Bigger Than Beckham

by V. K. Sykes

  For several long minutes they played with each other, their hands sliding between their bodies in an erotic dance, piling sensation upon sensation. Tony slipped two fingers deep inside, massaging her with a steady pressure that twisted her insides into a tight spiral. His other hand came up to curl around her breast, kneading her, then tugging on her stiff nipple until she let out a broken cry. It was so damn delicious she could barely stand it.

  When her head fell back, Tony pressed his mouth to her throat. “You drive me mad, Martha,” he murmured against her shivering skin.

  “I know the feeling,” she gasped. Lord, if he didn’t lay her back and take her soon, her legs were going to collapse.

  One of his big hands curled around the back of her neck and he gently nudged her head up. She gazed into his eyes and her heart lurched, undone by the heat and emotion in his gaze. He looked ravenous—all hungry, primitive male, hell-bent on possessing her.

  “Look down, babe,” he murmured in a husky voice. “Look at how beautiful you are.”

  Her womb clenched with need. Her whole body clenched with need, unable to deny him whatever he wanted…whatever he asked of her. She looked down and saw what he saw—their hands on each other, seeking and giving pleasure, skin to skin, sliding over burning flesh. It was so freaking erotic she almost came on the spot.

  She lowered her head, wanting him in her mouth. But his powerful hands stayed her. “Not this time, love,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t last two seconds.” He grabbed a condom from the bedside table and quickly sheathed himself.

  Then, with that startling strength of his, he lifted her and flipped her around. She landed on her knees and elbows, her ass tilted provocatively in the air. Before she could even catch her breath, he parted her thighs and slid in with a deep, powerful thrust.

  Martha cried out and arched her back, pushing up to her hands. Tony leaned in, surrounding her with his hard body, pumping with smooth, controlled lunges that rolled waves of desire through her. Her breath came in fractured sobs as she pushed her hips back, deepening the contact. She couldn’t see him, but she felt him everywhere, protecting her, pleasuring her, making her his own.

  Lord have mercy. She was in so much trouble with this man, and right now she no longer gave a damn.

  And then Tony was pressing her down into the bed, one arm wrapping around her chest as the other held onto her hip. She turned her head sideways, the satiny pillow cool under her heated cheek. Tony’s lips moved along the line of her jaw, whispering soft kisses even as he surged inside her.

  “Fuck,” he murmured in a husky voice. “I can’t get enough of you.” She felt tension vibrating through his big frame.

  And then he gave her a hard nudge, tilting her hips up just that little extra bit, and she flew apart on a choking sob. Luxurious contractions rippled out from her womb, flooding her with sensation. A moment later he followed, arching over her with shuddering power.

  Breathless, they fell together onto the disheveled bed. As Martha struggled to catch her breath, Tony’s arms wrapped tight around her, holding her close, keeping her safe.

  From everyone and everything but him.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Martha instantly adored the cozy intimacy of Blackhampton’s classic Fenton Park, a hoary but renovated stadium that had been built exclusively for soccer nearly eighty years ago. In every way it was so unlike the cavernous, multi-use home park her Thunder had to play in. Though Fenton had a capacity of about forty thousand, every fan appeared to have a decent view of the pitch from one of the three grandstands or the open north end bleachers. Not a nose-bleed seat in the place.

  She and Tony—alone as he’d promised—gazed down from his suite at the top of the west grandstand and sipped bottles of Smithwick’s, his arm firmly around her waist. For perhaps the first time since she left Philadelphia those long months ago, she felt something close to contentment.

  The grinding mental pain of her predicament with the Thunder had been temporarily anaesthetized by her excitement over the potential of the Colton Butler article and, of course, by Tony’s relentless, thrilling seduction. It had certainly been a willing enough seduction on her part, but Martha still placed a good share of the blame squarely on Tony’s broad shoulders. After all, it had been his brilliant idea to coax her onto a plane and transport her to a place where it seemed easy enough to forget about her troubles back home. Less than twenty-four hours into her working holiday, her body hummed with excitement in knowing that she had another couple of glorious, seduction-filled days before she had to again face cold reality back in Jacksonville.

