Playing By Her Rules (Sydney Smoke Rugby Series)

by Amy Andrews

  Tanner cocked an eyebrow. “You sure you want to get any wetter?”

  She cocked her eyebrow back at him before lowering the hose and aiming it at his fly. “Big talk for a man with no weapon.”

  His dick did not respond as if it were under imminent threat. Oh, no. It was practically busting out of his pants, begging for it. “I think I can hold my own.”

  A massive boom of thunder rattled the pots and pans hanging from a nearby rack, just as she squeezed the trigger.

  “Doesn’t look like,” she said, water soaking the front of his jeans. His dick got harder at her cockiness. “Oh, dear…” She dropped her gaze. “that could be difficult to explain.”

  He chuckled and Tilly smiled at him, triumph replacing wariness. Rookie move.

  He lunged, the kind of move that had earned him a formidable reputation on a football field. She let out a tiny squeal and tried to twist away, but she was too late. He wrestled control of the hose from her easily, wrapping her up in his arms, whipping her around to hold her captive, her front trapped against the bench.

  The fan blew on them directly, cooling nothing down as she struggled against him, her ass taunting his groin. His arms banded together around her ribs locking her arms by her sides, hemming them in with the thick muscles of his biceps. The nozzle of the hose came to rest just under her breasts.

  He was aware of the frantic expansion and retraction of her rib cage, the erratic pull of her breath. As erratic as his own.

  “Let me go,” she said, her voice husky.

  “Just trying to cool you down, baby,” he taunted.

  “It’s not working,” she argued.

  “Maybe this will.”

  Tanner squeezed the trigger gently, sending a brief spurt of water straight into her cleavage and up her neck. It spread south as well, further soaking her blouse and wetting his forearms.

  She gasped, her arms struggling against the bands of his again, her ass pushing backward.

  “How’s that?” He smiled.

  “What do you think?”

  “Not working for you?” he asked innocently. “How about this?”

  Holding her steady with one arm, he slid the other down her belly, pushing the nozzle into the waistband of her skirt.

  “Tanner,” she squeaked. “Don’t you dare.”

  Tanner chuckled as he squeezed the nozzle. Oh, he dared, all right.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” he said as she gasped and spluttered, wiggling her ass so damn good as she desperately tried to back away from the spray. He pulled the nozzle out of her skirt. “Guess I have a bit of a trigger finger going on there,” he mimicked, thoroughly enjoying himself.

  Enjoying the feel of their bodies together again. The sharp intake of her breath. The way he fit around her, the back of her head cradled against a pec. The rub of her ass.

  “Okay fine,” she said, the fight suddenly leaching from her body. “You win. Just put the damn hose away and let me go.”

  Tanner chuckled, loosening his arms as he threw the hose back in the sink. He didn’t try to reclaim his previous position, instead placing that hand on the bench near her hip, his other hand sliding to the countertop on the opposite side. The fronts of his thighs were still pressed into the backs of hers. His groin still trapped her hips to the bench, but not like they had when she was struggling.

  He waited for her to push him away, tensed for a sharp elbow to the abs now that he wasn’t restraining her. But there wasn’t one. Just another crack of thunder reverberating around the kitchen.

  He didn’t know what her placidness meant, exactly, but he sure as shit was going to exploit it for as long as she’d let him. He’d dreamed of being this close to her since he’d first seen her again in the locker room, wearing that awful pantsuit. Wild horses couldn’t have dragged him away.

  From his height vantage, he could see the fan blowing cool air on her wet blouse. See her eyes shut as if she was enjoying the light caress. See the pebbling of her nipples.

  Were they hard because of the cool water and the artificial breeze? Or for other reasons? The same reason his dick was hard?

  Was she as turned on as him? His instincts told him yes but…he couldn’t tell with her anymore.

  The urge to slide his hands onto her belly and rip all her buttons open roared through him with a primitive insistency, and he curled his fingers around the edge of the bench so he wouldn’t. He didn’t want to do anything that might startle her out of whatever trance she was in.

  She angled her head to the side. Was it to catch the breeze on her neck or did she want him to nuzzle her there?

