by Olivia Dade
The last phrase, he stated with emphasis. Eye contact. Determination.
He wanted her. She doubted everything else, but not that.
Still. He’d never committed to a woman. Not once. And she was supposed to believe that he wouldn’t hurt her? That a woman like her could keep a man like him happy long-term?
A fling, Tess. This doesn’t need to be more than a fling.
If she believed everything he was telling her, though, he wanted more than that. Not just her body, but her trust. Maybe her heart.
She needed some outlet for all the emotion roiling within her. Picking up her racket again, she pointed it toward him. “I’m ready to keep playing.”
He looked at her for a long moment before backing up from the net and hitting the ball in a gentle arc to her side.
“So…” She hit it back. Hard. This time, it whizzed over the net, and he had to rush to get it. “I think we’re even. I asked you two questions. Your turn.”
“All right, then,” he said, slightly breathless. “Truth or dare?”
He’d still managed to hit the ball directly to her, and she sent it back with an easy swing from her shoulder. “Truth.”
The more, the better. Maybe a few additional truths would help them make wiser decisions about one another.
Once more, he didn’t have to pause to formulate his question. “What did you think of me when we met?”
Easy-peasy.
“I thought you were a cocky bro, too handsome and flirty for your own good.” Her lips curved, despite her best efforts. “I also thought you felt amazing between my thighs.”
He promptly shanked his shot, and the ball bounced into another court.
She watched the ball roll into a dark corner. “Maybe I shouldn’t share how my nipples reacted to your back. I don’t want to endanger tourists on the other side of the island.”
A sort of choked cough racked his tall frame. “I assumed you were cold.”
“Pressed up against you? Please.” A laughable idea, particularly given the amount of heat his big body gave off. “Truth or dare?”
“Dare.” His voice had turned raspy. Hot.
She tilted her head. Considered him. Considered what he’d told her earlier. “I dare you to tell me five things you’re good at other than tennis.”
He stared at her for a moment before heaving an exaggerated sigh.
“I was hoping for something more sexual,” he said.
“I’ll bet.”
When she didn’t back down and change her dare, he eventually began fiddling with the strings on his racket, speaking without looking at her. “Uh…I’m decent at basketball, I guess.”
Yeah, he still wasn’t getting her point, but he would. Eventually.
His eyes flicked up, and those dimples appeared alongside his flirty, concealing grin. “And of course, you wouldn’t believe how good I am with my tongue.”
“Yes, yes, you’re a sexual dynamo. I look forward to experiencing the wonder of it all later tonight.” She waved her free hand dismissively. “But right now, I want to know what you’re good at that doesn’t involve your body, and I want you to tell me.”
His grin promptly disappeared. “You didn’t specify that in your dare.”
“You’re going to make me use another turn to get what I want?” Once more, she employed her single-brow intimidation technique, which had served her well throughout her teaching and administrative career. “Interesting.”
He tapped his racket against his outer thigh, agitation in every movement. “No, of course not. I just…”
Dammit. The way he saw himself was slowly becoming clear to her. Too clear. And in her sorrow and frustration—her innate desire to fix everything, now—she was pushing him too hard.
She walked up to the net again. Gentled her voice. “Lucas, I’ve had two and a half tennis lessons with you, at least one of which actually involved tennis, rather than shouting or service motions demonstrated solely for my sexual gratification.”
There. That got a half-smile out of him.
“I also observed you with that couple the other day,” she continued. “So I know at least some of your non-physical strengths. I’m just wondering if you know them too.”
His chin dropped to his chest, which rose and fell once. Again.
Then he backed away, retrieved a ball from his pocket, and bounced it on the court. “Let’s play as I answer your question. It’ll make thinking easier for me.”
“Sure.” She stepped back a few feet and waited.
After an easy shot to her forehand, he cleared his throat. Started speaking, his cadence calm and even once more. “I know a lot about tennis. Proper form. Match strategies. Training techniques. My clients seem to think I do a decent job explaining those things to them.”
“That’s two strengths.” When he hit the ball to her again, this time to her backhand, she connected at a weird angle. The shot flew high but not far, landing only inches past the net. “And as one of your clients, I can confirm how knowledgeable you are and how well you explain and share that knowledge. What else? I need three more strengths.”
With a flick of his wrist, he directed the ball back to her forehand. “I’m never late for a lesson. I always have a plan in place to maximize our given time.”
“So you’re prompt and organized. I observed that too.” She was falling into the rhythm of the rally, hitting without much thought involved. “One more thing.”
He remained silent for another few hits, his brow furrowed in thought.
“I work hard,” he finally said. “I’ve always worked hard. And—”
When he cut himself off and didn’t finish his sentence, she waved her racket at him between shots. “And what?”
Another swing of his racket. Another ping as the ball landed on the racket’s sweet spot and sailed over the net. “I’m friendly. I know how to put people at ease.”
“You’re also funny and intelligent and well educated.” She lunged to return his forehand. “At some point, I want to talk to you about the Swedish educational system, by the way.”
