Crazy Thing Called Love

by Molly O'Keefe

  “You think?”

  She laughed, knowing and feminine.

  That would certainly make the next step of getting back together with Maddy easier.

  No kissing. God.

  “Ten seconds,” Peter whispered from the edge of the set.

  Billy was remic’d and one of Tam’s assistants gave him a few finishing touches, pulling and tugging and tucking. “You look great,” the man said, a pin in his mouth.

  Billy ran a hand down his vest again, and now that silly scrap of red in the breast pocket didn’t seem so silly—it seemed kind of cool.

  Maybe I do look good, he thought, for the very first time in his life.

  “Welcome back,” Maddy said from the stage, the bright lights hitting her face and hair, making her sparkle. “For those of you who are just joining us, Billy Wilkins—hockey player, bad boy, and unrepentant fashion disaster—is backstage changing into the most stylish of this spring’s fashions.”

  Tam started talking again about vests and V-neck T-shirts, and Billy, in the tight vest and the tight pants and the slick boots, felt the very same surge of confidence that he usually felt just before going out on the ice.

  He felt like he could do anything and it was so weird that a new set of clothes would give him that confidence.

  Gotta hand it to Tam, he thought.

  “Let’s bring him out here,” Maddy said and turned toward where he stood in the shadows.

  Here we go, Billy thought as he stepped out into the lights.

  Oh. My. God.

  That was the crowd’s reaction. That was the reaction in a million homes across the Dallas/Ft. Worth area. And that was the reaction detonating in Maddy’s chest.

  Billy looked … delicious.

  Menacing, sure, he was always going to look menacing with that body and that scar. He was a powerful, dangerous man, but he looked … sophisticated. Rough and urban at the same time.

  In the last few years, after every failed or lukewarm date she would lie alone in her big bed and think about what kind of man she wanted, and it was impossible, utterly impossible, but Billy as he stood in front of her right now wasn’t far off the mark.

  Utterly masculine with just the right amount of civilization.

  Not like last weekend, she thought. He didn’t look a thing like the ill-kempt and angry man who’d been in her house on Saturday.

  And she’d been crazed for that version of him.

  Internally her body clenched, as if holding tight to the memory of his fingers inside of her. His thumb against her. Rough and then gentle.

  Maddy put her hand against the chair, trying to restore her balance, her equilibrium.

  This version of him, cleaned up just enough—this Billy could ruin her with a look, a raised eyebrow, one of his naughty boy grins. There was no end to the dirty, depraved things she wanted from this Billy.

  “How do you feel?” Tam asked him.

  “I honestly can’t believe I’m going to say this.” Billy looked both vulnerable and strong at the same time and the reaction in the room was amazing. He was shrinking the studio down to an intimate space. Every woman in the room felt like he was talking just to her.

  Including Maddy.

  Especially Maddy.

  “I feel different. Good. I really do,” he said, looking down at himself.

  “This is a new look for you, isn’t it?” Tam asked quietly.

  “Well, I’ve got new socks, so yeah,” Billy joked, but then shook his head. “Most of my life has been dedicated to hockey. I’ve let everything else slip away, including who I am off the ice. And with my scar …”

  Don’t, she thought, wishing she could block out the words, the utterly human way he was relating to Tam, and the audience of women who were falling a little in love with him.

  “Well, most people don’t see past it. But this?” Billy laughed. “I mean, holy shit, this is great.” He winced. “Can I say that on TV?”

  Tam laughed. “My job here is done.”

  “I’ll say,” Maddy chimed in, forcing herself to get it together. She looked into the camera “Join us next Friday for a new installment of the Billy Wilkins Project.”

  For the life of her she couldn’t remember what the segment was; it was like the sight of Billy in that vest had short-circuited her brain. Fumbling slightly, she thanked Tam and as she did, Billy interrupted and shook the tailor’s hand with both of his. “Thank you,” Billy said, earnest and sincere, a combination that was utterly devastating with that face of his. “I mean it.”