  Tony Branch was getting oh-so-easy to get used to.

  “You’re a little quiet,” she said, gently nudging her hip against his side. “Did I wear you out last night? If so, I can’t say I noticed. Your exertions were admirable.”

  He chuckled but didn’t take his eyes off the pitch. “Worn out? That was just the warm-up before the match gets underway. The best is yet to come, love.”

  Love.

  Again, the word jarred her. Brits used the word easily, of course—sort of an all-purpose term of endearment. Still, every time Tony called her that, it made her knees go just a wee bit weak. And if what was yet to come turned out to be better than the fireworks that had exploded between them yesterday, then Martha began to think that perhaps her bad luck had started to turn around.

  “The fans are so unbelievably into it here,” she said, admiring the way the sold-out crowd sang and chanted at a volume that set her ears ringing. “It reminds me a little of Georgia football on a Saturday afternoon down in Athens.” She took a quick swig from her beer bottle, emptying it. “This is soccer for real. You barely even know it’s the same game as back home.”

  Tony tugged her even closer. “On the field, it’s the same game all over the world. They call it the beautiful game for good reason.”

  Martha let out a derisive little snort as she thought about the number of times she’d seen her players butcher good scoring opportunities, or allow opposing players to run right by them and score easy goals. Often enough that she’d more than once called them the Jacksonville Blunder in her mind—like that awful time Derek Kavanagh managed to deflect a shot into his own net, scoring a dreaded “own goal.” When he’d sounded blithe about it in an interview afterward, it had set a new low in her mind.

  “It didn’t look so beautiful the other night when we were watching my team, did it?” she said. “Not the way most of my guys have been playing the game.”

  Tony gave her a devilish smile. “In all honesty, I can’t say I was completely focused on what was happening down on the pitch.”

  “Good point, and a damn good thing, too,” she retorted as she gave him a little poke with her elbow. He had been very attentive to her that night in her suite. “I can assure you that the in-suite entertainment was much better than anything on the field.”

  “Watch this, now,” Tony said, pointing to where one of the Lions had started a brilliant run down the left side of the pitch. “That’s Kevin Keenan turning on the jets.”

  Like everyone who followed soccer, Martha knew Keenan was one of the most talented players in England. She watched almost in awe as the lightning-quick midfielder blazed down the sideline, outdistancing the defender who was desperately trying to mark him. As Keenan motored toward the corner, another defender came across to intercept. But Keenan stopped on a dime, spun around and let loose a bending kick that flew around and over both defenders. Breaking free from a pack, another Blackhampton player—Martha recognized him as the Ivory Coast national Emmanuel Diarra—timed his leap perfectly and headed the ball past the goalkeeper’s diving hands.

  “Yes!” Martha turned to give Tony a high-five. Keenan’s centering ball and Diarra’s header had been things of beauty—masterpieces of skill and timing.

  The celebration in the stadium was so loud, so boisterously manic that Martha wondered what would happen if the Lions ever won the Premier League championship. She
had a hunch there might not be much of the stadium left standing.

  “This is exactly what my father hoped to live to see with the Thunder,” she found herself saying. “He wanted to watch his guys play like that, and to feel what you’re feeling now, Tony. To experience the joy of having a great team playing in front of fans that care so deeply, like the folks down there in your stands obviously do.” Her voice started to catch. “But he never got that chance.”

  Tony wrapped her in a comforting hug. “I’m sorry, Martha. I wish it had been different.”

  She swallowed her impending tears and patted his back gratefully. “Look at me,” she drawled, “gettin’ all maudlin like that in the bat of an eyelash.” She picked up her empty beer bottle and waggled it at him. “Y’all got more of this good stuff in the fridge?”

  “You don’t fool me, tough girl,” Tony murmured, giving her a quick kiss on the tip of her nose. Then he patted her on the butt and headed for the suite’s wet bar.

