Hoops Holiday

by Ryan, Kennedy

  Cold wind slaps me in the face when I join her at the rail. Noticing gooseflesh prickling the skin of her arms and back, I slip my jacket off and drape it over her shoulders. She jumps, spilling champagne down the front of her dress.

  “Shit.” She holds the glass and the bottle away from her body, assessing the damage.

  “Sorry.” I pull a cocktail napkin from my pocket and pat the wet spot on the front of her dress. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  With a half-hearted grin, she watches my hands moving over the scarce material of her bodice and skirt.

  “If this is some elaborate scheme to get to second base,” she says. “It might actually work tonight.”

  My hands pause just under her breasts, and I glance from the stain on her dress to the stain on her face. The stain of sadness with a shade of inebriation.

  “As much as I’d like to take you up on your offer,” I say, crooking one side of my mouth even though I don’t feel like smiling, and it looks like she doesn’t either. “I’ll take a rain check.”

  She narrows her eyes for a second before shrugging, setting her glass on the balcony ledge and tipping the bottle to her lips, eyes never leaving mine.

  “Some other guy’s lucky night then,” she drawls.

  I grab her wrist before she can take another sip, and the rim of the bottle is poised at her lips.

  “No.”

  It’s one word, but it covers a lot. No, she doesn’t need to drink anymore. No, it’s not some other motherfucker’s lucky night if I have anything to say about it. And no, I won’t let her drown her sorrows in champagne and meaningless sex tonight.

  “No? I’m a grown-ass woman, Deck,” she snaps, a shadow flitting across her face. “Grown and fancy-free.”

  A lone tear streaks through her flawless makeup. “God, I hate this song.”

  I tune into the music drifting out to us from inside.

  “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas”? I ask.

  “It was his favorite Christmas song,” she whispers and clunks the champagne bottle down on the balcony ledge. “It’s awful.”

  She squeezes her eyes closed, but more tears slip over her cheeks. I want to put my arms around her again like I did at her apartment, but she’s been so unpredictable tonight, I don’t know how she’ll respond. I hesitate, not sure what to say. I hate it when people say stupid shit to a grieving person. I don’t want to be that guy, and I’m not known for my sensitivity.

  “I know this is a hard time for you.”

  She stares at me, sadness and uncertainty suspended between us like a rope bridge, before bringing the bottle to her lips and chugging without answering.

  “Hey, hey.” I urge the bottle down and away from her mouth. “That won’t solve anything.”

  “Oh, you’re so acquainted with grief, are you? That you know just what to do in these situations, huh? I’m so damn tired of being a situation. Of knowing everyone’s wondering how I’m holding up, and wondering if I’m ready to date again. Wondering if I’m still . . .”

  “Still what, Ave?”

  She draws a deep breath and clutches the bottle to the smooth skin between her breasts displayed by the dipping neckline.

  “You still on the top floor?” she demands. “Or has the network kicked you out already?”

  “Nah.” I draw the word out a little, buying a nanosecond to figure out where she’s going with this. “I’ve got the penthouse for a few more days.”

  She nods, draws her brows together like she’s processing what I’ve told her; like she’s working out some problem. And then she says the words I would have given my first-year salary to hear the night we met, but now have no idea what to do about.

  “Let’s get out of here. Take me to your place.”

  9

  Avery

  I know this is a mistake. I’m huddled in the corner of the elevator, my eyes fixed on the illuminated ascending numbers taking us inevitably to the top floor where Deck has been living the past few weeks. If I knew what was good for me, I would push the red emergency button; alert maintenance that there’s an accident in progress right inside this elevator. But I can’t. I woke up with this numbness spreading over my body like a plague. It’s even frozen over my heart. I knew today would be painful; that it might hurt like a fresh wound, but nothing hurts and nothing feels good. Not the deceptively innocuous champagne bubbles zipping through my bloodstream. Not the many guys I danced with tonight or the secret touches they stole while we moved to the music. Nothing has made me feel all day.

  Except him.

