Kick It Up

by Carol Ericson

  He laughed. “Yeah, sounds just like Prince Charles’

  wedding.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Which one, because that first one was over the top and ended up just like mine anyway, even without the Elvis impersonator.” Did she marry Jimmy to irritate her parents, for the excitement...or for the money? She’d implied they met before Lot 49 found fame and fortune, but he doubted that.

  The rich stuck together, and she probably tweaked some strings of her own to hang with rock stars. She didn’t pull any punches with him, so he’d return the favor. “Did you at least get any money out of it?

  She dropped her fork. Had he punched too hard?

  “Pre-nup. I insisted on it.”

  He exhaled. “You insisted on it?”

  “Why exchange one set of ties for another? Enough of my misspent youth, tell me all about soccer. Now that I know you, I’ll have to attend a few Waves games.”

  “You’ve never seen the Waves play?” Either the game needed even more help than he expected, or the Waves’

  record kept people away in droves.

  “Ah, I’m not much into sports. Don’t feel bad, I’ve never seen the Quakes play either—they’re the pro football team here.”

  Simon’s brow furrowed as he stacked their empty plates. Had her tone come across as too strident? She didn’t mind telling him about her rich parents. After all, he’d shared a piece of himself with her, but she didn’t want to tell him Dad owned the Quakes. He might just think that’s how she landed the job with CSM.

  “I know you’re a forward and you’re supposed to score all the goals, right? What else do you do?” She jumped up and took the plates from his hands.

  They cleaned up the kitchen together while Simon explained the game of soccer. He not only described the rules and the positions, he discussed the strategy and psychology of the game.

  As his long, deft fingers arranged chunks of breadsticks on the countertop to show her a play, his eyes glowed with an excitement and enthusiasm she hadn’t seen in this town in years. God, she wished she could capture and bottle some of that to sell on the street corner. She’d be her own first customer.

  She slid the chocolate éclairs she’d brought onto a plate. “Dessert in the living room?”

  “Are we going to break out the games?”

  “Sure, or we can watch TV or a DVD.”

  “No TV.” He shook his head, his blond hair skimming his shoulders. “I’d prefer a game, wouldn’t you?” She dipped, placing the plate of éclairs on the coffee table, and then bent over to rummage in the bags she’d delivered earlier. She glanced over her shoulder. “Which one?”

  “How about a little game of poker?” He sat crosslegged on the floor at the coffee table. Cupping an éclair in his hand, he scooped a line of cream from the split and sucked it from his finger.

  She swallowed and buried her head in the bag. Oh God, that gesture made her knees feel about as stable as that fluffy white cream. She pulled out the pack of cards and scrambled for the chips. “Do you think we’ll need more than two sets of chips?”

  “I have a better idea. Why don’t we play for something more interesting than chips?”

  She straightened up, clutching the cards in one hand and the chips in the other. Only one thing could be more interesting than playing for chips...and she didn’t mean money. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Articles of clothing.” He quirked his eyebrows up and down.

  The wobblies moved from her knees to her belly, so she sank to the sofa before she ended up a blob on the floor. She lifted her shoulders, trying hard to mimic that careless gesture her mom’s French model friends made, but feeling more like a French schoolgirl. “That’s hardly risqué, since I’ve already seen your full Monty, and you presumably had your eyes open when you undressed me the other night.”

  “Good then. You can’t have any objections.”

  “As long as the loser doesn’t have to dance on the tabletop.” She smacked the cards on the table so hard, the éclairs trembled.

  “Or slide down the banister?”

  “Or that. Five-card draw okay?”

  “Do you need more wine?” He nodded toward the kitchen.

  Did he think she had to be drunk to perform wild and crazy stunts? She didn’t plan to waste one more minute in this man’s company in a drunken haze. “No, do you?”

  “Let the game begin.” He shoved the plate to the side.

  She shuffled and dealt the cards, giving herself a pair of eights but getting nothing more on the draw. Simon flipped over his two pairs, and she toed off a shoe.