Jesus, she wasn’t getting a hint of the ocean breeze on the court, and she hadn’t bothered to invest in a moisture-wicking top. Her t-shirt was soaked.
He didn’t even seem to look at the ball as he hit it, damn him. “No problem. I’m all yours.”
She swallowed over a dry throat at that declaration.
Maybe he’d meant it as a generic turn of phrase, but it sounded like a vow. And the way he was watching her now, tracking her every movement, gaze somehow both soft and hot—
Her next shot went wild, landing far off to the side, and he sprinted for the ball.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
After he got off his shot, his gaze met hers from across the court.
The ball whizzed past her, and she didn’t even move.
He didn’t spare that ball a single glance.
“Truth or dare, Tess.” The words were firm. Rumbly. Laden with promise.
She didn’t know which to choose. Which was safer. Whether she wanted to be safe in the first place.
Deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
“Dare,” she said.
His nostrils flared.
“I’m hot, Lucas.” She smiled at him, slow and easy. “Dare me to take off my shirt.”
He was starting to sweat. Striding to his bag, he snatched up his bottle of water and drained it in one gulp. Then he returned to his side of the court, but positioned himself close to the net. Close to her.
His eyes never left hers. “Take off your shirt, Tess. I dare you.”
Normally, she’d yank the tee over her head and be done with it. This time, she made it a tease. A flirtatious reveal of inches as she wiggled and swayed just the tiniest bit. And then the t-shirt was off. Clutched in her hand as she melted beneath the heat of his stare.
All sound from the other side of the court had ceased, even the faint shush of his breathin
g. When she strode toward his bag and tossed her tee on top of it, her breasts bouncing despite the support of her sports bra, he made a weird choking noise.
Even after she positioned herself for a return, he didn’t move until she snapped her fingers in front of her cleavage. “Time to stop staring at my boobs and keep playing, Lucas.”
“Sorry.” He shook his head hard, as if trying to clear it. “I just…wasn’t prepared for the full glory of…” His eyes dropped again. “Those.”
“You sweet summer child.” She had to snicker. “What you can see right now is nothing. My boobs are like an iceberg.”
“I don’t—” His olive-green eyes, slightly unfocused, lifted to hers. “I don’t understand.”
She flicked a hand in front of her substantial cleavage. “Ninety percent is still below the surface.”
“Wow.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Oh, wow.”
He didn’t lift his racket, even when she waved hers back and forth.
Maybe another snap of the fingers in front of her chest would do the job. “Hit the ball, Lucas.”
His expression still dazed, he did. Her return arced over the net, and she watched it land in the far corner.
He ran for the ball. “Nice shot.”
“Thanks. I have a great teacher.” She experimented with a bit more force, and the racket responded, sending the ball within inches of the baseline.
“You should know that this is the best time I’ve ever had on a tennis court, bar none.” He was hustling, but she could still hear the smile in his voice.
“Bullshit. You won a Grand Slam.”
“Yes. But Alvillar’s cleavage was much less impressive than yours.”
His return shot wasn’t as controlled as usual. Its trajectory meant she’d need to run a few feet to get it. So she did, even though her knee twinged and the jiggling of her breasts wasn’t entirely comfortable.
Then there was the ball, bouncing only a foot away, within perfect reach of her racket.
What the hell? Why not see what she could do if she bludgeoned the thing full-force?
She hit through it, just as he’d told her, using her shoulders and every ounce of her strength. The ball slammed against the sweet spot of the strings with a satisfying little ping and whipped across the net.
Where, she saw an instant too late, Lucas was standing frozen.
The jiggle. Oh, Jesus, her boobs had immobilized him yet again.
And before she could finish shouting his name, before he could tear his stare from her admittedly ginormous rack, the ball whacked him directly in the face.
Fourteen
Lucas collapsed to his knees on the concrete, clutching his nose.
Fuck, that hurt. Although he supposed it served him right for ogling Tess’s astounding cleavage—again—when he should have been paying attention to the rally.
Rapid footsteps echoed through the court, and she appeared by his side. “Oh, shit, Lucas. Are you all right? Can you move your hands so I can see your nose?”
“Uh…” Jesus, his face was throbbing. “I’m not sure.”
She was kneeling beside him, her arm around his shoulders to offer support, and he could feel her trembling as she nudged the fingers covering his nose. He moved them a fraction and peered down at them to check for blood.
None. And when he scrunched his nose, it didn’t feel broken, just sore. It appeared Acute Breast Paralysis had bruised him, but not severely injured him. Not yet, anyway.
Her voice was hushed as she repeated her question. “Are you all right?”
He really shouldn’t tease her. But how could he resist?
“My face!” he howled, anguish in every syllable. “Oh, God, my beautiful face!”
Her patting hand on his shoulder stilled. “Are you fucking with me?”
“How can you ask me that?” He lowered his hands to his sides so she could get a good look at his total lack of serious injury. “How can you question the severity of my wound, when my distinguished nose and razor-sharp cheekbones have been desecrated, my stunning good looks ruined forever?”