  Call it lust. Animal attraction. Whatever it is, I felt it like a shot of adrenaline as soon as I saw Decker tonight. I study him from under surreptitious lashes, roving my eyes over silky hair the color of nutmeg brushed with honey. The slightest curl of it at his nape softens the hard line of his neck. His brandy-flavored eyes watch the climbing numbers, the bold nose and thick brows and wide, mobile mouth harmonizing his features into handsome. I study the impressive width of his shoulders and the bulge of his arms straining against the dress shirt. His jacket around my shoulders douses me in his scent and his warmth. I discretely snuggle deeper into its embrace, even though the arms hang limp and empty at my sides.

  Yes, he makes me feel something. I want it to be as simple as lust; as the sad, horny girl who woke up with her dead fiancé on her mind and her hand between her legs, but it’s not that simple. I’ve always known with Decker it wouldn’t be.

  “I don’t think . . .” I struggle to wrangle my thoughts set on a wild goose chase by the alcohol I’ve consumed. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

  He looks at me sharply just as the doors open to his floor. We consider each other, neither making a move. The doors start closing and he catches them with one long arm.

  “Come on.” He tilts his head toward the landing beyond the elevator doors. “At least let me get some coffee in you. Sober you up and save you from bad decisions you’ll regret tomorrow.”

  He thinks the bad decisions are back at the party with idiots like Mike Dunlov. No, the bad decisions are behind his closed doors, but I find myself half-stumbling after him to the penthouse. As soon as we’re inside, I lean my palm onto the wall for balance and take off my stilettos. I lose another four inches, and now have to tip my head farther back to see his face.

  “You’re tall.” I want to retract the obvious statement to a basketball player as soon as it trips past my liquor-loosened lips. Humor flits through his eyes briefly before concern swipes it away.

  “Comes with the territory.” He walks toward the small, neat kitchen. “Come on. Coffee.”

  I very carefully climb onto the leather stool at the counter, looping my bare feet on the slats. Decker makes even a simple task like making coffee look tantalizing. The play of muscles under his thin white shirt when he reaches for a mug. The efficiency of his big hands, quick and deft in the mundane preparations. There’s a rugged grace to him; like rough metal that’s been polished and chiseled until it gleams.

  “You’re beautiful,” I blurt, causing him to stop what he’s doing and stare at me.

  I really am drunk. I’d never say that sober.

  “Wow, you really are drunk.” He echoes my thoughts, laughs and shakes his head, sliding the coffee across the marble counter top. “Drink this and I’m sure I’ll be less beautiful soon.”

  I hope so because if he keeps looking like that, I can’t be held responsible.

  And isn’t that what I want? For one night not to feel responsible? Not to feel guilty or condemned? Ashamed of my part in Will’s irreversible decision? All night I’ve wanted to feel something, and in this moment, I feel everything. Like a wall dropped and every painful thought and emotion rushed in before I could get my guard back up.

  “It’s today,” I speak into the quiet filled with only the hum of appliances.

  “What’s today?” Decker leans his elbows on the counter, gathering both huge fists under his chin and watching me
closely, waiting for more.

  I think he already knows. All night it felt like everyone knew I was desperate to forget the significance of this day.

  “Um . . . a year ago today, Will died.” I run a fingernail over the silky material stretching across my thighs.

  “I’m sorry, Avery.” Sincerity lays heavy in the dark eyes, unlit by his usual good humor.

  “Did you know it was suicide?” The words cut my tongue like a razor. “That he took his own life? Right in our apartment.”

  “I didn’t know. Did you . . .” His compassion reshapes to horror. “Did you find him, Avery?”

  The horrible tableau plays out across my mind again like it has countless times before.

  “Yeah.” My whisper breaks. “I found him, but I was too late.”

  Despite the warmth of his jacket around me, I shiver like I’m back there; like the premonition that slid over me when I entered our apartment that night is revisiting my skin and reminiscing with my bones.

  “Shit, Ave.” Decker crosses around the counter to me, his taut stomach hitting my bent knees while I sit on the stool. “I’m so sorry.”

  “He was . . . he was . . .” My teeth rattle, shock shaking me like I’m standing in that bathroom again. “In the water. In our bathtub with so much blood.”