  After her next losing hand, Simon demanded that he do the honors. She propped her foot on the table, and he slid her shoe off and ran his index finger along the sole of her bare foot. She gulped.

  Simon counted both of his socks as one item, and after five hands and a streak of good luck for her, they sat across from each other in bare feet.

  An eight of hearts on her next draw gave her three of kind, but Simon beat that with four jacks. She fingered the gold chain around her neck. “Does jewelry count?”

  “No.” He folded his arms over the shirt that still covered his chest.

  She licked her lips, grabbed the edge of her sweater, and yanked it over her head. His fingers, resting on his arms, dug into his flesh. Good to see he didn’t have a complete handle on things.

  Damn. She lost the next hand too, so she stood up and unzipped her jeans. She peeled them from her hips, glad she didn’t have on some stupid thong panties, and dropped them in a heap next to her sweater. In a quest for normalcy, she selected an éclair from the plate and bit into it. The cream smooshed out the sides and a dollop landed on her bare stomach.

  So much for normalcy.

  She dabbed at the drop of cream with her fingertip and sucked it off while Simon’s Adam’s apple bobbed. Two could play that game. She dealt the next hand. Simon lost his shirt.

  He shrugged out of it and draped it across the back of the sofa. “We’re even.”

  “You still have your pants on. How’s that even?”

  “You have two articles of clothing, and I have two articles of clothing.”

  “Yeah, but your articles cover a lot more than my articles.”

  “Not my fault you chose to wear tiny bikini knickers and a lacy, see-through bra.”

  “This bra isn’t see-through.” She glanced down just to make sure. Her nipples peaked beneath the lace, and she clamped her arms over her chest as a surge of heat claimed her cheeks.

  “Exactly.” His impossible grin tugged at his lips.

  “Exactly, my ass. Sit down and finish this game. It’s not over yet.”

  She held two tens and two fives in her hand and prayed for another one of either. She peeked at the card she dealt herself and exhaled. Simon flipped over his paltry pair of kings, and she spread her cards on the table. “Full house, baby.”

  He hopped up and unbuttoned his fly. Turning his back on her, he tugged his jeans down. She gasped as his bare buttocks emerged from the tight denim.

  He angled his head over his shoulder and winked. “I guess you win. I forgot my underpants.” She screamed and threw a pillow at him. “How could you forget your underwear? You did this on purpose, probably planned out the whole thing.” Clutching his jeans against his muscular thighs, he laughed. “Well, do you want your full payment or not?” Her gaze tracked down his golden-hued body, his backside the same color as the rest of him. She wanted full payment plus interest. She hissed through her teeth,

  “Yessss.”

  He held out his hand across the coffee table with its scattered cards and half-eaten éclairs. “I think I need help.” She grasped his sticky hand, and he pulled her forward. She took the shortest distance between them, stepping right over the table. Placing his other hand against her back, he drew her into his arms and pressed his almost-naked body full-length against hers. Her head jerked back as her skin made contact with the hard planes of his body. H
e dipped his head and ran his tongue along her collarbone, swirling it in the hollow of her throat. Her bones felt like marshmallows over a campfire, and she sagged against him, entwining her arms around his neck to keep from melting to the floor.

  His tongue swept along her jaw line before stopping to nibble her earlobe. She buried one hand in his thick hair to propel his mouth in the general direction of her lips, but he didn’t budge. Instead he laid a foundation of kisses from her ear, down the side of her neck, to her shoulder.

  She squirmed in her damp panties and pressed her hips against his. His erection lanced her belly, but the kisses never wavered.

  He reached behind her and unhooked her bra, the ease and expertise with which he did so gave her pause, but only for a nanosecond as he cupped her breasts in his capable hands and ran his thumbs across her aching nipples. He teased one between his thumb and forefinger until a low moan rose from her throat.

  Tasting of chocolate and cream, he kissed the moan from her lips, and ran his hand down her back in one long stroke until it rested on the under-side of her bottom. He nudged her upward so he could spear between her thighs, and she clamped around him.

