by Mindy Klasky
His fingers closed over her hips, urgent, begging. Fire poured into her from his super-heated palms, and he groaned as she shifted, finding a new balance.
The tip of his cock rested against her ready flesh. She leaned forward, just the slightest of movements, and she felt him leap in response. He wanted her. He needed her, as much as she needed him.
She caught her breath and eased back, taking him into her body one inch at a time.
She meant to keep control. She meant to take him slowly, filling her core with the heat of him, with his solid, driving length. The muscles in his neck stretched tight; he gathered in a breath and held it in perfect stasis. His fingers gripped her hips, speaking volumes, even though he never said a word.
Her thighs tightened at the incredible sensation of fullness, at the pulsing power that bound them together. She was the one in control here. She was the one measuring out how much each of them would feel.
“Samantha,” he breathed.
And that undid her. He’d whispered her name over the phone that night, spun the syllables into an entire encyclopedia of wonder and lust and yearning. She’d known then that he’d found his release, that her mere words had brought him over the edge.
She raised herself up, nearly crying out at the sensation of his flesh pressing against hers. With impossible control, she lowered herself again, taking every inch of him until the fullness made her gasp. She clutched his shoulders as she set the rhythm, rise and fall, each pass taking them both closer to the sparkling edge of the galaxy that whirled between them.
His hips rose to meet her, perfecting the timing she’d begun. Her body strung tighter. She caught her breath, prolonging the moment, stretching out the perfect knife edge of the sensation that began to spin loose inside her body.
For a heartbeat, for five, for ten, she balanced on the edge of forever.
And then her need screamed through every fiber of her body. She could not hold back, could not play the game for even one more second. She gripped his shoulders and threw back her head, crying out as her thighs gave way beneath the rolling waves of pure sensation.
As she collapsed against his chest, his body rose to meet her. Once, twice, three times, and his back arched. His lips parted with a wordless cry, and his fingers splayed wide, holding her, cradling her, possessing her, even as his body pumped into hers.
She was laughing, crying, making noises that might have been words. His arms folded around her, and his knotted muscles pulled her close, as if he were trying to merge her into his chest. His heartbeat pounded through her, mastering her own, and she forgot how to breathe, how to speak, how to be in any way separate and apart from him.
Centuries later—or so it seemed—their hearts finally slowed and their breathing returned to normal. She gradually become aware of the room around them, the gaping windows with the tailored shades that she’d pulled closed well before midnight, the empty glasses on the sleek coffee table, the tangle of clothing on the floor—hers and his, knotted together like lovers.
She felt the chill of the North Carolina spring night. Unbidden, a shiver started at the top of her spine. The more she tried to still herself, the more the shudder grew, until she felt DJ laughing beneath her. Before she could feel indignant, he shifted her gently, moving them both to a seated position. He collected a cashmere throw from the arm of the sofa and draped it around her, gathering it carefully beneath her chin.
Even then, even when he was at his most tender, she couldn’t help but notice the flash of his eyes as he took in the curves of her breasts. She knew she wasn’t imagining things, either, when he pulled the blanket closer. The brush of his palm against her belly couldn’t be accidental. He grinned as she sucked in a breath.
He carried her into the bedroom. Somehow, he tossed away the decorative pillows at the top of the bed. He threw back the comforter and nestled her on the most perfect mattress she’d ever felt. When he climbed in beside her, she thought her body would explode from the overload of sensation. He draped his arm around her, nestling her close to his chest, and she felt the pad of each of his fingers sear into her belly. He edged one leg between hers, pinning her, claiming her, and then he nuzzled the nape of her neck.
She was certain she would never fall asleep—not with the heat of his body reminding her of everything they’d just done, of all the sensations he’d rocketed through her body. But she closed her eyes, and she relaxed against his solid heat. And, against all odds, she slept.
CHAPTER 6
Sam nestled deeper beneath the heavy comforter, stretching her legs toward the foot of the bed. The sheets were soft as satin, inviting her to settle back into sleep, to ease the gentle ache in her thighs, across her belly. She stretched again and scrunched the down pillow beneath her head, teetering on the edge of dreams.
Heavy comforter. Soft as satin. Down pillow.