  “That feels better, doesn’t it?” he murmured, lowering his head to the vicinity of her ear, her hair brushing his cheek.

  More thunder rumbled in through the open door, pressing in and thickening the air.

  She didn’t say anything.

  “You look much cooler.”

  “Uh huh,” she murmured, her voice as thick as the air around them.

  Tanner wasn’t. Tanner was about to burst into frickin’ flames. He brushed his lips against the exposed side of her neck, his heart thundering in his chest, his dick so hard she must be able to feel it jammed against her ass even through several layers of fabric.

  “Tanner don’t,” she whispered, but it was weak. Not very convincing.

  He nuzzled lower. “Don’t what?”

  “Kiss me.”

  It was more a pant this time as she settled herself more firmly against him, her hand creeping up around his neck, anchoring where hair met nape, her fingers furrowing into the shagginess of his hair. Tanner shut his eyes as the sensation streaked straight to his balls and almost brought him to his knees. He locked his legs hard.

  Okay, she didn’t want him to kiss her? Fine. As captain of the Smoke he often had to change tactics on the fly. He could sure as hell do that here. He dropped his hands to her hips. To that damn skirt that had been driving him crazy all night. Thunder rumbled as if in warning but he paid absolutely no heed.

  “I like this skirt,” he said, keeping his voice low and right near her ear as his hands slid down the sides. “Makes a guy wonder just how to get a girl out of it.”

  He walked his fingers along the seams, drawing fabric up as he went, inching the skirt higher. “Do I undo the zip or do I just”—his fingers kept gathering fabric, slowly, surely—“ruck it up at the sides?”

  She huffed out a shaky half-laugh. “Well, you’re the expert on rucking.”

  He smiled, his lips brushing the tip of her ear. “Damn straight I am.”

  Tanner didn’t care, as the skirt eased higher on her thighs, that they were in a soup kitchen. He didn’t care that Kathleen, or anyone else for that matter, could come through the door at any moment. He was beyond caring that Griff would probably bench him for the entire season if he knew where Tanner’s hands were right now.

  All he cared about, as the rain finally crashed down with furious intensity, was the sensuality of her silky stockings, the eroticism of their lacy tops and the illicit thrill as his hands hit bare skin.

  She tensed and gasped as his hands slid around to the fronts of her thighs and he groaned, “Jesus, Tilly,” directly into her ear to be heard above the pelt of rain. The aroma of rain and shampoo and the way she’d always smelled in that sweet spot just behind her ear joined the hammer in his chest and the roar in his head.

  She moaned, low and needy, turning in his arms as if she knew the pressing enormity of his need. Like he was going to die if he didn’t kiss her right this second. She didn’t talk, she didn’t even really look at him, just at his mouth as she slid her hands around his neck, raised herself up on her tippy-toes and yanked on his neck.

  Tanner didn’t need any more encouragement, meeting her mouth halfway, their lips clashing with an intensity to rival the storm. His hands, thanks to his earlier ministrations with her skirt, slid onto the cheeks of her nearly exposed ass, and he dragged her in close and tight, lifting her a little so he co
uld grind the hard press of his dick against the almost exposed apex of her thighs.

  The kiss was wild and out of control as he strained to breathe, forgot to think. Their heads twisting, their mouths devouring, their tongues hunting. Tilly—his Tilly, her taste, her smell—filled up every breath until Tanner was dizzy with it. The imperative to possess her echoed in every frantic beat of his pulse.

  And then the back door slammed.

  Hard.

  A huge clap of thunder and a massive gust of wind crashed the flimsy wood back into its frame, and Tilly wrenched her mouth away, looking around wildly as if she was coming out of a trance, confused about where she was.

  Who she was with.

  “Fuck, Tanner,” she swore, pushing him back and slipping out of reach, walking away. He barely registered the flash of butt cheek attached to a petite leg and a sexy, lace-topped stocking before she was yanking her skirt down.

  Tanner shoved a hand through his hair. “Tilly, I—”

  She whirled on her heel, holding up her hand to silence him, the fingers of her other hand pressed to her mouth as if she was still confused as to how Tanner’s lips had ended up on hers.

