by Mindy Klasky
She could cringe in embarrassment.
Or she could lean forward and purse her lips and take his thumb into her mouth as she sucked away the offending sauce.
She was rewarded by a flare of surprise in his eyes. Still watching him, still weighing his reaction, she tracked the tip of her tongue from the web of his hand to the top of his thumb. Her lips tightened, offering a promise.
Or maybe that was an invitation.
Kyle leaned forward. The fingers of his free hand closed over the quilt, pulling it gently out of her grasp. “I don’t think you’ll be needing that, sweetheart.”
The endearment kindled something deep inside her. A spark caught in her belly and wound its way up her chest, through the chambers of her heart. Wherever the wildfire passed, her body became alive. She could feel each individual muscle in her fingers, sense the give and take of every tendon and ligament as she released the blanket, as he pulled it away. The tiny hairs on her arms became charged with electricity—she felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff as a thunderstorm brewed close above her.
Kyle eased his thumb from her lips, replacing it with his mouth, with his own driving tongue. She’d been kissed before, dozens of times. She’d even been kissed by Kyle before, in the parking lot, where his clever lips and his roaming hands had almost made her forget who she was and what she needed to do.
But this kiss was nothing like those had been. This kiss was a distillation of pure sex. He stroked her with this kiss. He raised her up and drew her forward, made her tremble for more. He raised a moan deep inside her, an expression of naked need that shocked and frightened and thrilled her more than any sound she’d ever made in her life.
She felt his kiss in her breasts, rippling through her chest to concentrate in the sudden tight buds of her nipples. She felt his kiss in the tight muscles of her legs as she stretched toward him, as raw heat blossomed between her thighs, unfolding like rose petals under a blazing summer sun.
She could never spark a similar fire in him, not like that, not with only her lips on his, her tongue against his. So she tangled her fingers in his hair. She tugged so he could feel her urgency, so he could understand a little of what he made her feel. She let her hands slip lower as she struggled with the crisp cotton of his shirt, pulling it free from his khakis.
She didn’t have time for buttons, not when she was on fire, not when his mouth was straying from her lips to light backfires along the line of her jaw, to ignite the tender spot beneath her ear. His beard scratched her bare flesh, rough, masculine, and she gulped for air to cool the conflagration inside her.
The heat curled her fingers, and she pulled, hard, ignoring the two buttons that popped off as she ripped his shirt over his head. He laughed as he yanked his arms free, as he threw the shirt onto the floor, but he caught both her wrists and held them in one hand, pinning them tight above her head. “Turn about is fair play,” he growled.
And then his free hand was gathered tight on the spaghetti straps of her cami. She heard them tear more than she felt them, delicate stitches bursting free from the force of his grasp. He pulled away long enough to rip the torn cloth over her head, to drop it onto the floor, on top of his ruined shirt. And then he rocked back onto his heels when he saw what she was wearing. Or not wearing.
Because Amanda had known there was a very real chance she’d never see Kyle again. Not after he’d lost the game. Not after she’d sent that text. That’s why she’d spread work out on the coffee table. That’s why she’d dressed in her crappiest clothes, why she’d ordered pungent Chinese food for dinner. She’d built those walls high, telling herself she didn’t care if she was alone tonight, tomorrow, for the rest of her life.
And so she hadn’t bothered with a bra. Hadn’t bothered covering herself up, locking herself in. What did it matter, if she was always going to be alone?
She folded her right arm across her chest. Her left hand fanned across the crotch of her sweatpants, as if she could magically change what was still covered, as if she could keep him from seeing the truth.
“Don’t you dare,” he rumbled, and he tugged her arm away. His eyes grew wide as he stared at her, and she could see the erection that tented his pants. She reached for his zipper, wanting to free him, wanting to make him as vulnerable as she was.
But he shook his head again, and he recaptured her right wrist. With his free hand, he caressed her breasts, laughing when she gasped at the teasing pressure. He understood the power he was building over her. He knew what she wanted, and he knew he could deny her. “Kyle,” she said, eager to show him that she understood, that she was willing to play fair.
He brushed one finger against her lips, a demand for silence. She looked at him, trusting, nodding once.
She thought she was ready for his kiss, for the feel of his lips on her breasts, for the silk of his tongue against her nipples. She hadn’t counted on his teeth, though, on the sharp shudder that convulsed through her as he nipped her soft flesh. She cried out, first in surprise, then in protest when the sweet comfort of his lips pulled away. “No,” she said. “More.”
And part of her was shocked when he obeyed. He rubbed that beard against her, rasping close and making her back arch. He tweaked one nipple between his fingers, pinching hard enough that she moaned, and then he soothed it, sucking, as he punished the other. Arrows ignited, flying straight to her core. Each flick of his fingers, each caress of his tongue drove her closer to the edge, and she bucked hard, wanting to free her hand, wanting to touch him, to give him a taste of the pleasure he was giving her.
He held her fast, though, even when he licked and sucked and nibbled a straight line down her belly. She was still covering herself with her left hand, still pressing hard against the V of her sweatpants. He wasted no time encircling her wrist and pulling her hand free. He planted a kiss against her palm, teasing her with the tip of his tongue, making her twitch until she wondered if she’d lost all possible motor control.
