hair today?” asked Paul, his frown deepening.
"No,” said Aubrey. “You're lucky I brushed my teeth today. I'm depressed, Paul."
"Next you'll be taking a leave of absence."
"I might need a leave of absence."
"I don't want to talk about the White Sox,” said Paul.
"The Red Sox. It's the Red Sox, Paul."
He looked thoughtful. “I thought it was the White Sox."
"The White Sox are in Chicago. I'm from Boston. Remember?"
"Oh, so there is a team called the White Sox? Honest mistake, Aubrey."
"Two years you were married to me,” she said, “and you still don't know who I rooted for in baseball. There were reasons why our marriage fell apart."
"Can I talk to you about Monet for a second?"
Twenty Hours in Boston Page 4