  Tam took the gratitude with poise and the red light on the cameras flickered off.

  She pulled off her mic and left the stage. Rattled and flustered, she grabbed her water and went to her office.

  Thirty minutes after the studio audience left, Billy bought all the clothes. The tight jeans, the vests, the sweaters with collars. He bought the button-down shirts and the T-shirts that were so soft they felt like he’d had them since Juniors.

  And all the footwear. Even the loafers, though he doubted he could wear them without the team laughing.

  And the pièce de résistance: the overcoat. Because it made him feel like an English gangster and he always wanted to feel like an English gangster in one of those Guy Ritchie movies.

  “Oy, guvner,” he said, looking at himself in the full-length mirror.

  So in love with his whole look, he wore it to Maddy’s door. If he was going to be a Gladiator dildo, he was going to be a sharply dressed one.

  “Come in,” her voice called and it sounded exactly like the whistle before the puck drops at the beginning of the second period. One of the best sounds on the planet.

  He pushed open the door.

  She’d changed from the clingy sweater dress she’d been wearing to a pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt.

  It was his favorite look in the whole world, only slightly better than her wearing one of his T-shirts and nothing else.

  The thought made his pants even more uncomfortable.

  “Look at you,” she said, watching him over the top of her white laptop. Her smile was soft. Indulgent. Fleeting.

  “I bought it all,” he said.

  “You look like an English gangster.”

  “You think?” He looked down at himself as if surprised and she laughed.

  “Please, you’ve probably been practicing your cockney accent.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  The silence sizzled, electric awareness filling the small space.

  “What are you doing here, Billy?” she whispered, stopping the pretense.

  “I’m not giving up.”

  She sat back, her arms outstretched. “This isn’t a game.”

  “Now, that’s ironic, coming from the woman who is setting all the rules.”

  She shook her head, his puck going wide.

  “I’m not something you can win back just to prove you can.”

  “You think that’s what I want?” It hurt that she thought his affection was so fleeting, but he realized she was telling herself these things as a way to keep him at arm’s length.

  “Saturday was a mistake, Billy. Let’s just forget about it.”

  “Not possible. Sorry, Maddy, I’ll go to my grave remembering how you felt.”

  He shrugged out of the coat, because suddenly it was so damn hot in the small office. Suddenly it was a sauna.

  “I have been thinking about you every minute. The way your skin felt, the way you smelled, how you looked when you came apart under my hands.”

  This is what he’d come in here to say, the ball he was ready to set in motion. He wanted to change her mind about him, wanted to get back into her life, and the only way to do it was by following her rules. Otherwise she would keep them apart forever.

  The buttons on his vest slipped open almost before he touched them. As if the English gangster clothes were in perfect accord with his plan for seduction.

  “What …” She licked her lips. “What are you doin
g?”

  “Whatever you want.” From his back pocket he pulled a foil-wrapped condom and tossed it on her desk. His vest hung open over the shirt hugging the muscles of his chest and stomach.

  Silent, agonized, he waited. The seconds pulled and stretched, bleeding his courage, gaining him years.

  Until finally:

  “Lock the door,” she whispered.

  What are you doing? The clipped, judgmental voice of Madelyn Cornish, host of the top-rated Dallas morning show, screamed in her head.

  But the jungle drums beating between her legs drowned out the sound of anything rational. No time for judgment. Not when Billy was looking at her like he wanted to eat her.

  His white silk shirt hugged every muscle in Billy’s arms, every twitch and twist as he reached behind himself and turned the lock on the door.

  Her mouth went dry, her core wet.

  Click.

  “My rules,” she said.

  Face like granite, he nodded.

  Power erupted in her. Power she’d never had in their marriage.

  Without a word from her, he continued taking off his clothes. Undressing for her pleasure.

  That vest and shirt should look like a costume on him. They should make him ridiculous, but they didn’t.

