The Hot Shot

by Kristen Callihan

  As if I’d touched him with a live wire, he’d lit up, his big body shuddering, his breath coming out in great heaves. He’d looked at me, his expression twisted with lust and pleasure, the small shock in his eyes mixing with dark interest. I’d pushed against his tight flesh, wanting to torment, and he’d pushed back, letting me.

  “Yes,” he’d rasped. “Fuck, yes.”

  I’d never experienced that level of trust before, that willingness to try anything, knowing that the giving and receiving of pleasure would be tenfold because you were with the person you wanted above all things.

  “Chess? Hello…”

  I come back to myself with a shiver, almost surprised to find myself sitting along in the closet with a phone in my hand. Taking a deep breath, I try to recall what I’d been talking about. Happy.

  Will I be happy living here with Finn?

  “Sorry. Dropped the phone.” I lick my lips and find them tender. “I’m happy. It’s just an adjustment period, fully moving in.” I glance at the dress I’m wearing tonight. It’s a black and white halter top sheath, not my favorite Grace Kelly knock off. That beauty went up in a blaze of glory. It hurts to think about it. Besides, Finn has already seen me in it. New is better. “Getting back to work with a big project would help.”

  “Speaking of that,” James says. “I’ve been hesitant to ask, but…”

  “But? When are you ever hesitant? Spit it out.”

  He huffs. “Remember Michael Harrison?”

  “Of course.” Michael is a photographer too. We went to school together. “How is he?”

  “Busy. He’s going to Milan next week, but he asked about you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “I had lunch with him. We caught up, I told him about you and the fire, and one thing led to another.”

  “You’re rambling, James.”

  James makes a tisking sound. “He wanted to know if you’d take over a project for him.”

  “Go on.” I get up to pace.

  “It’s huge, Chess. You know that old ‘Got Milk?’ campaign?”

  “Sure.”

  “Think something in that style, but to raise awareness for prostate cancer. They’re pulling together Hollywood’s hottest male stars for a photoshoot.”

  Abruptly, I sit down again. “Why the hell is Michael giving that up? And how does he know they’ll even want me?”

  “Because when a fashion photographer gets personally invited to Milan by Armani, he doesn’t say no. And the ad company agreed with his suggestion because they’ve seen the shots of Dex and Rolondo. They want something similar.” His voice becomes almost giddy. “It’s good money, Chess.”

  James names a sum that makes me a little dizzy.

  “Fuuuck.”

  “Exactly,” he says.

  “And we’d be able to work together on this?” My heart is beating harder now, an excited flutter going through me.

  “Well, if you want me to.”

  “Shut up. You know I would. And do you really think I don’t know it was you who put this idea in his head?”

  I can almost hear him smile. “So you’ll do it? The project starts in two weeks. They need to know as soon as possible. It should run for about a month, maybe two, depending on scheduling.”

  “Where would I live?” I pace again, touching the edge of my dress then walking to the other side of the closet to brush a hand over the sleeves of Finn’s suits.

  “With the money they’re paying, you could rent a place. But Michael has offered the use of his loft.”

  “Michael is being generous as fuck.”

  “Oh, please, Chessie. You know he’s always had a thing for you. I’m not at all surprised he asked about you.”

  Halting, I stare at the wall of sneakers that is Finn’s secret pride and glory. “He’s not expecting… You told him about Finn, right?”

  Finn. What will he say? I press a hand to my hot cheek and find my fingers cold.

  “Yes, I told him,” James says, exasperated. “And don’t insult yourself. This is about your talent and people recognizing it.”

  I’ve trained myself not to put too much hope into a good thing. Plans change, promises fall through the cracks. You stand on the curb enough times waiting for parents who forgot about yet another school function and it’s inevitable.

  But I don’t want to be ruled by my childhood. So I let myself get excited. “I’m interested. Of course I am.”

  “I’m so fucking excited,” James bursts out.

