She doesn’t have her bag. “You need to go inside for anything?”
She shrugs and looks down at her outfit. “Nope.”
She can’t possibly be this low maintenance, can she? I owe her an apology. I’d stereotyped her but she hasn’t completely dismissed her roots. She is already making her way toward the elevator.
We walk the snowy blocks until the glowing arrow-shaped sign reading BOWL HERE is above our head. We share one more public-friendly kiss before we will need to rein in the affection.
Stepping out of the cold, we enter into a montage of music videos playing on screens all around us. It’s a bowling alley placed in the middle of a night club. I take Peyton’s hand and lead her toward a group of people, some standing around talking, some sitting on black leather couches at the end of the lanes. I introduce her to several on our way to the rack of balls stretching the length of the wall. I stop to face her and take inventory. “Everything good?”
She gives a sly smile. “Yep. I’m just getting ready to kick your ass in this good old-fashioned game of ten pin. Can we get a drink first, though?”
I try not to hesitate. Of course this was going to come up. It’s the norm. Unless I was with my roommates, who I knew from group, drinking put the social in social life. Just how much of a woman’s life is always the question. “Sure, you can, since I’m the designated driver tonight.”
I know the look she gives me. I am used to it. “But you don’t have to drive until after the hockey game, right? You’ve got time?”
“Really, I’m good, but let’s get a ball then get you a drink.” I try for nonchalant but inside say a little prayer this won’t be a showstopper.
“Well, forget that! I can’t take any chances on your beating me because you are sober, and I am not!”
I’m not used to awesome responses like she delivers. She spins on one heel and starts putting her thumb and two fingers into the myriad of balls to find one that she likes. Crisis averted for a little while longer.
I introduce Peyton to several people, hoping she isn’t regretting her decision not to get a drink as she’s required to make small talk. She is taking it all in stride, joking she hopes there won’t be a name quiz. She hears the story of how the annual bowling bonanza came to be, and even proclaims everyone is “so cool”.
We make our way to a lane with another couple, Helen and Dave. I set up the scoring for all of us. She looks to the scoreboard where I’ve put her name in as P.J. and mine as “The Dude”. She laughs and it makes me laugh as well. “That’s so not fair. I get a shortcut for pajamas and you get the dude? I want a cool nickname too!”
“Well, as soon as there is a cult movie favorite that involves a woman bowler, I’m happy to give you one.”
“Fine then,” she says, hoisting the ball and looking back over her shoulder. “Mine should be Asskicker.” With that she lets the first ball roll, knocking down eight pins and turning back with a smug grin.
“Not bad, not bad.” I nod in her direction as she waits for the next ball. I love her challenging me. Feisty and independent in a good way, I am looking forward to learning more about her. Was she born this way? Or has life shaped Peyton as it has me?
We keep it within three points through the first eight frames, and I’m enjoying both her competitive spirit and watching her ass each time she walks up to throw the ball. Her first ball of the ninth frame knocks down eight pins and leaves just the two on the right side. She is totally going to pick up this spare if I don’t act fast.
While she’s facing the alley, staring down the two remaining pins with her hands on her hips waiting for the second ball to come out of the chute, I capitalize. Sneaking up behind her, I put my arms through the crook of her elbows and embrace her from behind. As I go in for the kiss against her neck she jumps slightly, then pushes her hip to the right, breaking free and whirling around to face me. Her index finger finds the middle of my chest. “Oh, don’t you even! I know exactly what you are trying to do, Mister!”
I retreat, laughing, as she picks up her ball and proceeds to knock down the two pins.
She spins toward me, clapping for herself.
“Grace under pressure, and don’t you forget it!” She tosses her hair over her right shoulder and snarls while sipping her soda.
“Oh, so sassy, aren’t you, Peyton? Well, I just might have another trick or two up my sleeve.” I start to walk forward in the lane but turn back to her. “Don’t you be looking at my butt while I am on approach, Jennings!”
“Takes one to know one, huh?”