  Madelyn liked clothes, and she knew their effect, and Billy, whether he knew it or not, wouldn’t be able to hide in his rough, ill-fitting clothes anymore. People would look at him differently now. She couldn’t help but look at him differently.

  It was as if the new clothes were highlighting aspects of himself that he usually reserved: his intelligence, empathy, and generosity; his loyalty and fierce heart.

  Stop, she thought. Don’t think of him like that.

  The whiteness of his skin gleamed in the lights of her dressing room as the shirt fell off of him, the pants, the boots. He stood, nearly naked in front of her, his erection straining against his black briefs.

  His scars, the evidence of his brutality, all of it was starkly on display.

  Better, she thought. This was the man she knew. The man whose hold on her needed to be broken. She walked around her desk to that small space between the desk and the dressing table. Too late she realized her feet were bare.

  His eyes on her toes felt more intimate than anything they’d done on Saturday.

  Everything they’d done on Saturday, until that moment at the end when he’d made himself come rather than have her touch him, had been about as intimate as a car crash.

  What do you want? she asked herself. What possible outcome are you looking for?

  She didn’t have an answer. Didn’t want to waste time thinking about it. She felt slightly drunk with lust, out of her head with desire, and she liked it, wanted more of it. So she banished Saturday from the room, from her head.

  Stopping inches from him she reached out and touched the strong, hard ridge of his erection. Tracing the edges with her fingertips, she relished the way he shook and trembled, but didn’t touch her. He stood there and he took it.

  Control. It was hers.

  Her fingers reached below his erection and cupped the heavy bulge of his sack. Her fingers tightened, just enough, just until he hissed.

  Her eyes lifted to his and she was transfixed. Immobile.

  “Why are you letting me do this?” she whispered.

  He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to. Everything he felt was right there in his face. His eyes. That lack of boundaries that she used to love about him was in full effect.

  This, for him, was about being loved again.

  Boundaries, Billy, or you’ll get hurt.

  Reflexively her fingers twitched around the tender flesh held in cotton and he winced.

  Stupid Maddy, she thought, you are the one who wants to hurt him.

  Fast, she undid her jeans and pushed them down her legs, taking the scrap of blue lace that was her underwear with them. She kicked her legs free and wrapped her hands in the hem of her shirt to throw it over her head.

  “Leave it,” he whispered, his fingers running up the muscles of her legs, making them twitch and dance. “Leave the shirt.”

  My rules, she thought, and pulled the shirt over her head.

  He closed his eyes as if saddened. But then she took his hand and put it between her legs, where the heat and the wet were already gathering. Already pooling.

  With one hand between her legs, the other on her shoulder, he shifted, easing them around until her back was to the wall and he was pressed against her. His warm flesh, his thick muscles a living blanket from shoulder to hip.

  His fingers found every curve of her, every recess and hill. The small places where pleasure hid, electric and difficult. She gasped, arching her neck, trying to suck down enough air to keep her balance, to keep her grounded. But his fingers knew her secrets. His breath, hot and damp, feathered her shoulder. His lips found that place behind her ear, and then his teeth, and she shook against him.

  “Yes,” she sighed. She lifted a leg around his hip, giving him more room, more territory to conquer. Her hips beat against his and he leaned harder against her, keeping her still.

  This was what she loved about him. About sex with Billy. He could fold her up in a ball with the pleasure he gave her. All that confidence with which he wore his own skin he applied to hers. To her body. She didn’t have to work for her orgasms, he delivered them to her. Served them to her. They came effortlessly.

  One finger reached inside her and she arched against the wall, swallowing her cries. Suddenly, though, that warm strength of his body was gone and she couldn’t help but cry out. But he’d only dropped to his knees.

  What a sight, Billy, in all of his muscled glory, on his knees in front of her. She’d missed this.

  He lifted her leg, throwing it over his shoulder, his fingers opening her for his tongue. His teeth.

