by Allison Parr
I swallowed and blinked and nodded as the woman beside me spoke. I tried not to focus too much on the timbre of Ryan’s voice, instead concentrating on his words as he told a story—and told it well—of the winning drive in the last AFC Championship game.
His arm swept out as he demonstrated a point. His knuckles glanced across my upper arm.
I focused entirely on the painting of the gypsy camp until I was certain I was in control.
Ryan’s crowd of fans grew. It contained politicians and one of the museum’s board members. At one point, a movie star wandered by, did a double take, and came back to add his own voice, identifying himself as a native New Yorker and lifelong Leopards fan.
I’d known people were passionate about sports. I had. There were sports riots, weren’t there? And hadn’t I read that Super Bowl Sunday was the second most observed holiday, after Christmas? And people wore their teams’ jerseys. And had bar fights.
Could people buy Ryan’s jersey?
Think about that later, Rachael.
But watching these people, their glowing faces and their unifying gestures made the game’s significance hit home, and I was struck by a fierce pride for Ryan. Not that he was mine to be proud of.
But he could be. If I let him in.
“Having fun?” someone asked, a hand landing on my shoulder. I almost jumped at the feeling of fingers curling over my bare flesh, and I twisted to see Mike grinning at me.
“Mike! Hi! I’m watching sports fans in action.” Did I sound painfully turned on? Were my pupils inappropriately dilated, like I was on drugs or sex? Nothing to do about it now.
Mike regarded the scene fondly, not seeming to notice my still-speeding pulse. “Yeah, we have some good ones, don’t we? Nice dress. You look good.”
“Thanks. So do you.”
A man at the edge of the group, in his mid-fifties with a bit of a gut, swung to face us. “Mike O’Connor!” He reached out to shake Mike’s hand. “So good to meet you!”
Soon enough, Dylan and Abe joined our clump, forming a bastion of Leopard support in the middle of the gallery. Nominally, I was speaking with Mike and three older fans, two suits and a woman in a sparkling blue dress with a spiderweb of diamonds across her throat. But my body focused on Ryan, who stood at an angle to me. Each time he shifted, our bodies slid across each other. Hands brushed. Hips touched each other for a bare second. Shoulders, finally, settled against each other. I didn’t so much as twitch my arm for fifteen minutes.
Finally, Ryan slipped his arm around my waist. “I hate to leave, but we haven’t had a chance to look at all the items up for bid.” With a few more words encouraging the crowd to place their own bids, we were finally able to slip away, the crowd parting for us like magic.
“Sorry.” His hand lingered on my waist. “Sometimes that happens.”
I raised my brows, trying to keep my tone light. “Next time you’re wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses.”
We’d made it out of the room, into the hall, and halfway to the entrance when another voice called out his name. We paused to see Sharon Downey, celebrity reporter extraordinaire, striding toward us, followed by a camera crew. Her famous bright red hair swayed back and forth, the waves never breaking alignment. “So good to see you again. Do you have a moment to talk about your contribution to the Children’s Society?”
“Don’t even think about it,” I whispered.
Ryan smiled smoothly at Sharon Downey. “Of course.” His hand slid away.
As I waited—“No, not there,” the lighting tech said, “You’re blocking the light”—two paper-thin twenty-somethings walked by. “God, he’s gorgeous,” one of them sighed. “Is he dating anyone right now?”
“Not since Louisa Belltower. Go for it.”
This was getting ridiculous. Had I somehow signed up to reenact the Twelve Labors of Hercules? Except instead of slaying and capturing and mucking out stables, I had to sneak Ryan away from fans and newscasters and twiggy girls.
All right, then. If Hercules could slay some man-eating birds, so could I.
“He is gorgeous, isn’t he?” I said, as the girls came even with me. “But he’s not free.”
The girls focused on me, unimpressed and unconcerned. The first, a striking brunette in a stunning red dress even deigned to speak her line correctly: “Who are you?”
I smiled. “Rachael Hamilton. I’m here with Ryan.”
“Are you like a couple?” asked the other, obviously cast as the Loyal Friend.
