Playing to Win (The Complete Series Box Set): 3 romances with angst and humor

by Alix Nichols

  Suddenly, he smiles.

  I frown, bewildered.

  “You know you’re toothsome when you’re bossy?”

  I cock my head. “Toothsome.”

  “Yes,” he says. “Toothsome.”

  “Are you trying to distract me with a compliment so you can steal the key?”

  “No,” he says. “I’m trying to distract you with a compliment so I can steal a kiss.”

  I shut up and stare into his eyes.

  Lucas’s gaze is soft, all the anger having drained away.

  How is it possible? Can a man go from fury to desire this fast? Do I want his desire?

  With his memories coming back, what if he turns into the guy he was before? Sexy. Flirtatious. Mean. He’s going to remember how vulnerable I was to him. Despite my high heels and form-fitting clothes, I’m still who I was back then—the kind of woman a guy like him would have a beer with and maybe bang for kicks. Not the kind of woman he’d envision as his girlfriend.

  “Now that you’ve locked us in,” Lucas says, taking a step toward me, “I’m starting to feel grateful for it.” He takes another step. “I’m starting to think I don’t want to go anywhere tonight.” One more step. “I want to be here with you.”

  My breath catches.

  He grabs my shoulders and draws me to him, encasing me between his strong arms and chest.

  I gasp. My arms are the first to surrender. They go up and wrap around his neck, tight, hungry. My hands grip the back of his neck, my head tips back, and I part my lips.

  I give up. There’s no fighting what’s coming.

  I want it too much.

  My entire body aches and clenches, craving it.

  “Izz,” he rasps before his mouth descends on mine. With one hand flat on my back and the other on the nape of my neck, he holds me steady while his tongue pushes deep into my mouth—into my soul.

  My knees give out.

  Without breaking the kiss, he backs me to the wall. I lean against it. His hands are everywhere on my body. His tongue is everywhere inside my mouth. Oh, to be wanted like this by him! I don’t care if he gets back with Angie or some other model tomorrow.

  Tonight, he’s mine.

  Heat courses through my veins, pooling between my legs. Need his hand there. Want him to ease all the aching and pulling and emptiness.

  Want him to fill me.

  I lift my left leg and wrap it around his thigh. I would’ve pushed it higher, but my stupid skirt won’t let me.

  Lucas’s lips pull away from mine. We catch our breaths.

  “Baby. Isabelle. Sweetheart,” he murmurs and trails his tongue down my neck.

  Your hand, Lucas, please!

  I’m dying here.

  Finally, his hand slides down my hip, pushes the hem of my skirt up and cups me between my legs.

  Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

  He presses the heel of his hand against my mound while his fingers get busy rubbing.

  I whimper in response.

  He pulls the lacy crotch of my panties to the side and delves one long finger into me. I’m so wet, it meets with zero resistance. I need more. He adds a second finger. As he pumps in and out, I move, too, riding his fingers, grinding my swollen bud against his palm, rocking my hips in a sultry, shameless dance.

  He pulls back so he can stare at what his hand and my hips are doing. His gaze is dark with want.

  “I want you so much,” he says, his voice so coarse it’s almost unrecognizable. “You have no idea.”

  Oh, but I do.

  I’m shaking with a wild mixture of arousal and anticipation. “I want you, too.”

  I want you more than you could ever know.

  My core pulses with a force I didn’t imagine possible.

  When he withdraws his finger from me, I open my mouth to order him back until I realize what he’s up to. Lucas is unbuttoning his jeans. My eyes widen when he frees his hard, throbbing shaft. I’ve missed it. I’ve imagined it countless times, touched myself while picturing it. I glance up at his face.

  He smiles. “Look familiar?”

  “Toothsome,” I say, grinning giddily. “Positively toothsome.”

  He takes my hand and places it at the base of his erection.

  Wrapping my fingers around him, I stroke until his eyes grow hooded and start to roll in his head.

  My lower abdomen clenches with my own need.

  I’m soaked. I’m in pain.