The smile on my face would have me caught, so I turn away quickly, walk right up to the line, squat down, and wind up through my legs. I release the ball the way children do. We both watch as it rolls right down the middle of the lane. Turning back before the ball makes contact with the pins, I yell out, “I’m calling a strike!” She groans and throws her head back as the pins topple, leaving a hole where they once stood.
Peyton’s head leaning back with a frustrated groan is too tempting. I kiss her exposed neck. It isn’t too much PDA if it isn’t on the lips, is it? I catch her off guard for the second time and her chin involuntarily tucks, shoulders hunching forward. Our lips end up only centimeters apart. It isn’t too much PDA if I just kiss her briefly, is it? I can’t resist. She can’t resist kissing back. It’s brief and leaves me wanting more.
“I can’t believe you just got a strike with that ridiculous tactic!”
I am still inches from her face. “You are going down, Jennings.”
“Okay,” she whispers. “As long as you aren’t just talking about bowling.” She drags her fingertips down the side of my face, then neck, shoulder and pulls me in again. Kisses me hard. With tongue. Definitely too much PDA. Damn. Maybe I should skip taking her down at bowling and just go down on her instead. There’s an idea. Or, we could skip the hockey game and get on to another game of choice.
“Yo, love birds, get a room!” yells a voice from the distance.
“Zip it, Olson. You’re just jealous!” I banter back.
“Damn right I am. I mean it. You should get a room. I would!”
They all laugh and Peyton blushes then throws a strike. And then, because her little plan had worked like a charm and I am a sucker who can’t stop undressing her in my head, I do not. The game ends in a tie, and I decide to take that as a sign, even if ridiculous, that we are meant to be equal partners in a whole hell of a lot more than bowling.
When it’s time to head out for the game, we say our goodbyes and make our way back onto the snowy Chicago street. The accumulation on the ground shimmers like diamonds, and new flakes are coming down in big, fluffy balls. Holding gloved hands, we stroll along the sidewalk toward the train station on the next block, streetlights casting a romantic glow. Few others are braving the weather and it seems we have our own winter white playground. We find two seats on the train and she snuggles up so closely that one additional inch would have constituted sitting in my lap. Not complaining. Her head rests on my chest as my arm drapes over her shoulders. She fits rather nicely in my arms.
I watch Peyton’s face as she follows me, eyes growing wider with each step down toward the ice. Stopping at row four, and taking two of the expensive and exclusive seats, has her looking dumbfounded. Pleased to give her this experience, it’s even better she hadn’t expected it. I don’t know her lifestyle expectations and I work for a non-profit.
Two periods in, and like our competitive bowling match, our respective teams are tied at two goals apiece. I am playing my own game called “try to keep my hands off her”. I don’t miss an opportunity to accidentally brush my skin against hers. Cheesily, I feed her a hot dog while trying not to consider the sexual implication of sliding myself into her mouth. Fail.
The Blackhawks score and I stand up to clap, with Peyton reluctantly following. She doesn’t clap but uses one hand to pick at the cuticles of the other. I lean my shoulder into hers, pushing her slightly off balance kiddingly.
She looks up quickly. “Two minutes for roughing. You on me and number nine on that last play.” She grabs me hard, below the waist. “Or maybe high sticking.” Eyebrows raised, her head tilts to me, “We should have been on the power play.”
All this hockey talk of high sticking, roughing, and power play is a lot for a man to take! “Do you want to get out of here?” I try to appear casual. “Should be a little less painful if you aren’t here to watch your Wings go down.”
Her eyes twinkle mischievously. She leans in closer, lifting onto her toes so we are eye to eye, and whispers, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m enjoying the game, but I think I might enjoy something else a little more right now. I thought you’d never ask!” She takes my outstretched hand as I lead her to what comes next.
The first train car was crowded so I lead her to another, then another, until we are only accompanied by an elderly man sleeping. I sit and pull Peyton in next to me. Our lips meet in gentle chaos. A collision of soft flesh and tongue exploring, entwined, biting and releasing, learning the other. I run my hand the length of her inner thigh, teasingly, then over the outside of her thigh, down to her knee then back to her inner thigh again.