I considered them. They were predators. I didn’t know if they just wanted to flirt, or to sleep with him, or a relationship, but they could come back tomorrow. “Yes.” I surprised myself with my firmness. “We are.”
The brunette didn’t look like she believed it. “For how long?”
Considering how five weeks ago he’d run around Malcolm’s apartment kissing multiple girls, I could assume he had split up with the aforementioned Louisa Belltower before that. “A month.”
The brunette’s lips pursed, making her look less pretty and more rodent-like. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” I angled myself directly toward her. “And it’s going great, thanks for asking. But if, you know, you actually want to go ask him about our relationship, go ahead. He might even be able to hook you up with some of his teammates.”
They left in a huff.
Three minutes later, Ryan escaped the spot light. “Whoa. Glad that’s done.”
“Me, too. Quick, let’s get out before the next labor strikes.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” He threaded his fingers through mine. “But I think I agree.”
But when we made for the grand staircase, we found paparazzi filling the entryway. Trapped, we backed away before any more of them could pounce on him. “Now what do we do?”
“We make do.” He headed the opposite way from the gala. A long table blocked a dark, open doorway, and he tugged me toward it. I stumbled on my heel, and he placed his hands on either side of my waist, burning handprints through the thin material. He lifted me like I weighed no more than a doll, swinging me over the table with ease. “Come on.” We raced into the dark. Past paintings of dead kings and Greek stoics. Through a dark corridor filled with wooden furniture inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and straight-backed chairs cushioned with fading red velvet. It blurred, a tunnel from another time.
He pulled me into an empty gallery to the side, and then another, until we stood in a small room with small paintings I scarcely noticed. Ryan brought us to a stop in the middle of the room. One hand cupped my cheek, the other warm on the small of my back. Dark black night pushed away the sky blue of his eyes.
I lifted my lips that last half-inch between us and pressed them against his. For a heartbeat, the kiss was soft and tender, newly born. I could feel his heartbeat under my hand, could feel my pulse leaping in my throat.
I opened my eyes to find Ryan gazing at me with the heat of blue flames.
Then he groaned, the sound ragged with need, and deepened the kiss. His hand curled around my waist, pulling me flush against his body. Every soft curve of mine matched up with hard strength. I sighed into his mouth, heady with longing.
Laughter rumbled through his chest. His hands trailed down my sides, skimming my breasts. I shuddered, desire spreading through my body, leaving me dizzy and breathless and trembling. I twined my arms around his neck, anchoring myself to Ryan as though he was the one true thing that could keep me from floating away, from dissolving into a cloud of pleasure and delight. I kissed his jawline and neck, and his skin smelled like cinnamon and the woods and I thought I might collapse right there and I didn’t even care.
He stiffened when I kissed him, his muscles tensing under my fingers, and then he released a long, jagged breath and relaxed. His hands smoothed over my shoulder blades, hot against my bare skin, slowly running down my spine. I leaned into him, and then his fingers skimmed the low back of my dress, his fingers tracing the V the fabric formed, and then his
hand dipped under the green silk, blazing heat lower. I let out a tiny moan against the hollow of his neck.
He removed his hand, and I looked up at him, outraged. He grinned. “Oh, sweetheart.” Laughter caught in his throat. “I am going to make you scream.”
I bit his shoulder. Hard.
He gasped, and I laughed softly, kissing the mark better. “I won’t be the only one,” I whispered, and then my lips found his again. He tasted of champagne, sharp and bright, like new chances and fire and excitement. One of his hands dug into my hair, tilting my head back as we drank each other in. My hands desperately crumpled his linen shirt. He pulled away, dropping his jacket to the floor, fumbling for his buttons. And then the shirt was gone, and Ryan stood half-naked before me.
I stopped, shocked into stillness. He was perfect. He was a hero, a god, stepping down from his golden mountaintop. “I’m not Hercules,” I murmured, trying to take in the sculpted arms, the wide expanse of golden, muscled chest. “You are.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Ryan reached for me.