  The rain on the roof roared around them as they stood, breathing hard, staring at each other.

  “I told you I didn’t want you to kiss me,” she said, her tone accusatory.

  “I seem to remember it was you who kissed me.”

  She glared at him, but Tanner didn’t care. Whatever had happened just now had been completely mutual. If she wanted to bury her head in the sand about whatever it was that was still there between them, then she could go right ahead, but he wasn’t going to be her enabler.

  She lifted her chin. “It wasn’t even very good.”

  Tanner knew a bald-faced lie when he heard it. She’d been as affected by the kiss as he had. Hell, she was still breathing hard, the pulse in her throat still rapid, her eyes still a little glazed. “You tell yourself whatever gets you through the night, Tilly.”

  Her brows knitted together as she opened her mouth to say something, but somebody bustled in from the dining room and she shut it with a snap. “Oh, fabulous,” Kathleen enthused, oblivious to the tension. “I see you’re all done then?”

  Tanner, his back to her, dragged his chaotic thoughts together to mumble a vague, affirmative reply.

  “You can both go when you’re ready, with a blessing and thanks from everyone here at the Chapel,” she prattled on, moving closer to Tanner and Matilda. “I hope you brought your brollies, though. It’s chucking it down out—”

  Kathleen stopped as she finally got close enough to take both of them in. She looked at Tanner’s white T-shirt, transparent in its soaked state, and the big wet patch on Tilly’s skirt. She glanced at the puddles on the floor then back at them, an eyebrow raised. “I was going to say be sure not to get wet out there but I see that’s kind of moot.”

  “I’m sorry about the floor,” Tilly said, her cheeks pink. “I’ll mop it up.”

  “I’ll do it,” Tanner said testily, annoyed that Tilly couldn’t even look at him.

  Tilly didn’t argue. But she still didn’t glance his way, either. “Thanks,” she mumbled before thanking Kathleen, too, and declaring she had to run. She’d scooped up her belongings and disappeared out the back door in record time.

  “You’re losing your touch there, Slick,” Kathleen said, as she stared after Matilda.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I may be a woman of God, but even I know the Good Lord invented much more interesting ways of getting a woman wet.”

  Tanner had given up being shocked by Kathleen. The nun had worked the rough streets of Sydney half of her life. She could talk smack with the best of them. His best option was to ignore her, which he did as he headed for where the mop was stored.

  Unfortunately, Kathleen wasn’t done yet. “I like her.” Tanner clanked around in the store cupboard. “She’s the one.”

  Tanner rolled his eyes. “I suppose the Good Lord”—Tanner pronounced it with an Irish brogue—“told you that, did He?”

  “Hell no,” Kathleen grinned. “You just did.” She inspected him for a moment then gave a firm nod. “It’ll do you good to chase after someone who’s running for a change. Women come far too easily for the likes of you.”

  And on that divine announcement, she swept out of the kitchen, leaving Tanner to mopping and wistful thoughts of easy women.

  …

  Matilda went home, every cell of her body seething with the taste and smell and audacity of Tanner Stone.

  How dare he take advantage of her temporary insanity like that? How dare he wet her and wrestle her and wrap himself around her and slide her skirt up and kiss her neck and make her so damn crazy she could barely think?

  Since when had she become some kind of amnesiac nympho around him?

  It was the charm that did it. That had lulled her into a false sense of security. The way he was with Kathleen and the men from the shelter. And how he’d talked about his parents and his sisters and her grandmother. The stories he’d told about his early days in rugby and the anecdotes about his teammates.

  Yep, Tanner Stone oozed charm from every pore. It had lowered her defences around him. And it couldn’t happen again.

  She had a goal here—revenge. And she couldn’t lose sight of it.

  Still hyped up from the kiss, Matilda sat down at her laptop and wrote her feature article in under an hour, steaming along, getting it all out before the outrage died down and she had to face the facts about her own part in that kiss tonight. About the lie she’d told.

  It wasn’t even very good.