My body is on fire, and it isn’t from the warmth inside the train, though the steam building on the window declares the temperature rising. It is effortless for my lips to fill the space that hers vacate, connecting and lingering. My fingertips trace her hairline from the crown of her head, behind her ear, then slide behind her neck. The train lurches to a stop and the familiar overhead crackle indicates we have arrived at our stop. In minutes we will be in the car, then arriving at my brownstone.
Once in the car Peyton suggests, “I guess we can pretend that we are still at the game if we listen on the radio?”
“Hit number four. It should be a sports station.” We listen in silence, sexual tension mounting with the sensation of her touch against my leg. I try to focus on the game.
When we arrive, I reach behind the seat and grab her bag. I quickly exit the truck and head around the front to open the passenger door. She hops down from the seat and makes her way onto the porch beside me. Once our eyes lock, as if in some mesmerized state, neither of us can look away. I put the key into the lock and push the door open so she can slide past, still holding my intense gaze. I flip on the porch light and then an interior light. “Do you want a tour?”
“How about tomorrow?”
Her voice is lustful. “Do you want to watch the end of the game?” I ask, realizing my voice is equally licentious.
“How about we catch the highlights on ESPN later?”
I set down her bag and reach for the zipper of Peyton’s black coat. Holding the collar with my free hand I slide the zipper down slowly until it breaks free. Lifting the coat over her shoulders, I wait while she shrugs her arms from the sleeves. My breath hitches. Whatever she is doing to me is collecting in one spot on my body. Right between the legs. I lay her coat over the couch on our right then unzip my own, tossing it in the direction of hers. Finally. Less clothes and less company.
Peyton’s gaze is fierce and piercing, but I want to confirm we are on the same page. “Do you have something else in mind?”
Her eyebrows shoot up and she presses her lips together, an unspoken answer in itself. “I might,” she finally admits, sounding like it has broken free.
The words, the sultry tone of her voice, and the expression she wears give me permission and the confidence to cross another line. I pull her toward me and while our lips crash, my hands find her breasts. They have been screaming at me all day long to touch them. They are large and full, lifted high with the bra she is wearing. I use equal pressure to squeeze them both until she emits a gasp. I feel their fullness harden beneath my touch. The next breath forces the air from her lungs as she exhales strongly through gritted teeth, groaning out, “God, J.T.”
Hearing my name in her sexual tone builds arousal and desire. My hands find her hips and I pull hers against mine, unsure if the intense pressure below my waist is our hips colliding or my stifled erection.
My hands move to her neck again where it is a little less dangerous. I kiss her slowly and deliberately, wanting this to build. We should start with a stable foundation, not some crazy passion impossible to sustain. Am I getting poetic? Instead of taking her as fast as possible when she’s given the green light?
I pick up her bag and carry it up the stairs with her on my heels, fingers threaded. Once we reach the landing and the closed door of my bedroom, I drop the bag and push her against the door. Intertwining my hands in hers, I lift them above her head. Moans, groans, and animalistic pleas of yearning fill the hallway as our lips move rhythmically together, with only space for our shared breath. I bite her breast through her sweater, and her back arches instinctively, breasts pushing toward my face. Soon enough, I will enjoy taking them in my mouth and having my tongue firmly against the flesh of her nipple.
I set her hands free so mine can move back to her breasts. I cup them, massage and squeeze, and imagine what it will be like to feel them bare.
“For the love of God, J.T., please get rid of these clothes,” she implores breathlessly.
Finding the hem of her sweater, I teasingly lift it to find the warm, smooth skin of her stomach. I caress the flesh with kisses, then drag my tongue up the center until I am stopped by her bra. I bite her nipple through lace. Closer. A pleasure-filled sound escapes.