  I grin wide, wanting to jump around. But then I catch sight of Finn’s shoes again. My smile dies down. “Don’t say anything yet,” I tell James. “I have talk…”

  “To Finn,” James agrees, as expecting nothing less, as if we’re already a package deal.

  We are. I’m living with the man. I flex my cold fingers, shaking them to get warm. “But I’ll let you know soon.”

  Hanging up, I walk over to my dress. Happiness is a strange thing. One second, it surrounds you and you’re swimming it in, gladly willing to let it consume you. Next second, thoughts roll in and it takes effort to hold onto your happy.

  Finn is my happy. But he can’t be the only source. I’ll drown that way.

  * * *

  Finn

  * * *

  Chess has cast me out of the bathroom—out of the bedroom, really. It has been declared “woman’s domain” as she gets ready for tonight. I like that she’s claimed her space and ordered me out of it, because it means she feels at home.

  And even though I’m stuck in a tux, my neck held too close by a stiff, white collar, I’m happy to wait on the couch and flip through TV channels. Every so often, I hear sounds, the hum of the shower, the high-pitched whine of her hairdryer, and part of me really wants to peek.

  I won’t. Anticipation is better.

  Tonight, we’re attending a gala hosted by the Whett Foundation, the charity behind our calendar. Despite the fact that a bunch of football players are attending, the invite had been clear: it is a black tie event.

  There had been much grumbling among my teammates. Personally, putting on a tux isn’t any different then donning a suit for game day, so I’m not going to complain.

  Down the hall, the bedroom door opens with a definitive snick, followed by the click of high heels. I get to my feet and make my way toward Chess.

  I’m quicker than she is, and we find each other at the end of the hall.

  The first sight of her makes me light-headed, the floor beneath me unsteady. “Wow,” I say with a breath. “You look… You’re fucking stunning, Chester.”

  Her cheeks pink, as she looks down as if to inspect herself for flaws. “I’ve never been to a black tie gala. I hope this is all right.”

  “It’s perfect.” I take a step closer, her perfume and warmth hitting my system like a drug. She staggers me. “You’re perfect.”

  Her dress is floor length with thin straps holding it up. It skims over her like milk, the fabric white and black pattern lace that, when she moves, reveals tantalizing glimpses of skin beneath.

  “Please tell me you’re wearing something under that,” I beg her. “I don’t think I’ll be able to function if I catch a flash of nipple.”

  She laughs. “It’s lined. No nipple peeks for you.”

  “I’m almost sorry about that.” Reaching for her, I slip my hand around her waist, but halt when I find smooth, bare skin. “Oh, now what do we have here?”

  “That would be my back,” she says with a straight face.

  I haul her closer, my hand gliding up and down. “Your entire back.” Glancing over her shoulder, I confirm it with a groan. The devious dress rests just above the rise of her peachy ass. “Jesus, Chester. You’re going to kill me.”

  A small smile plays on her pink lips as she fiddles with the lapels of my jacket. “I’m pretty sure you’ll want to live, if only to take this off me later.” She straightens my bowtie, and her green eyes meet mine. “God, you’re gorgeous. It’s like I forget t
he impact of you, and then ‘wham’ weak knees and fluttering heart.”

  The way she just out and says it, her gaze sliding over me as if I’m hot fudge on a cold day, I get weak-kneed myself. My free hand cups her cheek, the silk of her hair sliding over my fingers. Without a word, I seek her mouth.

  Her lips are a study of contradictions: soft yet firm, yielding then greedy. She sighs inside a kiss, small sounds of pleasure and want. It sends a fierce surge of lust through me. I take her mouth, own it, plunge in deep, feeding her my tongue with urgent strokes as if she’s starving for it. And yet she’s the one who owns me. I’m the one starving.

  “I love kissing you,” I say against her lips, never stopping, but taking more and more. Begging for it in return. Chess grips my lapels, holding on, bringing me closer.

  My hand slides further along the curve of her back, down under the edge of her dress. A pained groan rips from me. More satin skin. “Fuck no,” I plead, sucking her lower lip. “You’re bare?”