  Giving Lucas one last stroke, I pull my hand away.

  He opens his eyes and looks at me, confused.

  How do you ask a man in a dignified and ladylike fashion to fuck you already?

  “Isabelle,” he says, “Have mercy. Finish me off, and I’ll lick you until you scream.”

  “I need you inside.”

  “Do you have protection?”

  I shake my head.

  “Neither do I.”

  I release a long sigh.

  “Are you on the pill?” he asks.

  “Nope.”

  I almost open my mouth to say, “I don’t need the pill, thanks to my hostile womb,” but the words stick in my throat as he squats in front of me, lifts my left thigh, and spreads my folds.

  Before I lose myself to the sultry sweetness of his caress, part of me wonders what stopped him from taking me without protection. Because, God help me, I would’ve let him. And I believe he could sense it. But he resisted the temptation.

  Was it because he has truly changed, grown into a mature, responsible man? Or was it to make sure he doesn’t knock me up because he doesn’t see me in his future?

  Lucas gives me a long, hard lick of his tongue, and I forget everything else. His hands squeeze my derriere as his mouth sucks, nips, and licks me.

  I begin to moan.

  He quickens his rhythm. His fingers gloss my folds before pushing right where they were before. My moans grow louder, messier. I no longer care where we are, that there might be someone else in the building, someone who might hear me. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is my body getting the most exquisite pleasure it’s ever known.

  I buck and push against Lucas’s face, sobbing his name. My legs start to quake, and I come, wailing my orgasm.

  He carries on for another minute, forcing my inner muscles to spasm again and again. I pant and clutch his shoulders to stay upright. My fingers dig into his flesh, and my nails break his skin. My center gushes nonstop with joy and completion.

  When he gives me one final lick and straightens, I’m a boneless, voiceless, thoughtless clump of warm fuzzies.

  We remain like that for a long moment, until I remember one of us hasn’t had a release. I reach down and grip him. He gives me an approving smile. My intention is to caress him a few times before I go down on him. But he’s too hard, too full, too close.

  He explodes on my second stroke, his face twisting in a mixture of pleasure and pain.

  I remember that expression.

  As we clean ourselves up in silence, my warm fuzzies begin to recede, making room for embarrassment and apprehension.

  Apart from not wanting Lucas to be on his own until he’s talked to his therapist, I don’t have a plan. We can’t sleep here in this office. There are no couches, not even blankets to spread on the hard floor.

  Would he come home with me?

  Lucas grabs his phone, calls a cab, and gives the operator his address.

  “What are you doing?” I mouth.

  He hangs up and smiles. “Arranging for wheels to take us to my place where there’s a shower, lots of food in the fridge and a soft, roomy bed.”

  “Yes, please,” I say, exhaling in relief.

  He gives me a sly smile. “Did I mention the pack of condoms in the bedroom closet?”

  Lucas

  We ate.

  I found the condoms.

  We took a shower together and fucked.

  And now, finally, we’re in the soft, roomy bed I’d boasted to Isabelle about, cuddling before we go to sleep.r />
  Trouble is, she’s wearing one of my T-shirts as a nightie. The bigger trouble is it’s ridden up, and now I can feel her soft curls against my hip.

  I push the blanket to the side, turn on the night-light, and stare at her.

  “Keep looking at me like that,” Isabelle says, “and I’ll think you haven’t had sex since your recovery.”

  “I have,” I say, “but the women weren’t you. And, I guess, the man wasn’t quite myself, either.”

  She smiles, a hint of sadness in her eyes.

  Then she spreads her legs. “Stare away.”

  “Did you ever think about me?” I ask, stroking her thighs. “About the night we had?”

  “Yes.”

  “Once? Once a year? Once a month?”

  “Once a day.” Her gaze drills into mine. “At least.”

  And, just like that, I’m hard again.

  I snort in disbelief. The dozen or so times I had sex over the last few years were fun and far from a failure. But nothing like this.

  “What did you do when you thought about me?” I ask.

