It's Only Love

by Mel Curtis

  “Let me touch you.” She kept reaching and he kept elbow-checking her away. “I’ll go slow.” She was starting to be a fan of slow. She burned all over.

  Someone spoke, out by the pool.

  He tensed.

  She took advantage, taking him in hand, soothing him with a tender stroke. “They can’t see us in the dark, even though I can see you.” Not the details, but she could see the outline of Trent’s face, his short hair, the breadth of his powerful shoulders.

  He was such a tender-hearted man. Strong as he led his warriors on the court, but remorseful in his decisions when his men were hurt.

  “They couldn’t see if you put on a condom. Or if you came down on me again.” She paid special attention with her hand to that strong, hard part of him. “They couldn’t see us f...They couldn’t see you losing yourself inside me or me combusting when you find that sweet spot.”

  He reached for a condom, but instead of increasing the pace, he positioned her on her side again so she could see out the window to the pool where two men were talking and smoking cigars. He spooned himself behind her, sliding home.

  Her vision went fuzzy. She was ready for him to bring it, to bring her to a much needed peak.

  Trent had other ideas. He kept up that slow, languid rhythm. His lips and tongue traced patterns on the back of her neck and shoulders in a way that drained and energized. His hand roved from her breasts to that delicious pressure point between her legs until she was overwhelmed with sensation.

  “You drive me insane,” she panted. None of her fuck-buddies had ever worshipped her body like this, had ever made her feel loved like this.

  “Don’t lose it. Not yet.”

  She laughed, not sure who he was urging – himself or her.

  An icy hot feeling built inside her, swelling through her limbs like a building ocean wave, curling, tightening, thundering, until she was wildly taking him over the crest and pounding down in an explosion of energy.

  The men by the pool stopped talking and looked around.

  “What a surprise, sugar,” Trent whispered. “You’re a screamer when we go slow.”

  ~*~

  With Cora, the sex was all good. Slow or fast.

  Slow was pink-room delicious. Fast was as racy as her black lace lingerie.

  Trent sat in the Jacuzzi tub, beer in one hand, Cora’s breast in the other. The bathroom was steamy, and not just the mirrors. “Tomorrow’s workout is going to be tough without sleep.”

  “Sleep is overrated.” She turned in his lap. “We need a condom.”

  He tsked. “Always in a hurry. Give me a chance to soap you up, first.”

  She swiped his beer, took a swig, and slid the short distance to the other side of the tub. “Have at me, Reverend.”

  Trent squirted a dollop of liquid soap on a washcloth. “I’ve always wanted to make love in a bath tub.”

  Cora refrained from comment. She took another swig of beer, her gaze roving his chest.

  “And out under the stars. On a beach.”

  “Is that your bucket list?” The implication in her tone being she’d been there and done that.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d made him feel old and stodgy. “Name one place you’d like to do it.” He soaped up her shoulders, working his way down her arm.

  “A place I haven’t had my bell rung?” She shifted into the corner, away from the tub spigot.

  “Yeah.” Her other arm received equal attention. The body wash smelled like his aftershave. He hadn’t thought men’s aftershave could smell sexy to him. On her, it did.

  She watched him squirt more soap on the washcloth.

  He swirled the rag around one breast, then the other. “Don’t tell me you’ve done it everywhere.”

  She shrugged.

  “On a beach?”

  She nodded.

  “Under the stars?”

  She nodded.

  “In a tub?” He dipped the washcloth below the surface to wash her tender parts.

  She scrunched her nose. “Not a tub like this. Jacuzzi or not, this is a tight squeeze.”

  His chest ached. Trent wanted to wipe away the memory of sex with other men. He kneaded and circled and rubbed her with the wash rag until she looked at him in that way of hers – half-lidded, lips parted, gasping. “God, you’re beautiful, Cora.”