  I feel her smile. “No panty lines,” she murmurs, breath hot and damp.

  I grip her ass, kneading the firm flesh. “Fuck, baby. We’re not going make it out.”

  Her teeth pull at my upper lip, as she reaches down to cup my dick, where he is hard and insistent against my seam of my pants.

  Chess makes a sound of approval, stroking and giving me an impatient squeeze. “I want him.”

  “You have him.” We tumble against the wall, me leaning into her. I don’t know who is holding up who at this point. Chess fumbles with my zipper, slipping her hand in to clasp my dick and free him. She gives him a hello stroke.

  Things get hazy. My hands go to the skirt of her dress, gathering the fabric, wrenching it up and up until I find the smooth length of her thighs.

  “Hold on,” I say, kissing her deeper, a little frantic now.

  Her long legs wrap around my waist, gripping tight, pulling me in.

  I find the wet heat of her, stroke the soft slickness with the tips of my fingers.

  Chess shudders, her breath gusting out in a pant. “Finn. Now.”

  My forehead rests against hers. “Always.”

  It almost hurts, that first thrust. She so fucking tight and I’m so fucking swollen with need. I groan like I’m dying. Maybe I am. I’m so hot, I can’t find a breath.

  And she’s arching her neck, whimpering and clawing at my shoulders. Her thighs spread wider, opening for me with a demand for more.

  I know she expects a fast, hard fuck. I go slow, rocking into her, loving the way her body lifts a little when I’m balls deep, then sinks back as I draw out. With every push into the snug, slick well of her body, she makes a raspy noise in her throat, a bit helpless, a bit needy, like she’s begging for it but doesn’t want to. It gets me hotter, sweat rolling down my spine, heat flickering up my thighs, over my ass.

  Her hand cups the back of my neck, and she kisses me. It’s disjointed, sloppy. We’re both breathing too fast, shaking too much for finesse. Somehow, it makes it better, earthier, everything boiled down to primitive fucking and base lust. I take her air then give her mine. The press of her fingers against my skin makes me shiver.

  I’m claiming her against a wall, but if feels as though she’s claiming me. I’m losing my damn mind. I’m scared I might cry. Cry and fuck her and beg for something I don’t fully understand. Every time I push into her, I’m begging for it. Every pull though her heat, I’m anticipating the next thrust.

  I grip her ass and pump harder. “Chess.”

  She seems to understand better than I do because she strokes my hair, trying to calm even as her hips rise to meet mine with increasing need. Her eyes flutter closed, her lips parting on a gasp. And she is so fucking beautiful, it tears me wide open.

  We come together. And I fill her up, until she’s overflowing, warm wetness running back down over my cock. I’m supposed to be the strong one, her protector, but she is the one who holds me close, murmurs soothing sounds as I shake and struggle to pull myself together.

  Something has changed, leaving me exposed and feeling out of control. And it scares the fuck out of me.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chess

  * * *

  The Whett gala is being held at a mansion in the Garden District. Set back from the street and surrounded by iron gates, the neoclassical mansion is surrounded by a sprawling lawns and gardens. Inside, the scale of the place is immense, soaring ceilings, grand hallways, an enormous curved stairway built in the days when women wore hooped skirts that gently swayed when they descended those stairs like queens.

  I don’t want to glorify the past, but I can appreciate the hell out of the architecture.

  With a warm hand on the small of my back, Finn leads me past throngs of guests and down the main hall.

  “One day, I want a place like this,” I tell him as we pass under a chandelier glittering twenty feet above.

  Finn’s brow quirks as he glances at me. “Really? I thought you’d want something a little less massive.”

  I tuck myself closer to him as the crowd gets thicker. “Well, not this big. I’d get lost in here. But something with history like this. A house that’s graceful and grand in its proportions. I’ve always wanted to live in the Garden District.”

  We enter a reception room, done in shades of cream and gold, where they’ve set up a bar. Finn takes in the space, as if really looking at it for the first time. His hair is adorably mussed, the satin lapels on his suit jacket snagged and rumpled, having been crushed under my grip.