  Deck pulls me closer by the shoulders while tears course over my cheeks and dampen the fine cotton of his shirt. I can’t catch my breath. Weeping quakes my body with the stupid tears I promised myself I wouldn’t shed today. I was so determined to forget all of this tonight, and here I am, a sloppy mess all over Mack Decker. His wide, warm palms roll over my arms when his jacket falls from my shoulders and hits the thick pile carpet. He rests his hands at the curve of my neck and shoulder when my tears finally subside, his thumbs under my chin, lifting, forcing my eyes to meet his.

  “Hey, you okay?” he asks softly.

  I concentrate all my senses, all my focus on where his hands have been. My arms are warm from his touch. The sensitive skin of my neck tingles where his thumbs caress. The faint smell of alcohol and his expensive cologne flares my nostrils. My heart slams into my ribs like I’ve run and leapt and landed. Wordlessly, I scoot forward on the stool, widening my legs until he’s between them, bracketed by my knees. The bold action forces the dress up to the juncture of my thighs, offering a glimpse of my black panties. His eyes drop between my legs and snap up to my face. He tries to step back, hands falling away and jaw ticking, but I latch onto one leanly muscled arm.

  “Don’t.” I scoot forward more until I’m barely on the stool. “Please don’t leave me like this, Deck.”

  “I’m not leaving you, Avery. I . . .” He gives a decisive shake of his head. “You’re not in a good place tonight and I won’t take advantage of that. I want to help you, not . . .”

  His words trail away and his eyes are distracted, following a path along my collarbone, between my breasts, over my stomach and between my legs. I spread my thighs another inch, showing him what he’s wanted for a long time and inviting him to take it tonight.

  He licks his bottom lip, a fascinating swipe of his tongue that I lean forward and mimic with my own. His pleasured groan vibrates against my mouth, but he pulls back, drawing in a deep breath and shaking his head again.

  “Ave, I—”

  I grip him by the neck and lick the seam of his lips. His jaw drops on a gasp, and I push my tongue in, exploring the warm, silky interior of his mouth. My hands venture between us, finding him lengthened, hardened. When I squeeze, he growls into our kiss. His hands, which have remained in deliberate discipline at his sides, encompass my waist. They’re so big his fingers almost meet at my back and his thumbs rest under my breasts. My nipples tauten in proximity to his touch.

  “You’re playing with fire here.” His voice emerges rough as Brillo.

  “I know exactly,” I say, my voice husky while my hand pushes up and down over his dick. “what I’m playing with.”

  “Avery, we should—”

  “Make me feel,” I cut in, steadily pumping him through his pants. “You want to help, then make me feel.”

  Tears gather at the edges of my eyes, trickling unchecked over my face and into the corners of my mouth.

  “Make me feel something other than pain, Deck.” I meet his eyes, and they reflect my sorrow back to me. He groans when my hand persists.

  “Promise me,” he finally says, searching my face. “Promise me you won’t regret this tomorrow.”

  A dissonant laugh flows out of me, misplaced in the grief and lust permeating the room around us.

  “I can’t promise you I won’t regret this tomorrow.” I stare back at him, not hiding my pain or my passion or my confusion or my need. “I can only promise that I want it like hell tonight.”

  10

  Decker

  Avery’s words, even more than her hand, grab me by the balls. The sight of her arrests my heart in my chest. I’ve wanted this woman for a long time, but knew it would probably never happen. Here she is offering herself to me on a very unexpected platter, and I’m not sure I can do anything about it. Because after all this time, I’ll be damned if I’m settling for one night with her; some drunken memory she relegates to the back of a closet and never considers repeating.

  “Deck, I just want to feel good.” Her lips tremble when she presses them to mine again. “Make me feel. Make me come.”

  “Shit,” I hiss at her brazen request. “Avery, I can’t. Any night but tonight. I can’t.”

  Surprise and hurt mingle in her dark eyes, calcifying into determination. She hops off the stool and stands, allowing no space between us so I feel the heavy heave of her breasts against my chest.