  It was a wonder she hadn’t been struck down dead considering she’d been standing in a freaking chapel in the midst of a massive electrical storm with a nun nearby.

  But Tanner had seen right through her.

  You tell yourself whatever gets you through the night, Tilly.

  And he’d been right. She’d had to tell herself something because the kiss had shaken her to the core. And not just physically, although if the door hadn’t slammed shut, Matilda was pretty sure they’d have gone for it right there in the Chapel’s soup kitchen.

  Something which probably would have earned her a one-way ticket to hell.

  Right. Like she hadn’t already been on a fast track to purgatory since the day of the locker room and Tanner’s low-slung towel. She’d been having some seriously vivid flashbacks about what was behind that towel, memories that had been confirmed today as the hard ridge of his erection had ground between her legs. Her skirt, rucked up to her freaking armpits, had been no protection.

  But it hadn’t just been how his body had made her body feel. She could do something about that—physical relief was easy, after all. She had Thor and Zeus—her toyfriends—to see to that, and for damn sure one of them would be coming out tonight.

  It was the unfurling of something inside her that was more than physical—a memory long since shrunken and closed in on itself after Tanner’s betrayal. But it was blossoming now, reminding her of their connection, of the intimacy of their shared history. Of how he used to make her feel. How he’d touched her.

  On an emotional level.

  And that was dangerous. Because she wasn’t about to throw herself in front of the Tanner Stone train again. Never again. The definition of stupid was doing something over and over and expecting a different result.

  Matilda Kent had won a scholarship to Stanford University. She didn’t do stupid.

  So she applied her big brain to the article instead. Ostensibly, she continued Tanner’s rugby journey, careful not to openly criticise, choosing instead to damn him with faint praise all while exposing him as the charming player he was.

  For anyone with two X chromosomes, Tanner Stone and his extraordinary superpower should come with a warning label. What is this power you ask? Charm. Yes, charm. Nuns, toddlers, homeless people, and little old grannies alike fall under his spell. Be sure to stock
up on your kryptonite panties if you’re heading to a game.

  Chapter Seven

  Tanner laughed out loud on Friday morning reading Tilly’s column. Kryptonite panties? He was never going to live that one down.

  He checked his Twitter stream, which seemed even more amused by Tilly’s kryptonite quip than he was.

  rugbybunny1—Methinks @MatildaK wants @slickstone to get into her #kryptonitepanties #sydneysmoke #holysmoke #mightbelove

  slickstonesmistress—@slickstone can get into my #kryptonitepanties whenever he wants #SuperSlick #holysmoke #mightbelove

  madforrugby—I’d drop my #kryptonitepanties for

  @slickstone #SuperSlick #holysmoke #mightbelove

  nottherealtannerstone—Calling all designers: #kryptonitepanties stat for my fans please #holysmoke #mightbelove

  And from someone called superheroesaremyweakness

  Word from Kryptonian elders. Disapprove of #kryptonitepanties #lethalweapon #holysmoke #mightbelove

  This time Tanner didn’t resist the urge to play along.

  .@MatildaK was obviously wearing #kryptonitepanties when she did a runner Mon nite. Help me out tweeps. Put in a good word 4 me? #mightbelove

  He hesitated over the “mightbelove” hashtag before sending the tweet out into the ether. But he liked its flirtiness, and he knew his Twitter base would go crazy over his adoption of it.

  And hell, as far as he was concerned, it might very well be love.

  Predictably, there was an avalanche of tweets extolling his virtues directed at Tilly, from the cute to the downright filthy. Tanner laughed as he read them on his way to the stadium for practise. He pictured Tilly getting madder and madder as they hijacked her Twitter stream—her brow furrowed, her cheeks pink, her lips pursed. Just like she’d been Monday night when she’d pulled away from him, her mouth still wet from his, uttering that dirty word.

  Fuck, Tanner.

  She was obviously not goaded sufficiently this morning, though, to join in the Twitter conversation.

  Most of the guys were in the locker room when Tanner entered. “Oh, look,” a bare-assed Dex observed in that slow, measured way of his. “It’s a bird.”