She barely realized he was reaching down for her ruined cami. She didn’t recognize his intent until he’d looped the fabric around her wrists, tying them together. He raised her arms above her head, raking her with his eyes, tracking the enormous, rippling shudder that cascaded from the top of her head to her toes as she realized she was absolutely powerless to hide herself.
He stripped the laces of her sweatpants with brutal efficiency before he leaned forward to tongue her belly, scraping his beard against her abs as she arched for more. His fingers hooked into the top of the sweatpants and he pulled, commanding and hard.
And she gasped as he stared at her naked flesh.
~~~
Looking down at Amanda’s naked body, stretched out lean and taut beneath him, he almost exploded in his pants. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself off the couch. As Amanda watched, her head framed by her arms, her breaths coming deeper as her hips shifted, as her back arched, he undid his belt. He fingered the button and slid down the zipper.
He thought about drawing things out, about playing another game. But he was tired of games. He was tired of waiting.
He shoved his pants over his ass, taking his boxer briefs in the same move. He toed off his shoes, hooked his socks off too. He stepped out of the tangle of his pants, but then he bent down and rescued his wallet.
Because he’d been waiting for two long weeks on the road. He’d done some planning, slipping a trio of condoms into his wallet before he drove to her apartment.
She watched with hungry eyes as he tore open a foil packet. He rolled the rubber on smoothly, wondering how it would feel if her fingers were doing the work, knowing he could find out later. He reached behind himself, grabbing one of the cushions from the couch, and he tossed it onto the floor, between the sofa and the coffee table.
Then he was half-carrying, half-sliding Amanda to the carpet, setting her ass on the cushion, raising her hips into an arching invitation. He slipped a finger between her thighs, past her folds, into her slick heat. She mo
aned his name and threw her head back, pushing up to meet the curve of his wrist. His cock twitched hard, like it was drawn to the scent of hot, pulsing girl.
He nestled his thumb against her clit and drew a tight circle. Her thighs clamped closed around his hand, holding him there, balancing. He waited for a moment, measuring the tension in her legs, holding perfectly still until she lowered her chin, until she met his eyes.
Then, very slowly, making sure she knew exactly what he was doing, exactly why, he stroked her again, his finger inside, his thumb pressed against the hot button that told him she was about to come. She raised her hips, every muscle of her body begging him for one more touch, one more swipe to set her free.
He eased his hand away, ignoring her mew of dismay. Before she could move, before she could change the rhythm he’d built inside her, he shifted his weight, replacing his finger with the head of his cock. He held himself there, fighting every instinct, trembling with the effort until he felt her hips move, until she opened to him, drawing in his full length.
He was on top of her, holding some of his weight on his forearms, smoothing the hair from her face as he eased all the way home. She caught her breath, and he froze, afraid that he was hurting her, wondering if he could have found the superhuman strength to wait, to carry her into whatever passed for a bedroom in this place.
But she rocked beneath him, tilting her hips to a better angle. He followed her lead, rising up, then sheathing himself back in her slick, tight heat. She set the pace, meeting him, grinding against him, sending a thousand messages with her breath, with the grip of her thighs, with her gasping moans as she rose higher and higher.
He sank into one long stroke. Another. A third, and she shuddered beneath him, a fourth, and she broke hard, clutching his cock as she collapsed into a deep, rolling surge. He drove home one more time and she chanted his name, breathing as hard as he was, begging, moaning, crying. And he came too, harder than he ever had before. He pulsed inside her, hot and heavy, wave after wave of heat making him forget the anger that had brought him here, making him forget the words he’d tried to draw out of her, making him forget everything except the steady, pounding power of the woman beneath him, the woman around him, the woman he’d waited for night after night after night.
CHAPTER 6
Amanda woke before her alarm went off. She lay in bed, telling herself she couldn’t move a muscle, demanding that she not wake the man lying next to her.
Because this was the first time in her life she’d let a man spend the night.
Sure, she’d slept with guys before. But she’d always made sure they understood the rules before she took off her clothes. She was doing something she wanted to do, allowing her body to react in predictable physical ways, responding to specific stimuli as expected.
No simple physiological response required a man to stick around for breakfast.
But Amanda hadn’t sent Kyle packing last night. It would have been easy enough—when they were both lying on the floor next to the couch, when the room had stopped spinning, when she finally had the energy to open her eyes and the strength to speak. She knew the drill—a business-like kiss on the cheek, hunting up strewn clothes, telling a guy she’d had a really great time, but she had to be up early in the morning.
Wham, bam, thank you sir.
But last night was different. Different in so many ways—the depth of her body’s response, to start with. Her utter surprise at how excited he’d made her when he tied her hands, when he kept her from controlling everything that happened, everything he did, she did, they did together.
The sex was different, but there was more than that. She’d been shocked when she slapped him, ashamed even while her fingers still stung. She’d never done anything like that before, to anyone, no matter what the provocation.