I went willingly. Only the thin layer of silk separated our bodies, and my breasts strained, taut and wanting, against his chest. I lifted my leg to encircle his waist. His hands skimmed the green fabric up past my knees and thighs, until it rested above my hips. He caught my body so I could wrap myself around him, making me feel weightless once again. I grinned at him, tightening my legs and pressing against his black slacks. “It’s just like riding your bike.”
“Not quite.” He stroked against me so I could feel that one, undeniable difference. Fire shot through me, and I whimpered and clutched his shoulders. He grinned. “But I’ll take you for a ride any time.”
My laugh was a mere huff of air as I pulled him down, opening my mouth under his. He kissed me, deeper and longer each time, his tongue stroking in and out as I rocked against him, seeking relief for the aching emptiness between my legs. His arousal pressed hot and urgent against me. “Oh, God,” I gasped. “Ryan.”
He put me down, and I stared at him, betrayed, stepping forward and reaching out. “What...?” I trailed off as he spun me around. He lowered his mouth to my neck, kissing, nibbling, as I moaned and leaned back into him. Cool air trailed down my back, and the dress fell away. I turned, and smiled.
“Oh, sweet God,” he groaned. Pleased as a cat, I opened my arms and he stepped into them, pressing my back to the wall, his kisses burning down my neck, and lower still. My fingers dug into his shoulders, my head falling back as he teased and taunted the sensitive skin, until he finally tugged my aching nipple into his mouth. I gasped and arched toward him. I could barely see, barely move. I could do nothing but feel the exquisite, endless pleasure that Ryan lavished upon me, swirling and stroking, his golden, perfect hands working magic upon my body, like an artist, a magician, a god.
Then his fingers trailed down to my waist, flicking the scrap of lace away. I sighed, dizzy and frantic and wanting, and he slipped one long, slick finger inside me, and I opened to him and ached and cried out as he circled away at that center point until I thought I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Ryan,” I gasped. “Ryan, please—”
He laughed, just as airless. “All right, sweetheart,” he said hoarsely, dropping to his knees. “Anything you want.”
Something clicked on in my brain. Unwelcome thought, telling me exactly what Ryan was going to do. Something John hadn’t done, and certainly not fast, impulsive Stephen.
“No.” I stepped away. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
He stopped, his features carved with disbelief. He stood up, planting a hand on either side of me. His elbows bent so our lips almost touched, faces a breath apart, but there was no kiss in the air between us. Each word came out labored and terse. “What are you talking about?”
I turned my head away.
He let out a long, shuddering breath. “You don’t want to do this?” When I didn’t contradict him, he drew away. “Fine.” He swiped up his clothes, not bothering to put them on. He closed his eyes, sucking down breath after breath. “That’s it. I can’t do this anymore.” He turned and walked away.
I hadn’t seen him from behind before, and now I saw his broad back, his tapered waist, the muscles that powered his games, the arms that threw, the hands that touched, the purple and black bruise that blossomed across his shoulder. “What happened to you?”
He stopped but didn’t turn, leaving me staring at that ugly, growing flower. “I was tackled. It happens.”
I’d run my hands over those shoulders and he hadn’t even winced. He’d kissed me like the world could end and he wouldn’t ever let go. “I’m sorry.” I meant for everything, for the bruise and for being scared and for telling him to go. I was scared, but I was always scared, and it wasn’t even wanting anymore—I needed him. “Wait,” I cried, and I ran up to him. “I’m not playing, I swear, I just get scared.”
He turned just as I threw myself at him, and he caught me, his body hard as a wall. “I’m sorry.” My lips were on his ear, his jaw, his mouth. “I mean yes. Yes. Yes.”
“I am going to kill you.” He spun us so that my back rammed into the wall. His mouth pressed down on mine, hard, demanding, until I could no longer breathe. I pushed down his trousers, his boxers going the same way. I hardly had time to admire the whole of him before he pressed me back up against the wall and settled his hips against mine, lips covering mine until the last second.
“Only a little death,” I gasped, and then he plunged into me, and I screamed.
His mouth was back on mine. “Shut up,” he whispered. “Shut up, you crazy, beautiful girl, you’ll get us caught.”