  Martha wrestled her wayward emotions under control by giving herself the pleasure of watching Tony bend over to retrieve the beer from the lower part of the fridge. He’d worn a brown corduroy sports jacket over an open-necked white shirt and tight jeans, but had ditched the jacket as soon as they reached the suite. She couldn’t help sighing with satisfaction at the sight of his great ass and lean hips. She’d had her legs wrapped around those hips just a few hours ago.

  “I would have liked to have known your father,” he said when he came back and handed over another Smithwick’s. “I admire what he was trying to do—bringing football to a place where the soil hasn’t exactly been fertile. It takes a lot of commitment and courage to stick with something like that.”

  While Martha appreciated the brief paean to her dad, the irony wasn’t lost on her. Here she was, acting with “commitment and courage” to save her father’s team—at least she thought so—while Tony had been doing his best to yank it out from under her. Still, his clear gaze showed that he meant the compliment sincerely.

  She told herself to ignore her little flash of resentment. “A lot of people accused Daddy of tilting at windmills,” she said. “Even our family and friends.”

  Tony leaned back against the wooden counter running underneath the suite’s wide windows. “I’ve got a few of those types in my back yard, too. I’m sorry I don’t know a lot about your father, Martha, but I’ve always wondered why he was so committed to football.”

  Martha stared down at her sandals, absently inspecting her bright pink toenails.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” Tony said after she didn’t answer right away. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

  She cast him a quick smile. She wasn’t upset, just thinking. Wondering what her father would say if he could see her right now.

  “He grew up in England,” she finally said, fixing her eyes on the luxurious green of the pitch below. “In Oldham, which is near Manchester.”

  Tony chuckled. “I know exactly where Oldham is, Martha. They’ve got a League One team—the Latics.”

  “Latics?” Martha leveled a mock scowl at him. “Well, that’s a plenty weird name for a team, if you ask me. But, sorry, I digress. Anyway, to my father, the sun and the stars revolved around Manchester United. Red Devils forever was his credo. He worshiped those sixties players—guys like George Best, Denis Law, Bobby Charlton. I still remember the names all these years later. Hell, our family might have been the only one in southern Georgia that had even heard of Manchester United. But that team was just as much Daddy’s church as First Baptist in Marvel. He always had himself a big ol’ honkin’ satellite dish so he could pull down the matches from England and watch them while the rest of us were sleeping in late on Saturday mornings.”

  Leaning an elbow on the counter, Tony smiled at her. “I can’t say I share his colors, but I admire his commitment to United. Your dad made his money in the paper business, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, yeah. One thing Georgia’s got is trees, and Daddy figured that out right quick after he headed to the States to marry my mother. He’d met her at university in London. Mama came from Georgia planters going back to the revolution—not rich folk, but they did pretty well whenever the damn drought stayed away. Daddy got a little start-up money from Granddad, and bought himself a mill and a few thousand acres of forest south of our hometown.”

  “And I gather he made a smashing success of it.”

  Martha fidgeted with her beer bottle, peeling away corners of the damp label. She was always uncomfortable with the subject of Winston Papers and all it had meant to her father. “We weren’t exactly Georgia-Pacific, that’s for sure. But the company gave Daddy enough to realize his dream and eventually buy the soccer franchise.”

  The truth was that Will Winston had wanted nothing more than to secure that franchise and retire, turning his corporation over to his only child. Four years ago, he’d reluctantly sold Winston Papers instead. And Martha was sure he’d never completely forgiven her for letting him down when she balked at giving up her job at the Post to return home and run the family business. His unrealistic desire to pass control of the company to his prodigal daughter had left her no alternative but to hand him a disappointment far more hurtful than she’d ever anticipated.

  To her father, her commitment to journalism—and sportswriting in particular—embodied some kind of tragic failure on his part, as if he hadn’t imbued her with sufficient ambition or true passion to accomplish something significant and lasting. Sportswriting was pedestrian—the province of the barely literate—according to Will Winston, and horribly beneath her capabilities. Yes, he adored her and was proud of her accomplishments, but he’d never hidden the fact that he believed she could do so much better than spend her life writing about sports.