  As good as this man was at hockey, he was better at this. He’d spent a summer between her legs, studying her response, figuring out all of her secrets, all the ways he could make her scream with his tongue and fingers. Small touches, bold licks, hard, soft, quick, and agonizingly slow.

  No one went down on a woman with as much intent and pleasure as Billy Wilkins. And he’d ruined her for other men. The few that she’d let between her legs since him had been sad disappointments. Not worth the effort of the bikini wax.

  But Billy …

  Yes, she thought, curling her fingers through his hair, feeling his jaw move against her. Yes. This. There. Now.

  Seconds, less than seconds, between one heartbeat and the next. She was herself and then she was shattered, a thousand glittering pieces on a jet-black horizon.

  He kissed his way up her body until he was on his feet, his mouth hovering over hers. His lips damp with her. Her eyes met his and she wanted to kiss him so badly it hurt, but she turned her face away, denying herself because it denied him.

  “Get the condom,” she whispered. He crossed the small room, the muscles of his back, his round tight skater’s ass flexing as he walked over to her desk. His back to her, she watched as he used his teeth to open the wrapper. Head bent, he put the condom on, and then, without turning around, he walked over to her desk chair, an armless wooden antique that she’d picked up from who knows where.

  He sat, his erection vulgar and crude. Exciting.

  “Come here,” he whispered.

  My rules, she thought, but she could feel him between her legs, could feel how she’d be able to control it all from that position. Her pleasure. His.

  She stepped up to him, placing her legs on either side of him. Careful not to touch him, though her fingers burned to do so, she curled her hands around the top of the chair.

  The sensation of his hand on her hip was searing and she almost told him not to touch her, but then he pushed her down and the head of his dick was stretching her, testing its welcome into her body.

  She dropped her head forward and closed her eyes, taking him inch by delicious inch.

&nbs
p; “Maddy,” he groaned. “Oh God, you’re so … ah …”

  Tight. Hot. Wet. Yes, she was all of those things.

  And in control.

  She curled her hips and sat, taking all of him inside her so fast and so hard, they both cried out at the riot of sensations. His hands clenched at her hips, a small pain.

  “Shh,” she whispered as he arched up higher into her. “We have to be quiet.”

  “Move,” he groaned into her ear. Slowly, she rocked on him, pressing her groin against his, until she felt the heightening pressure on her clit. Back and forth again, a long, slow rock and curl.

  He was whispering, groaning filthy things in her ear, and it drove her higher. Faster. His hands skated across her flesh, cupping her breasts, her hips, curling around her neck, pulling at her hair. All of it added to the pleasure building low in her belly.

  “Maddy,” he groaned and she lifted her head to look at him.

  And then, like an insect in a web, she couldn’t look away. Billy, tortured with pleasure, holding himself back for her, was mesmerizing.

  “Baby,” he sighed, his face splitting with a luminous smile. He leaned forward to kiss her and she lurched back, turning her face away.

  “No.”

  “Look at me,” he growled and she closed her eyes, unable to look at him. Unable to see him so happy just because they were fucking.

  “Look. At. Me.” She shook her head and he grabbed her waist, lifting her slightly away from him, holding her still. “Maddy.”

  “My rules,” she gasped.

  For one long moment she wasn’t sure what he was going to do and knew she wasn’t strong enough to make him do anything. She tried to break his hold, but he wouldn’t budge. Pleasure grew thorns and jagged edges and she groaned with the agony of it all.

  In one easy, graceful surge he took them down to the floor behind her desk. He braced one hand against the wall so she wouldn’t hit her head and then slowly, inch by agonizing inch, thrust into her and then retreated.

  “Look at me.”

  Every breath she sucked in tasted of sweat and sex. She dug her nails into the muscles of his hips, his back.

  But no way would she look at him. Scared of what she’d see, scared of how she’d feel, she kept her eyes closed, holding on to her pleasure with a fierce grip. He hissed and thrust back into her, setting a rhythm that wasn’t enough. Not even close.