  It didn’t matter that they’d had sex twice already. It didn’t matter that the hard porcelain of the tub hit his angles uncomfortably. It mattered that he gave her something she hadn’t experienced before. He pulled her close, replacing his dick where his hand had been, taking her the way she wanted, fast and hard.

  The experience inside of her was different in the water. She was hotter, one new texture after another as he plunged in and out, sending water splashing over the tub’s edge.

  She clutched his shoulders and shuddered, clenching his cock, milking an orgasm from him. She kissed him hard, grinding her hips into his, extending her pleasure.

  He’d always remember her like this – hair mussed, short of breath, naked and satisfied.

  “You distracted me.” She traced his lips with her tongue. “I didn’t even notice you putting on a condom.”

  Trent stiffened, and not down there. “I didn’t use a condom.” Reality came roaring back to him.

  To them.

  They scrambled to their feet, dripping in the tub.

  “You’re on the pill, right?” A baby. That was the last thing he needed.

  “Yes.” Water dripped out of her nooks and crannies, sluiced down her lithe curves. She had to be thinking what he was thinking – about Antoine’s birth control baby. “Ninety-nine percent effective. And my last test was negative for disease.”

  “Welcome to L.A.,” he muttered. And dating. He was sleeping with a woman who’d been tested for sexual diseases. He reached for a towel and wrapped her in it. “Sorry. It won’t happen again.” But Trent wasn’t so sure. She made him forget. And not just condoms.

  She stepped gracefully out of the tub. “We need to set some ground rules.”

  “I agree. Condoms should be rule number one.” Trent grabbed a towel and dragged it over his face, nearly overcome by the image of Cora, her belly round with his child. She’d be beautiful. But he…He wasn’t ready.

  Cora rubbed her skin vigorously, as if she could scrub away the possibility of an accident. “We need to talk about what this is and what your expectations are.”

  “We’re dating,” Trent said simply, stepping out of the tub.

  She moved to the bathroom door, looking indecisive.

  Anger accelerated his pulse. “We’re dating, sugar. Or is that not how it works here? In the South, if you fool around with a woman, you date her.” It wasn’t what he wanted, to be tied down with expectations on his time other than the team. But he wanted to get to know her better. When he was with her – naked or clothed – she made him feel alive, as if he’d gone from a black and white existence to full-on 3D color.

  “It’s just…” She stared at her feet. “I told you, I don’t date.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Trent dried off quickly, a ball of apprehension dribbling around his gut.

  “I’ve never had a steady boyfriend.” She scowled fiercely. “No one in high school seemed worth serious effort. And I didn’t date anyone for years because I planned to leave the country to study fashion in Paris. But I like sex, so I made arrangements…With men.”

  “You’re a hooker?” Holy crap! He was so damn naïve. He almost slipped on the wet floor.

  “No!” That brought her chin up and her voice down. “I had friends. With benefits.”

  He was officially angry now. He wanted to punch someone. Preferably every one of Cora’s scumbag friends with benefits.

  His face felt carved in stone. His brain was just as dense. “Rachel never slept around.”

  “And the fairy tale continues.” She dropped her towel and drew sarcasm around her in its place. “Saint Rachel probably t
old you she was a virgin. That’s probably why your sex life has been limited to dark bedrooms and Sunday mornings.”

  Jealousy sprouted fangs. “How many men?”

  “That’s none of your business.” She walked out of the room, turned on the bedroom light, and exposed them both to anyone out late at the pool, as if to prove she didn’t care who saw her naked. Or who fucked her.

  “What was it you said in Jack’s office about Hugh Irving?” She faced the windows, turning her back on him as she snatched up her clothes, jerking them on. Blouse, leggings. “Oh, yeah. Don’t judge a man by his past? You’re such a hypocrite.”

  “That’s different.” He knew it wasn’t. “How many?” He dropped his towel and tugged on his shorts. He wanted names. He wanted to sit down with Amber and ask her why she’d let her little sister act like a…like a... “You’re too young to have lost track.”

  Cora spun, her lacy underwear fisted in one hand. “Did you or did you not enjoy having sex with me?”