  She forced the painful memories aside, having no intention of dredging them up for Tony now.

  “A dream he and I certainly shared,” Tony mused, still watching the field as the Lions took control of the ball again. “A worthy dream for anyone, I’d say.”

  Martha’s heart clutched at the soft-spoken words that sounded like a vow. Most of her father’s family and friends—most everyone, really—thought Will Winston had completely lost his marbles when he sold the company and started the team. But she understood it, because that’s the way she felt about her chosen career and path in life.

  “Yes,” she murmured, “it was. And it still is.”

  Tony turned to face her again, locking his hands on her hips and tugging her into him. “Still, it’s not your dream, is it, Martha?”

  From his lips, it didn’t quite sound like a question. There was no point in trying to lie to him or shade the truth. He knew her moaning and groaning about the Thunder had little to do with any truly deep attachment to the team or the sport. Unlike her father, it wasn’t in her blood. Most likely, Tony figured it was all about her pride. Pig-headed pride and willful ignoring of overwhelming odds.

  But it had been her father’s dream, and she couldn’t give up on it.

  She hesitated, trying to conjure up a joke and failing miserably. The way Tony gazed into her eyes, all dark and intent, Martha didn’t think she could manage anything other than the simple truth. “My dream? For a long time, it’s been to win a Pulitzer Prize for sports journalism.”

  Tony kissed her gently on the lips. “A wonderful dream. Surely as worthy as any.”

  Martha liked the kiss—a lot—but wondered where he was heading with this conversation. “And even less likely to happen for real, I’m afraid, than the Jacksonville Thunder winning the ASL championship,” she said wryly when he let her go.

  Despite her self-deprecating words, she actually thought that the piece on Colton Butler, if everything wound up falling into place, could conceivably get some consideration for prestigious awards. At the very least, it would get a whole lot of attention. And, hopefully, help correct an injustice.

  Tony shook his head. “Any dream can come true if you be
lieve enough, and if you work hard enough.”

  Martha rolled her eyes. “Come on, do you really think the Thunder can win it all?” she said, playing with him by deliberately misconstruing his intent.

  He took his hands off her hips and gently tapped her under the chin. “I believe you’ll win a Pulitzer Prize someday, if you want it badly enough.”

  Suddenly, his words sounded patronizing to her ears. Not only was he spouting platitudes, he seemed to be implying that she should get her ass back to doing something she was actually competent at.

  She instinctively rebelled. “Are you giving motivational speeches in your spare time now, Tony? Well, I don’t need one, thank you very much. I’m doing just fine on my own.”

  Their pact not to talk about Tony’s bid for the Thunder seemed to be in danger of shattering any second. Though he hadn’t quite crossed the line yet, Martha took his warm and fuzzy encouragement about her journalistic future to be simply another strategy to motivate her to throw up her hands at the futility of trying to salvage her hopeless team.

  Tony didn’t move, but she could sense his emotional retreat. “You’re satin-smooth and honey-sweet when you want to be, love. But that honey can run bitter sometimes, yes?”

  Martha’s stomach plummeted straight toward the red sandals with the sexy little bows that she’d bought in a hurried expedition to Harrods before the game. Tony turned to stare down at the field as she bit back the quick retort that flew to her lips. What the hell was wrong with her?

  “Believe it or not, I care a lot about you, Martha,” he said, keeping his eye on the game. “I want you to be happy, and do whatever makes you happy. But I don’t think you can look me in the eye and tell me you’re going to be happy running a losing football club in Florida.” With that, he turned his head and captured her with a challenging gaze.

  She resisted the urge to wipe her perspiring palms down the side of her skirt. Her good mood had evaporated, and her brain skittered back and forth between skepticism and confusion. Did Tony really care about her, or were his smooth words just another ploy in his campaign to get the team? Was the whole lusty weekend simply part of his larger battle plan?