  She teetered on her tiptoes and hung onto his neck to keep from landing in the éclairs. “Simon?”

  “Mmm?”

  She whispered, “Can we go upstairs?”

  He stepped back and cupped her face in his hands. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  His jeans were still bunched at his ankles, and he stepped out of them and kicked them to the side. He grabbed an éclair with one hand, her wrist with the other, and pulled her toward the staircase.

  “What are you going to do with that?”

  “Eat it.”

  By the time they reached the blue satin sheets, they were in each other’s arms again. They fell sideways across the bed, and she nudged him onto his back and settled between his thighs. He had the most beautiful legs she’d ever seen on a man—thick, solid muscle. She traced the planes and hollows with her fingertips, skidded up the side of his hip, and landed a kiss on a wedge of muscle in his abdomen.

  He folded his hands behind his head, watching her dabble. He must’ve had plenty of women treat his body like their own private playground, and he had some awesome equipment. Her fingers danced up his hard cock and teased the tip where a bead of creamy moisture formed.

  Cream!

  She reached for the éclair he’d dropped on the nightstand when they collapsed onto the bed, but he sat up.

  “Oh no, you don’t. You’re not stealing my idea.” He snatched the dessert from her hand and in one swift move, wrapped his legs around her waist and flipped her on her back. She giggled. “I’m not a soccer ball.” He separated the crusts and dragged two fingers along the thick cream in the center. He dropped one dollop on her left nipple and one on her right. His tongue circled lazily around her breast until it touched the cream. When he sucked it off, she nearly bounced up from the bed.

  He placed a hand on her tummy to steady her while he nuzzled the other breast. She arched her back, and his long fingers crept down to nestle in her throbbing pussy. The intense pleasure engulfing her fogged her brain, and she didn’t know which area to concentrate on. So she gave up on the concentration and floated with the sensations flooding her body.

  The tingle of her orgasm raced from her breasts to her toes and all parts in-between. She flung her arms over her head in complete abandon as Simon plunged his fingers inside her to come along for the ride.

  While she still shuddered, he fumbled for something in the drawer by the bed. He held up a box of condoms and shook them. “Did you know these had your name on them?”

  “Yeah, that’s why I bought my favorite kind.” He seemed quite skilled in the use of condoms too, but she was beyond caring. At this point, he could’ve shagged the Queen of England herself. His body hovered over hers, and she arched her back to make contact. When he entered her, she draped her legs around his thighs, and they rose higher and higher as he plunged deeper and deeper.

  Her world shattered again and only the weight of his honeyed body kept her from dissolving into a million little pieces. When he came, he stared into her eyes, his own lighting up like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

  There was irony in that simile somewhere, but his deep, sweet kiss on her mouth turned rational thought into wisps of smoke.

  ***

  Jessica lifted the heavy arm that imprisoned her and scooted off the bed. The light from a bright half-moon filtered through the blinds, throwing stripes across Simon’s smooth, hard back. She leaned over and kissed a shoulder blade. “Do you want some water?”

  He stirred and clutched at the pillow. She felt around the floor for her panties and gave up. Smiling, she glided down the staircase, remembering the journey up. He didn’t have to go through the whole ruse of playing strip poker with her. All he had to do was crook his little finger. But the poker was fun...and maddeningly sensuous.

  Lights flooded the kitchen, and she reached for a glass from the cupboard. A sheaf of papers on the edge of the counter floated to the floor. She poured herself some water and crouched to collect the papers. Ivo’s papers.

  She laid them out on the countertop to figure out their order. Wonder if his salary is in here.

  She ran her finger down a page and then another. Her gaze tripped over a phrase, and she grabbed the paper to hold it close to her face.

  She read aloud, the words sticking in her throat. “This agreement is binding between Ivo Ignatov, Peter Casellas, and silent partner, JB Incorporated.” The page slipped through her fingers. JB

  Incorporated? Seems her father, Roger Chandless Brett, not only owned two football teams, he owned the L.A.

  Waves.