Sam wasn’t in her own bed. She was far from her well-worn quilt, her often-washed cotton sheets, her deflated foam pillow that she’d been vowing to replace for months.
She opened her eyes to find herself awash in a sea of charcoal gray. Half a dozen burgundy throw pillows slouched against the cream-colored wall, as if they’d been tossed there in a storm. Which, in a way, they had. Sam remembered now how she’d come to be in this king-size bed, how DJ had carried her here with effortless strength.
Now, she reached out for his pillow. It held his scent, the soft bite of cedar, but it was cool to her touch. She rolled over, squinting to make out the numbers on the nearby clock. 11:32. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so late.
Alarmed, she sat up in bed, reflexively gathering the covers close around her. “DJ?” she called, but she didn’t actually expect a reply. The house was silent, heavy, and she was certain she was alone.
That certainty was cemented by the note that waited behind the clock. The letters were neat and masculine; they looked like they’d been dashed off with a sturdy felt-tip pen. “House-Breaker—I guessed you took your coffee light and sweet. I’m at the park till eight. Dinner tonight? DJ”
His initials twanged a bowstring deep inside her, and she realized her entire body ached, the pleasant reminder of a long night’s exertion. She reached past the note for the huge silver mug that weighted down the nightstand, its rubberized lid hinting at the hot caffeine it contained. Slipping open the lever that allowed her to drink, she caught a breath of pure Colombian steam.
The coffee was heaven in a cup. She closed her eyes as she swallowed, picturing DJ’s capable hands loading up the coffee-maker, measuring out sugar, pouring cream. She imagined him gliding into his bedroom, gazing down at her as she slept. She wondered if he’d touched her hair, if he’d pulled the covers closer about her shoulders. Sipping more coffee, she wondered how the morning would have progressed, if DJ hadn’t needed to work that day.
If she hadn’t needed to work.
In a flash, Sam remembered she had an obligation that afternoon—cutting the ribbon to open a new organic grocery store over in Cary. She downed a huge swallow of the perfect coffee and looked at the clock again. She should have just enough time to collect her clothes, to walk down the street to the corner where she’d left her car (lest she give away her presence when DJ returned home), to head home for a shower and fresh clothes, and then speed across town to the market.
Sighing, she left the refuge of the bed. She wasn’t surprised to find her clothes on the dresser, folded with military precision, even the crimson lingerie. She shimmied into her T-shirt and jeans, blushing as she thought about how she’d stripped down the night before, how she’d posed herself on the leather couch.
She’d known what she wanted, though. And DJ had given her the confidence to go after that—the sweet seduction of their shared phone calls, the flare of appreciation she’d seen in his eyes the moment he realized she was waiting in his living room. His obvious attraction had given her the permission she craved, to do things she’d only imagined in the past.
And
now her mind was already working on the future. Dinner, DJ’s note had proposed. And what might he have in mind for dessert?
For just a moment, she pictured Judith Burroughs’ frown. If the beauty pageant coordinator got the least hint of what had happened in this bedroom the night before, she would destroy Sam’s career.
Sam imagined how she would feel, standing in Judith’s musty office at the pageant. She’d concentrate on the older woman’s lipstick, on the spidery red lines that crept up the fine wrinkles above those disapproving lips. She’d set her attention on the helmet-like hair, held in place with half a can of hairspray. She’d try to keep from crying, try to leash her despair as she was read the Riot Act in no uncertain terms.
And she’d drop off her tiara and her sash the following morning, sneaking into the office as early as possible, to avoid prying eyes and unwelcome questions.
It would be terrible. Horrible. The most embarrassing thing Sam had ever done.
And the worst part was, being fired from her position as Summer Queen would mean the certain end of Musicall. The end of the program she’d spent nearly a year building. The end of her dream of making a difference in the lives of kids who needed a sense of community, a sense of connection.
In between organizing Musicall sessions and attending to her ordinary Summer Queen responsibilities—awarding blue ribbons to local livestock, speaking to endless lunch meetings of the Elks, the Rotarians, the Optimists, the V.F.W., and the Odd Fellows—Sam had been trying to parlay Armistead Broadbush’s limited support of the music program into full-fledged funding. In fact, this coming week, she had three meetings scheduled with potential donors.