  I probably look equally disheveled. Though we’d tried to tidy up, short of a shower and starting from scratch, there was no hiding the fact that we’d been messing around.

  A warm hum of satisfaction moves through me. “Messing around” is a weak term for what we’d done. It had been the best sex of my life. Transcendent. Altering.

  Finn’s gaze clashes with mine now, and there’s a subtle gleam in his eyes. He knows me too well. Thankfully, he has better restraint than I do at the moment. He keeps his voice light, his touch on my back gentle. “We could get one, you know? A nice sized place with a pool and a guest house. Fill it up with…”

  He trails off, going pale under his tan.

  I don’t know if I hurt for him or me. Either way, the sensation isn’t pleasant. I step away from his touch, my gaze drifting over the room filled with smiling faces.

  “Chess,” he says low and rough. “I meant friends and family.”

  No, he didn’t. He shouldn’t have to lie.

  I give him a tight smile. “It’s not quite the same, is it?”

  The clean sweep of his jaw bunches. “It doesn’t mean anything. We were just talking.”

  “About the future?” I shake my head. “We shouldn’t be doing that, anyway.”

  Finn touches my elbow, leaning in to meet my eyes. “They were just words off the cuff.”

  “I know that.” I tuck a lock of his hair back from his brow. “Let’s just do as we promised. Let’s just be. I’m okay with that.”

  “You taking me literally wasn’t what I had in mind,” he mutters with a frown.

  Annoyance skitters up my back. “If you want to pick and choose what we focus on, then expect the same from me.”

  The space between us tightens as we lock gazes. But then he relents with a grunt and walks off to the bar. As soon as he’s gone, my shoulders sag with remorse. I can’t snipe at him whenever he accidentally touches a nerve. It isn’t fair to either of us.

  He returns with two glasses and a wary expression. “Here.”

  “Thank you.” I take the glass. It’s filled with something pale green bubbly. “What is it?”

  “Tears of Regret.” His mouth quirks. “I hear it tastes a lot like Champagne cocktail.”

  My hand trembles as I take a quick sip. “I’m sorry too.”

  He doesn’t say anything but kisses the top of my head.

  “I got offered a job in New York.”

  Finn pauses, his
glass halfway to his mouth, then takes a long, audible swallow of his drink. “It must be good,” he says, after catching his breath. “To put that look in your eyes.”

  I study the rim of my glass before taking another sip of my cocktail.

  “Tell me about the job, Chess.”

  He listens as I fill him in on the details, both of us strolling toward the French doors that lead to a terrace. Outside, we find a dark corner, and Finn leans against the wall of the house.

  “Sounds like a great opportunity,” he says, giving nothing away. “How long would you be away?”

  I grip the narrow bowl of my glass. “One to two months if all goes well.”

  He nods, glancing down at his shoes. When he looks up, his eyes glint in the moonlight. “Is this something you really want?”

  Such careful control in his voice. It closes in on me like a vise.

  “When James first told me, the answer was yes. But…” I lift my hands in a helpless gesture. “I don’t want to leave you.”

  Finn gives me a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  But I would. And it feels wrong leaving him right now. As if it will kill the momentum of us, when we’ve only just started.

  “When would you leave?” he asks.

  “In the next two weeks.”

  A grimace mars his features, though he clearly tries to hide it. “I won’t be able to visit you,” he says. “These last two games of the season are going to be intense. And if we win, I’ll have to concentrate on the playoffs.”

  He sounds so apologetic, as if it’s his fault I’m leaving. Sadness and a strange sense of panic roll around in my chest, rising up to clog my throat. From the second I’d thought of taking the job, I knew he wouldn’t be able to follow. Something in his eyes tells me that he understands this as well.

  “You’ll make the playoffs,” I tell him. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  His smile is tilted and wry and fades fast. “I’m proud of you, Chester.”

  I don’t feel anything but a need to cling, a weakness I don’t want or like.