Kyle Norton scrambled her emotions. Her life was supposed to be logical. Predictable. Orderly and controlled. But everything about that man knocked her off-center. She’d let herself be pulled into his crazy superstitions. She’d let herself be seduced by his honeyed voice when he was thousands of miles away; she gave up her much-needed sleep and she forfeited hours that could have been invested in work. And she’d broken the law—three times now—demanding his money, blackmailing him because she couldn’t figure out a better solution to her financial disaster of a so-called career.
And despite that—because of that—she’d let him tie her up.
Oh, she understood the truth. She could have gotten her wrists free any time she wanted. She could have bitten at the bonds. Hell, she could have demanded that he stop, then and there, that he let her go, and she knew he would have complied.
But she’d let him take control. She’d let him be in charge. And the gentle ache in her thighs, the soft soreness in her arms, in her abs, they all reminded her just how much that surrendering had turned her on. Just how much she’d needed to give in.
That was why when she’d finally been able to move from her sprawl on the living room floor, she’d taken him by the hand and led him into her bedroom. She’d pulled back her striped navy-and-cream comforter, and she’d invited him to join her in her bed. She’d pulled his arm around her, tracing the hard lines of his fingers against her belly.
And now that it was morning, she had no intention of sending him packing. Instead, she took a quick mental inventory of her kitchen. She had packaged oatmeal. Shredded wheat. There were three bananas on the counter, if he didn’t mind them over-ripe.
She didn’t want to break the spell. But she had to shower, to dress in a suit, in practical pumps. She had to head into the office for the meeting with opposing counsel that she’d postponed the day before.
She pictured the grid of a giant calendar and started to fill in the details. Briefs were blue. Responses to her opponent’s arguments were green. Exhibit preparation was red. She blocked out long stretches of time for producing charts and graphs, clear explanations of the complex science and math at the heart of her case.
“Easy, sweetheart.” The two words were so soft she barely heard them. She hadn’t realized she’d shoved iron rods down her spine as she calculated the calendar. She hadn’t recognized the tension that warped her shoulders.
Kyle slipped his fingers beneath her hair, finding a knot at the top of her spine. His touch was lazy and slow, and she arched against him as he kneaded away the stress she hadn’t known she carried. He worked down her back, patiently, methodically, spreading golden heat through her body.
By the time she rolled over to face him, she couldn’t have left the bed if the apartment had been on fire. Her shower could wait. Her suit could wait.
In the end, she made it to the office with fifteen minutes to spare before her meeting. She regretted having given up that quarter hour she could have better spent in bed.
~~~
Kyle sent the checks by messenger. Six slips of paper, totaling fifty thousand dollars.
He wanted to know why Amanda needed the money. He wanted to understand what was happening in her life.
But he knew better than to push her. It was one thing to play at control, to tie her wrists together, to touch her and tease her until she came hot and hard beneath him. She’d been in charge of that. She could have stopped him with a word, with a look, and she damn well knew it.
The money was different, though. He could read the shame in her eyes, something hungry that was dirty and small and secret.
For one crazy afternoon, he considered calling a press conference. He could tell the world about Spring Valley, let everyone know he was an addict, that he’d juiced.
The thought terrified him. His teammates would hate him. Fans too. They’d call him a liar, a coward, a cheat. They’d say he didn’t deserve his place on his college team. He never should have gotten to the minors, to the Rockets.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t say the words out loud—even if they’d take away the power Amanda had over him. It was a hell of a lot easier to give her money. Paying her was l
ike keeping it right with Uncle Sam. She was charging him a tax. Making him pay for being such a goddamn stupid kid.
So he tried to forget about Spring Valley as he slipped back into his routine. Two weeks at home—three separate series, with a couple of days off. He got to the park by noon, ate lunch with the guys, met with coaches and trainers. He worked on batting drills, on catching drills, any deficit highlighted by the game the night before. He played poker, a lot of it, shooting the shit with the other guys who hung out in the clubhouse.
At batting practice, he shagged balls in the outfield, focusing on whatever Skip said he needed to do. He looked up in the stands, wishing he needed sunglasses, wishing he was playing day games.
Because Amanda Carter had gotten under his skin, like no girl he’d ever met before. She was sharp, prickly, immediately suspicious about everything he said, most things he didn’t say. She had a wall around her a mile high, and he watched her add a row of bricks every time he mentioned family, every time he talked about his past, every time he asked about her own.
He wasn’t trying to drive her nuts. He’d just never met someone with such tight control over what she said, what she did. He’d never known anyone who could put up a shield like something on a spaceship in a movie, a barrier where anything he asked just bounced off, disappearing into the night.
Because most of the talking they did was at night. His games ended at nine thirty, ten o’clock. If they won, he spent half an hour bullshitting with the guys, going over the great hits, replaying the amazing catches. If they lost, he hit the showers straight away. Either way, he was driving out of the parking lot well before midnight.
The first few nights, he’d texted her, figuring he wouldn’t wake her if she’d already gone to sleep. She was waiting for him, though, every time. And so he stopped texting, and he started just driving over to her crappy little apartment.