Worth the Fall

by Mara Jacobs

  “How red did his face get, trying not to mention it?”

  Ah, she knew his father well.

  “On a scale from pink to crimson? I’d say fire-engine red.”

  Another small laugh. The color was coming back into her face now and she looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time since she’d walked in the door.

  “And the knee?” she asked, pointing to his leg propped up on one of the kitchen chairs.

  “Not too bad. If I keep it propped up, it just aches a little. Kind of a dull ache, but really not bad. The brace pinches a little bit when I stand for too long, so I don’t.”

  Wow, that had felt good, to give a truly honest answer instead of the “fine, fine, no problem” answer he’d given his parents, teammates, friends in Detroit, the media and the other gazillion callers he’d talked to throughout the day.

  Even Al seemed surprised he’d been so forthright. She drank some more wine, then proceeded to fix a plate for herself from the pan of lasagna his mother had left heating in the oven.

  “She made you a salad and put it in the fridge.” Alison nodded and got it out as well as a bottle of dressing. She went back to the oven and pulled out the tin foil bundle next to the pan.

  “Garlic bread?” she asked him even though she was already unwrapping it.

  “Yep.”

  “Mmm. God bless your mother,” she said, putting two slices on her plate, then wrapping up the bread and putting it on the counter. She put the metal lid on the baking pan and started to put the rest of the lasagna into the fridge, looking back at Petey before she did. “Sure you don’t want some more before I put it away?”

  He shook his head and she turned back to her task, made harder by his mother’s five bags of groceries that she’d brought with her today. And the case of beer his father had.

  Alison had to bend over and lean in. Gazing at her ass in those jeans had Petey hoping she’d never find room for the pan and have to stand like that all night.

  Sadly, she finally found a spot, put the pan in, and brought her plate and salad bowl to the table, then topped off her wine glass.

  “Ready for another?” she asked, indicating his beer.

  He gulped down the last bit and nodded. “If you don’t mind.”

  She brought him a new bottle and took his old one, careful not to touch his hand.

  She finally sat and started eating. Her moans at the good food had him fidgeting in his seat, which sent a shot of pain down his leg.

  “So, how was your day?” he asked. “No patients today?”

  She shook her head, her mouth full. She eyed him suspiciously as she chewed and swallowed, as if her schedule was a state secret that had fallen into enemy hands.

  “Lizzie mentioned you were taking on a lighter load right now because of your parents.”

  She seemed to accept that. She wiped her mouth on her napkin, then placed it back in her lap. She took a sip of wine, her tongue reaching out to swipe a stray drop off her lip.

  Jesus, she was killing him just by eating frickin’ lasagna and drinking wine.

  “My day. Let’s see. My day sucked,” she said.

  “Sorry to hear that.” She looked at him like there was some hidden jab coming. “Really,” he said and held his hands up in a surrender motion. “I’m sorry you had a sucky day.”

  She leaned back in her chair, taking her glass of wine with her, arms crossed, measuring him with her eyes.

  “Thank you,” she finally said.

  Two simple words, and yet it felt to Petey as if the earth had shifted, and they were entering into another plane or something.

  Yeah, maybe they were on another plane…adulthood.

  She told him about her day as she finished eating and nearly finished the bottle of wine.

  “And here I thought having some Spaniard standing and watching while I showered in case I fell was about as bad as it could get.”

  She chuckled. “Nope. I trump ya there, pal.”

  She cleaned up after herself, putting her dishes in the dishwasher. She brought another beer and what remained of the wine to the table and sat back down.

  He’d thought for sure she’d have retreated to her room by now or at least moved away from him into the living room.

  But no, she stayed at the table. With him.

  He reached out slowly across the small table and peeled her hand from around the stem of the wine glass and held it. Squeezing her fingers, he looked up and waited until she looked up, too.

  “Can we talk about last night?”

  She didn’t pull them away, but her fingers did clench a little in his.

  “I’m not sure there’s much to say,” she quietly said.

  “Oh, I think there’s a world to say. I think there’s eighteen years worth of things to say, but I’m willing to keep it to just last night.”

  He took a swig of beer, giving her a moment to digest that, but still clung to her hand.

  “What would you like to say?” she asked and then quickly added, “About last night.”

  He entwined his fingers with hers, much like she’d done last night. “I want to say that I meant what I said.”

  “Which part?”

  “All of it.”

  “That you’d chase me?” She pointed to his raised leg. “If your knee was better.”

  “I think we both know I was talking in the metaphorical sense, but yeah.” She raised her brows at him. “What? You didn’t think I’d know a big word like metaphorical.”

  “I meant it last night when I said it couldn’t happen again,” she said. But there was just…something in her voice.

  “And now?” he said, trying not to let the smidgen of hope he was feeling come through.

  “And now. Let’s just say I’ve been doing a lot of thinking today.”

  “Oh, Al. Baby, you do a lot of thinking every day.”

  She ducked her head in a shy way, and he squeezed her hand. And holy shit, she squeezed back. “But what were you thinking about today?”

  “Choices. Control. And how sick and tired I am of making choices lately.”