  Chapter Six

  Gemma Bosford flopped on the pillows stacked against her headboard, clutching the London Tattler to her chest. Dad was a complete control freak. He couldn’t make her stay at university. She hated it and she hated Oxford.

  Everything bored her beyond endurance.

  She wrinkled her nose and peered over the side of the bed. If her flatmate, Lindy, left one more crumpled newspaper stinking of fish and chips in her personal trashcan, she’d empty the whole bloody thing on her bed...with Lindy in it cavorting with one of her many blokes.

  She swung her legs off the bed and booted the can across the room.

  She dropped to the mattress again, bouncing on the edge. She didn’t understand why Dad wouldn’t let her study acting. Plenty of respectable people went into the theatre, look at...well, all right, there was always..., didn’t...? Well, at least there was Dame what’s-her-name.

  What frustrated her most is that it wasn’t even Dad’s money keeping her at Oxford. It was Simon’s. She’d begged Simon to pay her way while she studied with the Rose Theatre Group in London, but he handed the money to Dad, insisting that Dad was still responsible for her care and feeding.

  You’d think Simon would be more sympathetic to her plight. He’d never done anything right in Dad’s eyes either.

  Dad didn’t consider playing football any more proper than being an actor. In fact, he lumped them together as childish pursuits for immature people.

  Call her immature if mature meant ending up like her two older sisters. Bea had met a scientist at university and married him right out of school. She stayed at home with their two kids while he went off and did scientific things.

  Blimey, Bea hadn’t even hit thirty. Lydia hadn’t fared any better, getting her M. Phil in economics and taking a job with the government. Gemma would shrivel up from sheer boredom in either case.

  Dad had dubbed Bea and Lydia the good sisters. They followed his orders, did what he expected of them. Ever since Mom died in that accident, Dad tried to control every situation. He hated that Mom got a job when he’d lost his and tried to stop her, but Mom had more gumption in her little finger than Bea and Lydia did in their entire bodies, and she took the job anyway. Dad felt guilty about losing his job and Mo
m’s death, and turned it into the crazy idea that anyone who defied him would wind up dead. And Simon got the brunt of it.

  She smoothed out the Tattler on her bed. Through narrowed eyes, she studied the picture of the Ferrari on the beach. Now that’s the kind of life she wanted to lead. Simon took her to L.A. with him once, and she’d fallen in love with everything—the weather, the beaches, the cars, the freeways, the bigness. The city buzzed with excitement, and she vowed to be a part of it one day as a major player.

  Simon appeared to be all settled in. He had a condo in Beverly Hills, a Ferrari, or at least he used to, and presumably a telephone and a computer, since he’d presumably a telephone and a computer, since he’d already emailed her his phone number.

  Living the good life in the California sunshine, while she was stuck in bleak, old England. She felt trapped in a bloody Charles Dickens’ novel. A raindrop spattered against the window pane just to add insult to injury.

  The front door flew open and her flatmate barreled through, chattering and laughing. Lindy poked her head into the bedroom with boyfriend number six close on her heels.

  “Oh, you here, then?”

  The smell of fish and chips rose from the paper cone Lindy clutched in her fist.

  Smiling, Gemma tapped her fingertips on the newspaper. “Not for long.”

  ***

  Jessica hunched over her kitchen floor and scrubbed the grout with a toothbrush soaked in bleach. Her eyes watered at the caustic smell, and she rubbed them with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

  What did they know and when did they know it? She’d only taken the job with CSM because Megan assured her Evan had no idea Jessica Jones was the daughter of Roger Brett. She’d used her mother’s more common maiden name to avoid discovery.

  Had Megan lied to her? How far could you trust a girl who treated men like meal tickets? Is that why she’d gotten the job with CSM? Is that how she’d landed the great assignment with Simon?

  She sat back on her heels, the tears in her eyes gathering faster than she could blink them away. She’d completely abandoned Simon last night after their wonderful romp. She just couldn’t face him...couldn’t face anybody after she’d discovered her father co-owned the Waves with Casellas.