For a moment, I just breathed, and then it wasn’t enough anymore. I clenched my muscles around him and Ryan groaned, rocking against me. He withdrew only to slide back in, slow, hard, deep, until I teetered, sightless, and matched his thrusts with my own. “Don’t scream, crazy-beautiful,” Ryan whispered against me. “Not yet.”
I rocked against him. Each stroke took me closer, but I stayed on the edge. “Oh, God, Ryan. Ryan. Please—”
He was lost, going faster and faster, kissing me, loving me, until I couldn’t keep up, and then he shuddered, once, twice, burrowing inside and exhaling kisses and champagne and pure sensation. “Don’t stop,” I cried. “Don’t you dare stop!” I arched against him again, almost crying from the exquisite pain. If this didn’t happen, I would die. I would never recover.
He reached his fingers down, and they touched and stroked and pressed—“There!”
As the world shattered into a thousand tiny, whirling diamonds, I screamed. But Ryan caught it with his lips.
* * *
Later, we collapsed against the wall, tangled together and breathing as one. Slowly, slowly, satiated pleasure faded. The rhythm of our breath stopped being my central thought. Ryan stopped being a second part of me. The diamonds cleared from my vision, slowly, slowly, until my mind was glass.
“Oh my God!” I pushed myself to my feet and stumbling away from Ryan. I stared down at him, horrified. He looked baffled. “Holy shit! We just had unprotected sex!”
In eighth grade Sex Ed, my teacher presented a graphic PowerPoint of every STD imaginable, and they burrowed into my memory, another unwanted list for the ages. Now, each one of those pictures ran through my mind, of pungent, rotten flesh, of boils and rashes.
From the floor, in an unashamed, glorious sprawl, Ryan looked up at me. “You on the pill?”
“What?” I hyperventilated slightly from my mental slideshow. “Yes, of course.”
“Well, that takes care of that. And I’m clean. How about you?”
“But how do you know? Ryan, you sleep with a lot of girls. Any one of them could have passed something along! When was the last time you were tested? Oh my God. I should have demanded to see your paperwork before anything happened. Oh my God.”
He started to look annoyed. “What do you mean, I sleep with a lot of girls? And I told you, I�
�m clean. I got tested two months ago.”
AIDS. Gonorrhea. Chlamydia. “Okay, but what about since then? What do you know about those girls? Did you see their paperwork? Because even if they said they were safe, they could have been lying. Or not known.”
He shoved himself upright, his brows clashing together. “Just how many people do you think I fuck?”
“I don’t know! You’re a professional football player! You need to be careful!”
His face tightened with anger. “Well, I guess it’s too late now, so we might as well enjoy it.” He reached forward, grabbed my arm and wrenched me toward him. He kissed me harshly, a kiss that took and took and took until I could no longer breathe. He pulled me flush against him. He was hard and we were still naked, and it would be so easy—
I pushed him back. “No! Aren’t you listening to me?”
“What, the part where I’m a whore or about how I’m an idiot?”
“Ryan—”
“You know what? I don’t care. Because apparently there are a hundred other girls I could screw around with, so I’m going to go find one of them.” He shoved on his pants. I watched as he wrestled to zip them, and then I turned and picked up my dress.
“And what about you?” he asked, after we had finished dressing in silence. “How the hell do I know you’re clean?”
I already regretted my outburst, so I answered with my face to the floor, subdued and embarrassed. “You don’t. But I am.” What was my problem? Why did I have to jump down his throat, attack him just because I was scared of everything? I’m sorry, I wanted to say. I wanted to explain that I always thought of the worst possible event, that of course I trusted him, I just needed a minute to get over my first assumptions and worries. “I’m—”
He overrode me, his beautiful face drawn with lines of anger. “You know, maybe that’s the reason you play so coy.” I stopped, confused by the cruel hint in his voice. “Because as soon as anyone lands you in bed they find out what a freak you are.”
Hurt struck everywhere, like a hundred stabbing needles, forming a thousand bruises. Usually I could toss insults with the best of them, but now I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Not one snarky remark. Because he was right. I’d never liked anyone more than I liked Ryan, and yet right after I managed to open up to him, I ended up slamming him out and forcing him away.