  “Your parents.”

  She nodded, then continued, “But more than that. I’ve been thinking about my relationships with men, too.”

  He held his breath, not wanting to go all caveman with the surge of jealousy that pulsed through him. “In what way?” he asked nonchalantly.

  “How I was never satisfied with them in bed.”

  “Umm…umm…I got nothing.”

  She chuckled. “I didn’t expect you to say anything to that. I’m just trying to tell you what state of mind I’m in right now.”

  “And what is that?”

  She took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. Her chest rose and fell, but he tried not to notice as he held her eyes.

  “Like I said, I’m tired of making choices, of controlling things. I’m tired of not getting what I want out of a sexual relationship simply because I’m afraid to tell my partner what I need.”

  “And what do you need, Al?” he asked softly, leaning as far toward her as he could with his leg still in its brace. “Do you want to lose control?”

  She shook her head just a tiny bit and leaned forward. “No. I don’t want to lose control.” She waited and he held his breath not knowing, not daring to guess, where she was going.

  “I want to have my control taken.”

  Thirteen

  If you never change your mind, why have one?

  ~ Edward de Bono

  Were the gods cutting him some slack? Was the universe making up for his career ending sooner than he’d planned?

  Or did Alison Jukuri just tell him she wanted him to control her in bed?

  Okay. Don’t freak out. And more importantly, don’t freak her out.

  He held her gaze and squeezed her hand again. “So…you’re thinking not so much this…” He gently rubbed his thumb over hers—a soft caress, a whisper of a touch. Then he turned their hands so hers was
against the table. He disengaged their fingers and slid his hand up her palm and to her wrist, which he then tightly encircled, pushing her hand further into the hard table. “As this…” he said, tightening his hold even more.

  It was tiny. But oh, he heard the little gasp that left her mouth.

  “Say it.”

  She nodded.

  “Say it,” he said more firmly.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Excitement like he couldn’t believe rushed through him. Fuck, it was better than stepping out onto the ice at the Joe to a packed house chanting his name.

  She was breathing a little deeper now, her sweater rising and falling. Brown and fuzzy, the sweater looked like it would be incredible to touch.

  He couldn’t wait until it was wadded up on the floor.

  “So…how do we…how does this work?” She looked away from him, embarrassed.

  “Don’t worry, Al, I’ve got it. I’ll get us through it. You won’t have to ask for a thing. But we should talk through a few ground rules, first.”

  “Ground rules? Like what?” Her eyes were huge and the exact shade of brown as her sweater. Puzzlement and a bit of anticipation came through in both her voice and body language as she leaned closer.

  He also noticed that she hadn’t made a move to loosen her hand from his grip.

  “Like what…acts…are on the table. Like choosing a safe word. Stuff like that.”

  “So, you do this a lot?”

  He thought that might kill the deal. That she would be turned off by the thought. But nope, she was genuinely curious.

  “Not a lot, no. But, come on Al, you don’t become a defenseman in the NHL without wanting to dominate.”

  She smiled at that and then looked as if she’d done something wrong. He jostled her leg under the table with his good leg. “Hey, this can be fun, too. We can enjoy it and laugh and it can still be intense.” She nodded. “We can make this up as we go, Al, now that I know what you want.”

  He thought about that for a minute. Yeah, no. She wasn’t going to want him to ask her every few minutes if she liked it or if she wanted something else. That was the whole point. She was sick of making choices, of telling people what to do, of giving life advice. She wanted to be told what to do. “So maybe even more reason to have a safe word. Just something you can say so I’ll know if I’ve gone too far.”

  “Okay. What do you suggest? Is there a standard safe word used in these types of situations?” She was mocking it all, but that was out of insecurity. She wanted this.

  “Let’s just get this straight,” he said, squeezing her wrist. “Nothing about us is standard, so don’t bullshit yourself.”

  “I know,” she softly admitted.

  “Let’s see…how about puck? Nice, short and near and dear to my heart.”

  She thought about it a second—leave it to Alison to overthink a safe word—then shook her head. “No. Something else.”

  “What’s wrong with puck?”

  “If I call it out, you might confuse it with ‘fuck.’”

  “You planning on calling out ‘fuck’ a lot?” And didn’t the thought of that just make his already twitching dick sit up and pay attention.

  “Maybe,” she said in a little coquette voice that was so unlike her.

  Actually, the whole night was unlike her and a complete one-eighty from her parting words last night.

  She must have had one shitty day of introspection after visiting Katie and her mom and sister.

  Or…and this was just starting to come to him…maybe this was the real Alison. Maybe all the bullshit she showed everyone was just that—bullshit.

  A mini-eureka went through his head, but he didn’t want to veer off track now. He’d definitely file that thought away, though.

  “So, not puck. You choose,” he said.

  She looked around, seemingly looking at objects, sizing them up, as if they were playing a game of I spy or something.

  “Coffee,” she said.

  “Shorter. One syllable.”

  She seemed exasperated. Her eyes roamed around again then came to rest on him. “Jock.”

  He raised a brow at her. “Fine. Jock it is. So now that—”

  “Wait. That’s the word we use if you’re going too far, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what word do I use if you’re not going far enough?”