  “Okay.” She looks up at me, her mouth a stiff line set in delicate bones. “Maybe Mike can—”

  “The hell Mike.”

  My hands clamp around her waist, stopping her from walking to the door. I swallow the last of my hesitation. She doesn’t know if she’ll regret this tomorrow. I’m almost certain I will, but I lose the fight with my will, with hers, and lift her back onto the stool. She wants to feel? She wants to come? Never looking away from her face, I drop to my knees and press her open. She doesn’t resist. Her legs relax, stopping where I want them. I rub my stubbled chin and cheek along the sensitive skin inside her thighs, rewarded by the gasps above my head. The closer I get to my goal, the harder it is to breathe. The smell of her reaches my nose, unhinging my restraint. I tighten my hands around her thighs, forcing myself to go slow; to be gentle. I lift her legs over my shoulders, dragging her ass to the very edge of the stool to mouth her through the black panties. They’re already damp, and her flavor seeps onto my tongue, so sweet I can’t help but remember Sadie saying Avery could be my dessert.

  “Oh, my God, Deck.” Her words are needy and breathless.

  I don’t look up, too absorbed in the taste of her, even through silk. So potent. I nudge the panties aside with my nose, licking up her seam. She’s wet and hot and tangy on my lips. I delve into her slickness, seeking out the crown jewel tucked inside, that cluster of nerves. I suck hard, and she bucks into my mouth. The steady interplay of tongue, lips and teeth at the intersection of her body and my mouth has her hips jerking and her hand clawing my hair. Her hips roll in tandem with me, and I glance up long enough to watch her inhibitions fall away. Her head drops back, the satin skin of her throat stretched and taut with pleasure.

  “Deck, I’m gonna . . . oh God.”

  I slip two fingers inside, still sucking and licking while both her hands grip my head; while she commands me like a queen in her inner court. Her legs quake against me and her body tightens around my fingers convulsively as she comes. She rides it out over my mouth, taking anything I might not be giving her. Except I’m giving her everything, and she doesn’t even know it.

  When her body goes still, and the only sound in the room is our labored breathing, I slide away from her. That’s as far as I’ll allow myself to go. She wanted to feel.
She wanted to come. I’ve done that for her, but I have to get her out of here.

  “Don’t, Deck.” Her lipstick is smeared and her lips are swollen from our kiss. “Don’t stop.”

  Her hips start rocking again like her pussy is remembering what I feel like; like she’s seeking something. Seeking me. The panties still pushed aside, showing me how needy and creamy she is between her thighs. I’m shaking my head, a definite denial, but when she slides the shoulders of her dress away, her breasts are naked and perfect. Most nipples are small tight buds, but Avery’s are lengthened and plump and plum-colored, resting at the tips of her breasts like heavy fruit on a vine. I want to drink. I’m already dizzy with the taste of her, but the sight of her unravels my convictions until they are shredded into ribbons at our feet. She stands, pushing at the skirt, sliding it over her hips and legs, a puddle of silk at her bare feet. She’s only in the black panties, but even those she persuades down her body until she’s naked for me.

  She traces the tip of her finger over my eyebrows, down my nose, skims my lips, cups my jaw.

  “You really are beautiful,” she whispers, her eyes following the path her finger took. “Give me tonight, Deck.”

  I got nothing left. Any resistance melts under the awe in her eyes as she runs them over my face, as her look probes beneath my clothes. I want to show her. I want her to be as enamored with my body as I am with hers. I stand up, towering over her. I pull her bare back to my chest and walk us to the bedroom, all the way, cupping her breasts, pinching her nipples, caressing her stomach, pressing my hard-on into her ass, so that by the time we reach my bedroom, her breaths are ragged, her fingers trembling when she unbuttons my shirt. I stand perfectly still, watching her eyes glaze over with every portion of me she reveals. She fumbles with my belt, but I don’t intervene, enjoying the clumsy brush of her fingers against my stomach. She opens my zipper, deliberately skimming a knuckle over me through my briefs, making my breath catch and cut in my chest. A little grin quirks one corner of her mouth when she sees my reaction. She pushes the shirt off my shoulders, leaning forward to suck my nipples.