  Even in the dim light, I see her cheeks redden. She turns her head to the wall.

  “Show me,” I say.

  She turns back, glances at my cock, and then into my eyes.

  I’m not sure what she finds there, but both her hands slide down her flat tummy and dip between her legs.

  I shift to get a better view.

  Isabelle’s head falls back against the pillow, and her fingers move faster and faster. When she starts to pant and make those same noises I’ve been hearing in my dreams, my self-control shatters.

  “Need to be in you,” I say, my voice so coarse it’s barely recognizable.

  I roll on a condom and bury myself deep inside Isabelle’s sweet heat. My thrusts come rushed and forceful as I pump into her. My cock is stiff as steel. Isabelle writhes beneath me, opening more, letting me plunge deeper still. The universe narrows rapidly, and soon it’s centered on where we are joined. My body pulses with need. Pleasure tears through me with every stroke, blowing my mind.

  She whispers my name with an expression of utter abandon on her face.

  I withdraw and slam into her again and again and again, half-crazed with lust.

  She moans. Her inner muscles squeeze around me, and I lose control, pumping into her like a madman. My cock strains and throbs with blood and cum. Harder! Faster!

  She arches her back, and begins to shudder as her core milks my cock.

  Another thrust, and I go with her, grunting with the force of my release as I slump on top of her.

  Isabelle keeps shuddering even after I’ve stilled. Her muscles contract around me as her hips twitch and her lips breathe my name. Even as her spasms fade, I don’t withdraw immediately. Perhaps it’s the way her hands roam my back, rubbing and stroking everywhere from my neck to my butt, that prompts me to stay put. Or maybe it’s the raw emotion in her eyes, or the tender way she brushes her lips against mine.

  Afterward, as we lie in each other’s arms, too exhausted to make love again, but too excited to sleep, I bring my hand to her face and touch every bone, curve, and hollow.

  “My nose could’ve been more elegant,” she comments, as I stroke it with the pad of my index finger.

  I smile and trace her eyebrows and upper lids.

  “I wish my eyes were more almond-shaped,” she says. “And my face, less round. And my lips—”

  “Izz,” I say. “Shut up. You’re perfect.”

  She smirks and rolls her eyes.

  Why would a beautiful woman like her be so self-conscious? I’m not so arrogant as to presume the one night we shared six years ago has something to do with it, and yet…

  “You remembered so much already,” she says. “I’m sure you’ll keep recalling things. It’ll all come back.”

  I rake my hand through her hair. “Unlikely, based on what I’ve been told. But it’s very possible I’ll be able to retrieve more memories. A lot more.”

  “I’ll be there to help you every step of the way, anything you need.”

  I kiss her lips. “I know.”

  “Are you excited about the semifinals next week?” she asks.

  I nod.

  France is one of the four countries that made it to the semifinals. That means a seventy-five percent chance my boys will stand on the podium with medals against their chests. And a twenty-five percent chance those medals will be gold.

  “It’s hard to believe,” I say, “but the team is actually close to making good on my promise to our fans and to the Swimming Federation who’ve entrusted me with this task.”

  “You guys are more than close,” she says. “You demolished Italy and decimated Hungary. You have one foot on that podium!”

  I chuckle, stroking her cheek.

  She kisses the inside of my palm. “You know what else makes me proud?”

  “What?”

  “How well you’re handling the Clément situation.”

  Am I?

  “Back at the office, there was so much hatred in your eyes. I was sure you would run out, find him, and beat the shit out of him. And now—”

  “Who says I don’t want that?” I murmur, raising an eyebrow.

  “What?” She peers at me. “But… the past few hours… and the semifinals in two days…?”

  “It’s a matter of priorities,” I say. “My biggest wish was to make love to the woman I’ve been craving and denying myself for much too long. My heart’s second desire is to beat the shit out of the asshole who left me for dead. Water polo is my third priority at this point.”

  The crease between her eyebrows deepens. She opens her mouth as if to say something and shuts it, looking terribly concerned.