  Jesus, he was going to come before they even kissed if she kept putting provocative images like that in his head.

  “More?”

  She shook her head. “Too commonplace. That could pop out without me even realizing it.” She narrowed her eyes playfully at him. “Assuming you’re doing it right.”

  “Alllll,” he groaned and she giggled.

  “Speed. That’s the word for stepping it up. Good enough?” she asked.

  “Perfect. Anything else? Anything…you know…verboten?”

  “That’s what I’ve got ‘jock’ for, right?”

  “Well, yeah, but maybe I should know up front if—”

  “Let’s just leave it with jock.”

  He nodded, sensing he was going to lose the moment entirely if he didn’t get this show on the road.

  “Now,” he said, “Put your wine glass and all this other shit that’s on the table over on the counter.”

  “Why would I—”

  “Do it. The time for talking, the time for asking and the time for you thinking is over. Just do what I tell you.” He released her wrist, sat back in his chair and took a long drag from the beer bottle. He tried to slouch down, but it was a little hard to do with his bum leg out to one side and propped up on a chair. But he thought he pulled off the bossy lover okay. He took another drink of beer and watched her as she rose from the table and began clearing the table of the salt and pepper shakers, napkin holder, and all the other crap that was perpetually on kitchen tables.

  Alison Jukuri did as he told her.

  Well, holy shit, this might be the night of his life.

  When she’d finished her task, she returned to the table but didn’t sit back down. Instead, she stood tentatively by the side of her chair.

  “Now, if I were able, I would throw you over my shoulder, carry you off to the bedroom and fuck you three ways to Sunday.”

  She bit her bottom lip, then swiped her tongue across it.

  “But, I’m not really capable of doing that tonight. That will have to wait until I’m back on my feet completely.”

  Something passed across her eyes. Doubt. Damn, she was thinking this was just another one-night stand like the night of Katie’s wedding. It wasn’t, but he didn’t correct her. They’d have time for that later.

  Much later.

  “So, we’re going to have to improvise. And I’m thinking this table will do just fine,” he said as he put his beer bottle down on the worn oak table.

  “Besides,” he added. “There’s no way I’m going to fuck you hard on pink sheets.”

  She barked out a quick nervous laugh, and he relaxed a little.

  “Come here,” he said in the low voice he used on players from opposing teams when he wanted to intimidate them.

  She walked toward him.

  He lowered his bad leg from the chair, brushing her off as she tried to help him. “It’s fine. Really. It aches a hell of a lot more about two feet higher.”

  “The brace?”

  “Ah, no,” he said as he brought his hand to his erection. “Here.”

  “I can help with that ache,” she said and stepped closer to him. When she started to go down on her knees, he reached out and put a hand on her waist, stopping her.

  “Not yet. Not until I tell you. This is my show.”

  Her eyes went wide. She shifted her stance, then nodded.

  He could demand the whole “call me sir” spiel. He’d done it before with a couple of women who liked power games. But something kept him from taking that step.

  He scooted his chair back from the table and opened
his legs. “Closer,” he said.

  She moved between his legs, he put his hand on her stomach. He caressed the warm and fuzzy sweater and gently pushed her back a step, so her ass hit the edge of the table.

  “Hop up on it,” he told her. She did, nearly toppling his beer bottle, but he reached out and snatched it in time. He then scooted his chair closer to the table. Alison had to spread her legs to allow him in, like he was seating himself in front of a gourmet dinner.

  He drank from the bottle, then offered it to her. As she took a drink he said, “Let some of it spill out of those lips. Just enough for me to lick up.”

  She did, and as he leaned forward and up, she leaned forward and down, and their mouths met. Two nights in a row he’d kissed that mouth—a record for them.

  But thinking about their past, how she wanted it tonight and all that other bullshit flew from his mind when she opened her mouth and their tongues finally found each other. Twirling, pushing, frantically seeking the other, their tongues tangled while Petey deepened the kiss. It was a low table, she was a short woman, and he was a big man, so there wasn’t much stretching as he reached out his hand and wrapped it around the back of her neck. She groaned into his mouth. He tasted the beer as he licked it from her lips, but he also tasted the wine and garlic. Yes, indeed, it was just like he had sat down to a feast.

  He could have kissed her all night, but she started squirming, as did his hard-on. He sat back in the chair, grateful to hear her small whine as he pulled away.

  “Take off your sweater,” he said. He held his hand out for the beer bottle, which she handed him. He drank the last of it, set the bottle on the floor and gently rolled it out of potential harm’s way.

  She watched him get rid of the bottle, but she still hadn’t moved. “Do it, Al. Lose the sweater.”

  She kept her eyes on him as she lifted the hem. “Slowly,” he added. He saw the shift in her when she started to lift in a slow, teasing manner, dragging her hand up her bared skin. She wanted to tease.

  When she got to her bra, she added her other hand to the other side and lifted. Then she stopped, just as the bottom of a black satin bra came into view.

  “Why, you naughty girl,” he whispered. “Do your panties match that bra?”