Reaching around her back, unclasping her bra, I move to the front, scooping my fingers under the bottom to lift the cups over her breasts. They push free like I’ve done them a favor. I finally fill my hands with the full warmth of her. My fingertips graze her nipples and they come to life. I love how responsive she is to my touch. Her body writhes then my hands are separated from her body. The sweater hits the floor. Apparently, she has grown impatient.
Lacy straps of bra are between my fingers, and I slide them slowly down her arms. My hands immediately find the fully revealed flesh of her shoulders. I stroke the smooth curve down to the elbow then move to flatten my palms on the small of her back. Mouth envious of where my hands have explored, I lean down to kiss her left nipple. I take more of her breast in my mouth until it fills. My tongue circles the perimeter of her nipple then pushes against its swollenness. Her hands tangle in my hair until it hurts so good.
Peyton is pressed against the wooden door, probably uncomfortable as hell, so I slide one of my arms under her knees and lift her in one smooth motion into my arms. Her grip around my neck tightens so I can easily reach for the doorknob and carry her into the bedroom. I lay her gently on the bed then pull my shirt over my head. Socks and shoes are off in seconds. I position my body carefully over hers, my left knee on her right side with the other foot planted on the floor. I slide the dog tags I never remove around to my back. Her hands find my bare shoulders and I take in the feeling of feminine fingers with long enough nails traversing my skin. Goosebumps immediately appear under her touch and I remain still letting her trace up and down my spine.
Her hands move to my front and trace my chest and abs then find my shoulders again. Pushing them downward until my head is positioned over her breast, she whispers into the dark, “You left the right one hanging, out there in the hallway.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want that now, would we?” I resign myself happily into her right breast, exhaling a full breath. Her fingers curl into the skin of my back and I moan into the flesh beneath my lips. My tongue flicks a rock-hard aroused nipple.
Her hands move back to explore my chest, but I straighten my arms, pushing away. My heart is pounding too quickly and loudly inside of it. Not wanting to be exposed, I wonder its cause. Do I have performance anxiety? Is it excitement? Am I nervously anticipating what’s to come?
No. None of these sound like intuition into my angst. The movement of her hands again distracts me. They are now below my navel, undoing my button-fly jeans. Nimble fingers are working their way down. I want to relieve the press
ure of my erection against my pants. I would be a fool to stop this beautiful woman now. She reaches the last button and I finally take a real breath. It seems I have been holding it while she worked to set me free. Wriggling the jeans over my hips, she gives my throbbing erection the space it’s craving. I let loose a guttural sound, growling from deep within. It rings out loudly in the quiet room.
“Feel better?” she whispers, tracing along the sides of my dick.
“So much better,” I answer, but I’m not sure it comes out in an outside voice. I don’t think she notices.
Peyton’s hand points toward my feet, cupping me, massaging gently. Her fingers cradle everything hanging taut below. Each finger, one at a time, bends, curling up my shaft until her fingers surround me. Thumb rubbing back and forth over the tip, she procrastinates in my favorite spot. My breath is coming in ragged, uneven gasps and my voice and mind have escaped. We aren’t even naked but the want is powerful! I’m grasping handfuls of hair on either side of her beautiful face. My core constricts and I long to have my whole body skin on skin. I want to be buried deep inside this woman. But not in a way I’ve felt before.
This is different.
I want to be with her, and in her, connected to a human being in a way I never have. I want to know her. Everything about her. I can’t let myself be unraveled. If we do this now, it will be sex, and I no longer want sex. I want to make love.
I place my hands on either side of Peyton’s body and straighten my arms, lifting away from her. She wraps her legs around my back in protest and tries to pull me back down on top of her. “Hey,” I whisper, nuzzling into her neck, “Lie next to me.” I move my body to run the length of the bed and pull her into the nook created by my outstretched arm. Reaching for the blanket I have folded at the bottom of the bed, I pull it up to cover us. I don’t want her subjected to the cold. Her head rests on my shoulder and her right breast is pressing against my side. It feels amazing. She just fits.
One Day After Never (The Second Time's the Charm STANDALONE Series Book 1) Page 12