  Clearly, my words aren’t what she was hoping to hear, but they are the truth.

  Isabelle

  Eric, his police officer friend Yann, and I climb out of the car in front of the Photo de Luxe Studios.

  We just drove through the streets of Paris at a speed that would’ve earned us a ticket if we weren’t in a police car.

  At around ten this morning I realized Lucas had sneaked out before the end of the workout. I pulled Eric aside and told him about Clément. He called his cop buddy and convinced him tracking Lucas’s phone and intercepting him ASAP was a matter of life and death for France’s most promising coach.

  Because having suffered brain damage in the past, a second head injury might turn him into a vegetable.

  We push the revolving doors and run upstairs.

  Yann asks several men and women if they’ve seen Clément. The tracking software gave us the building but can’t deliver Lucas’s exact location in it. We run down hallways and open doors, drawing curious glances and raised eyebrows.

  A woman of average size and height says she may be able to help. We gather around her. She’d look perfectly fine outside the studio’s walls, but here, surrounded by these creatures, aka models, she looks like an Italian mamma.

  “I saw Clément, and some angry-looking dude get on the elevator a few minutes ago.” She points to the elevator doors at the end of the hall.

  “Is the roof accessible?” Yann asks her.

  She shakes her head.

  “Is there an underground parking garage?” he asks again.

  “Yes,” she says. “Those elevators will take you down there.”

  We run, take the elevator down, and run again.

  When we find them, both are yelling and shoving each other, but no fists are flying yet.

  “Stop!” Yann hollers, “On the ground, both of you!”

  A minute later, it’s over.

  Clément and Lucas are cuffed, led out of the building, and shoved into Yann’s car. Eric and I are asked to take the métro.

  “You can come to the station and check on your “Avenger” later this afternoon,” Yann says, waving goodbye to us.

  My eyes are on “my Avenger” the whole time, but he won’t look at me.

  “
Can later this afternoon be interpreted as 1:00 p.m.?” I ask Eric, glancing at my watch.

  “I don’t think so.” He pats my shoulder. “Come on, we just did something very impressive. All that action and adrenaline. Don’t you think we deserve a good lunch?”

  “OK,” I say with a sigh. “Can we eat in this neighborhood?”

  Eric scrunches his face apologetically. “Afraid not. Now that I’ve saved Lucas’s life, I need to get to my car and save my car from being towed. I’ll move it, we’ll eat, and drive back here.”

  If it were up to me, I’d camp on the sidewalk across from the station for a couple of hours, and try my luck. But Eric needs to rescue his car and vent about our “mission.” With everything he’s done this morning, I owe him.

  Three hours later, we return to Yann’s station. Lawyers were called, papers were signed, and both Clément and Lucas were released with a warning not to try anything stupid again.

  “I told your coach we’ll be going after Clément for the violation of the Good Samaritan Law,” Yann says to us.

  Eric’s eyes widen. “Can you do that?”

  “In this country,” Yann says, “you’re liable before both civil and criminal courts if you deliberately fail to render assistance to a person in danger, which is exactly what Clément did six years ago.”

  “Does that mean he might go to jail?” I ask.

  Yann nods. “He might get up to five years in prison, a fine, and be ordered to pay compensation to the victim.”

  I frown, remembering Lucas’s list of priorities. “Even if the victim refuses to sue him?”

  “Lucas doesn’t need to sue him,” Yann says. “I saw the photos in his file and the ER doctor’s report. There’s also usable DNA.”

  Eric rolls his eyes. “Can you explain for us lay people?”

  Yann smiles. “Six years ago, Lucas fell and hit his temple. Head wounds like that produce spectacular gore. Think blood spurting with every heartbeat. With the DNA from their fight, we’ll have proof Clément was there. And even if he hires an army of lawyers, they’ll have a hard time convincing the judge that it hadn’t occurred to Clément when he ran away that Lucas would bleed out and die.”

  “I hope Clément goes to prison,” Eric says.