  “You know I did.”

  “You can’t enjoy the experience of my body and then call me a whore.”

  “I wasn’t calling you – ”

  “You did. Maybe not in so many words.” She waved the lace in the air. “You’re good at putting people down with your lazy Southern drawl. It takes the sting out of your honesty.” The front of her blouse had wet circles beneath her nipples, so not helping her morality claims. “How many men would I need to have slept with to be called a whore? Ten? Twenty?”

  “I don’t judge like that.” He wanted to know for entirely different reasons. Possessive reasons. Sanity, can’t-sleep-at-night reasons.

  “You wouldn’t judge at all if I was a man.”

  He closed his eyes, blotting out the image of her with so many men. A basketball team of men. He bit back his temper. “You have a point. I’m old school. I want – ”

  “I can’t get my cherry back. Someone ate it a long time ago.” She slipped into her high heeled sandals.

  “I just…” He closed the distance between them, tipping her chin up so she’d look at him. “I don’t like the idea of you with someone else.”

  “If you want a virgin, go back to Holy Southern Cross.”

  She was so God-damn frustrating. “Forget about fucking virgins!”

  Cora smiled, but it was a sad sort of smile. She gently removed his hand from her chin. “If you can’t get over the fact that I’ve slept with other men, we’re done here. It’s best for the team. Dating’s a distraction. You said so yourself.”

  She was right. But there was something beyond sex between them. Something that made him feel like he wasn’t the man the media or Rachel made him out to be. He needed to try to set her past aside. God, help him. “I can’t see you if you’re not exclusive to me,” he said, when what he needed to say was, “I don’t care how many men you slept with. I over-reacted. Forgive me.” Even if he didn’t mean it.

  She took a step back. “I’m not your possession. I don’t have to answer to you.”

  “I’m not asking you to be.” He was whispering now, fighting for control of his words, wrestling them past his pride. “Call it a test drive. Call it you choosing a different kind of relationship.” He swallowed. “You don’t have to tell people we’re seeing each other if that makes you feel better. Whatever brackets you put around us to make you feel good, hold onto that positive feeling before you go to bed at night, feel it again before you get out of bed in the morning and when whatever this is between us scares you.” Because he damn well knew dating scared her.

  She didn’t date. The phrase took on a whole new meaning. Cora’s moral guideposts were far wider than Rachel’s had been, far wider than he was comfortable with. But within those limits they shared common values.

  She blinked. “You used the Rules of Attraction.” There was awe in her voice.

  Holy crap. He had.

  He’d sworn he wouldn’t tie himself down to another woman after Rachel, and certainly not a woman who lived by a code he didn’t buy into. He’d looked into the Dooley Foundation’s guideposts and filed them under bullshit. But something must have resonated. And hell, if the power of positive thinking helped him learn more about the woman standing before him, it was worth a shot.

  “Spend the weekend with me,” he blurted. “Here, at the hotel. Between team shootarounds, we’ll watch game film.” And make love. “And talk.”

  It was too much for her. The upstairs Cora was spooked. She backed toward the door.

  “We’ll find a new place to make love.” He purposefully chose a word she didn’t like, one that would make her nervous, one that implied he was different than all her friends with benefits.

  “I’ll choose.” She grabbed her purse and stuffed her panties and bra inside. Her eyes darted everywhere, never landing on him. “I’ll say when and where. I’ll choose if we...date.” She froze, her hand on the door handle, as if she’d just realized what she’d said.

  The ominous feeling in his chest was like a semi bearing down on him. It filled his lungs with cement. He couldn’t speak.

  She walked out.

  Chapter 25

  L.A. Happenings by Lyle Lincoln

  …There are rumors that rehearsals for the movie Rhetoricals are revealing the miscasting of stars Portia Francis and Lon Gallagher. Might I suggest to producer Cal Lazarus that he audition Mimi Sorbet and Kent Decklin?