She pursed her lips and gave a little nod. “You’re fucking with me.”
“I’m hurt you would say that.” He blinked at her soulfully. “You should take pity on a poor man whose handsome visage has been ravaged by your errant ball.”
“Your balls are going to be errant if you don’t stop teasing me.” But she couldn’t suppress a small smile. “And that tennis ball went exactly where I wanted it to. You just weren’t paying attention because you were too busy staring at my jiggling rack.”
He gazed down into her magnificent cleavage. “Can you blame me?”
“I guess I should consider it a compliment.” She raised her voice to an announcer’s boom. “Behold! The power of boobs.”
“Your boobs,” he corrected. “Your boobs are the only ones that cause my vital life functions to cease.”
It was the simple truth. He’d seen plenty of breasts before, large and small. But something about hers brought him to his knees. Literally, in this instance.
They were hers. Tess Dunn’s breasts. And that was enough to stop him in his tracks.
As was her insistence that he acknowledge his abilities, his potential, in arenas that had nothing to do with how much topspin he could put on his backhand.
“How flattering.” She touched a gentle fingertip to the bridge of his nose. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
He brought that fingertip to his mouth for a quick kiss. “I’m fine, älskling. Don’t worry.”
She glanced up at the floodlights surrounding the court. “Maybe we should check the injury under some decent light, just in case.”
They’d never been alone in private. Not once. He wanted that privacy, that opportunity for real intimacy, more than he could express. More than was wise, most likely.
But not like this. “I know you brought an overnight bag, but you said you have doubts. If that’s still true, if you haven’t made up your mind about me yet, let’s keep things public. In private, I have a feeling everything could get—”
“Combustible?” Her hazel eyes seared through him.
He inclined his head. “Yeah. Quickly. If that’s not what you want, we shouldn’t put ourselves in that position. I mean, I can obviously control myself, and so can you. But maybe it’s better to avoid temptation until you know how you’re playing this.”
She laid a palm against his cheek, and he leaned into it. “I’m not playing.”
Tennis. Truth or Dare. Both had served as inroads toward intimacy, rather than simply lighthearted games. He’d understood that almost from the beginning, and apparently she had too.
“I know.” He closed his eyes. “I know. But—”
“I like you, Lucas Karlsson.” Her words were soft but matter-of-fact. “I like you flirty, and I like you shy. You’re thoughtful and funny and smart and gentle. I trust that you wouldn’t deliberately hurt me. So I don’t have any more doubts about whether I want to spend the night with you, or whether one night will be enough. I do, and it won’t.”
Turned out, her breasts weren’t the only things that could make his world screech to a halt. Because those words, the affection and hope in them, stole his ability to do anything but gape at her and confirm the truth of what she’d said.
“Are you sure?” he whispered.
“I’m sure.” She rubbed her lips against his in a teasing caress. “Now why don’t you show me where you live, at long last?”
“I’d love—”
Wait. Was that…?
Shit. So much for romance.
“You’d love what?” She sounded confused.
He turned his face away from her, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Going to my apartment is a fantastic idea.”
She took a moment to answer. “Then why aren’t you looking at me?”
Nope. Pinching his nose wasn’t going to take care of the problem.
“Because…” Springing to his
feet, he ran for a towel. “My nose just started bleeding.”
Somehow, Lucas had never pictured ushering Tess into his apartment for the first time with a bloody tissue shoved up each of his nostrils.
On the walk to the dark clubhouse, she’d started giggling several times at the sight of his nose tampons, as she preferred to call them. But she’d also slung an arm around his waist and bumped hips with him as they walked, so he was still considering this the greatest night ever.
He unlocked the door to the clubhouse and deactivated the alarm, flipping the deadbolt back into place once they were both inside. Then he guided her around the racks of tennis equipment and toward a discreet door across the room, the whooshing of the fan overhead the only sound.
“You’re rushing me past the rackets.” She squeezed his waist. “I’d hoped we could talk more about my various string choices.”
It didn’t seem likely, but… “If that’s what you want to do, I can speak at length about the various advantages of natural gut versus polyester versus a combination thereof.”
Even in the dim nighttime lights, he could see her lip curl. “Natural gut?”
“Also known as catgut, although it’s not made from kittens.” He grinned at her. “At least, not the nice ones.”
She shuddered, which was a rather pleasant sensation with her pressed to his side. “Never mind. I hereby retract my teasing and request that you never, ever mention kitten intestines to me again during a date.”
“This is a date?” He liked the sound of that. “I should have brought you more flowers.”
As they climbed the stairs to his apartment, she scanned his face and started giggling again. “You gifted me with the sight of you sporting nose tampons. That’s good enough for me.”
In retaliation, he tickled her ribs until she gasped with laughter. Then he unlocked the door to his apartment and stepped aside to let her enter first.
In hopes she might visit, he’d spent a few minutes earlier that afternoon straightening up the kitchen, where he’d left some dishes soaking the night before. The rest of the apartment hadn’t needed help, since he didn’t tend to spread out much. The consequence of too many years spent living out of suitcases, he supposed.