  If there was one thing Cora hated, it was a regret-filled morning after. Her body should have been humming. Her mind should have been clear.

  Instead, she was thinking about Trent. One minute with the oh-wow feeling in her belly that signified great sex and the idea of more. The next minute with the oh-no feeling in her chest that made it hard to breathe.

  Trent had seen her bedroom. Days ago, they’d hardly talked after that second round of sex on the stairs. And then she’d fallen into his arms last night in his hotel and her worst fears had been realized. He considered her tainted goods, as if they lived back in the 1800s and she needed to wear a scarlet letter. How could he be so disapproving of her past and still claim to want to explore something with her?

  She hadn’t gone to bed last night. What was the point? She’d never be able to sleep.

  She’d texted Mimi at five a.m.: Made the same mistake with the same man.

  He’d called her Skipper, and himself Ken. He had it all wrong. Barbie was everything that was good in the world. Barbie would bail out a barely known sibling because it was the right thing to do. On some level, Cora wanted to be Barbie, but she wanted nothing to do with Ken.

  Mimi shot a text back: It must be love.

  He wanted to know how many men I slept with.

  Bastard. Did you tell him?

  No.

  You need shopping therapy.

  Too early for that.

  At least, Cal hadn’t texted her last night. He wouldn’t have sat in a chair in a room his father shared with Jack. Hopefully, that meant he’d gone home and gotten a good night’s sleep. Perhaps his focus on work would improve and his thinly veiled propositions to Cora would end.

  Barely two hours later, she sat in Jack’s office with Viv waiting for Hugh Irving to arrive. She sucked down coffee as if she was a vampire, and caffeine was True Blood.

  ~*~

  “It’s like you’re putting together two teams,” Archie said after Trent explained his plans for the Flash’s roster.

  True to his word, Trent told his staff what he and Jack had been planning. They’d been quiet while he explained his strategy. He’d been unable to tell if they’d support him or not.

  “A team of bruisers, and a run-and-gun team,” Randy murmured, staring at the wall as if putting the pieces together in his head.

  “Won’t that make us vulnerable?” Berto pushed his glasses up his nose. “We carry a thirteen man roster. Divide them roughly in half and key injuries to either unit will hamstring us. No pun intended.”

  “It’s risky.” Archie clenched his hands.
“We’re almost done with training camp and you’re asking guys to step into roles at the last minute, days away from our first game.”

  Punctured, Trent’s spirits sunk.

  “It’s brilliant,” Randy said, leaning forward in his chair. “Who knows which team we’ll put on the court? Evan running uptempo Chaos? Irving leading the bruisers? Or a combination of traditional ball?”

  Buoyed, Trent nodded at his protégé gratefully. “These guys are in the best shape of their lives. And they’ve been playing basketball under different systems since they were in grade school. If we come in with the right attitude and can convince them we can win a championship ring doing this, it’ll work.” It had to.

  ~*~

  “Here he comes,” Viv stood, smoothing her maroon skirt over her hips.

  The door opened. Cora looked up. And up some more.

  Hugh Irving was a monster of a man.

  Seven-foot one. Three hundred pounds. Not all of it hard muscle.

  Despite her five-inch python pumps, Cora felt as if she’d been transported to Munchkin Land.

  He’d been a brute at Duke, not Coach K’s typical player, more like someone you’d see playing for Kentucky. Dark hair, square jaw, a way of staring that made you feel you didn’t dare speak in his presence, although the effect was ruined by his bushy, Duck Dynasty beard.

  “We’re so happy you were available. The team is going to love you,” Viv was saying after she’d introduced herself and Cora. Viv licked her lips as she gazed up at Hugh, looking as if she was ready to do a lay back and spread on command.

  Cora attributed Viv’s attitude to the break-up blues. Although in Viv’s case, it was more like break-up rage.

  “He’s due in the workout room. Now.” Cora turned toward the door. “I’ll take you.” That way she could find out what kind of guy Hugh really was.