But time was running out. Even if her torrid relationship with DJ did stay under wraps, there were only seven weeks left before the Summer Queen crown passed on to someone else.
Sam couldn’t give up. She couldn’t intentionally cut her reign short. Not when she knew Musicall did make a difference. She only had to look at Daniel to see that. The boy had blossomed in the program—in only two weeks, he was full of more smiles, able to communicate better with his classmates, with the adults around him. Daniel was flourishing, and other kids would, too.
So she couldn’t give a hint that anything was out of the ordinary. She had to make sure Judith never even imagined what the Summer Queen had done the night before. Sam had to guarantee that no one associated with the pageant had any reason ever to suspect what she longed to do that night, after DJ finished at the ballpark, after he was back in her arms.
Easily said. Not quite as easily done. But her first step was getting to the grocery store launch on time, hair and makeup perfect, smile in place.
The smile would be easy enough. She felt like bursting into song then and there.
It only took her a moment to twitch the sheets into some semblance of order. She smoothed the comforter with a reluctant hand. The burgundy pillows seemed to mock her as she tried to place them at casual angles, but she finally got the effect she desired.
She took the mug of coffee with her as she let herself out through the garage.
* * *
DJ rolled his shoulders, making his way out of the training room. He’d spent more than an hour on the table, taking the brutal punishment of deep tissue massage. He’d be damned if he’d tell the trainer to focus on his left arm, on the muscles that still felt like they were draped in a sheet of lead.
Tired arms were just part of the game. That was the price of pitching more than forty innings in five starts. His father had never bitched about a tired arm. Shit. Pop had pitched four complete games in a row, two of them shut-outs.
DJ wasn’t some candy-ass rookie, whining at the first hint of fatigue. He knew baseball was a man’s game. He’d take it easy until tomorrow, his throwing day between starts. He’d be fine.
Not that he’d babied his arm the night before. Jesus, he hadn’t believed his sight when he’d walked into his living room. Samantha waiting for him, wrapped up in those scraps of crimson silk like some sort of Christmas present for a very good boy. He’d nearly dragged her onto the floor, then and there, ripping off that flimsy excuse for underwear.
But he’d played her game. And damn, if she hadn’t given him a run for his money. When he’d called her from the road, when he’d said all those things over the phone, he’d never thought he was drawing a roadmap.
He’d never been with a girl like Sam. She looked like one thing—like a country girl, like the girl next door. She could be any guy’s sister, fresh and sweet and innocent. The memories she shared, the happy home life, despite the hardships of multiple military posts… And the beauty pageant stuff, the high and mighty Summer Queen who blushed at a kiss before she sang the national anthem.
But beneath that shell was a real woman. Sam knew what she wanted, and she wasn’t afraid to ask for it. Wasn’t afraid to give, in exchange.
She might have been the one to break into his house the night before, but her action had actually shown that she trusted him. She was willing to offer herself up to him, make herself vulnerable in—
Before he could complete the thought, his phone rang. He eagerly fished it out of his pocket, wondering if Sam had somehow sensed the direction of his hungry thoughts, if she was calling to give him a taste of the wicked temptation she’d fed him on the road.
He frowned when he saw that the caller was Dave Wooster, Trey’s Little League coach. “Dave!” he said.
“Welcome home!” The guy was obviously calling from a playing field—there were shouts in the background, and a loudspeaker announced the recap from an inning just completed. “You had some start on Thursday!”
They bullshitted about the game, reliving the bottom of the eighth, when DJ had loaded the bases, only to get out of it by striking out Detroit’s leading scorer, a home-run threat who already had one grand slam on the year. A little double-play grounder had ended the inning, and the ninth had been easy, picking off the bottom of the order.
“It’s great to have you back,” Dave said. “I’m drawing up the batting order for this afternoon’s game, and I wanted to make sure Trey will be here.”
“Sure,” DJ said. “Why wouldn’t he?”
“I wasn’t sure what time you got in last night. The time change is only an hour, but my boys will take any excuse to park their lazy asses in front of the TV.”
What the hell? Why did Dave think Trey was on Chicago time? DJ forced himself to laugh, even as he confronted the truth. Trey had obviously skipped out on practice. Two weeks of practice, and at least two games. “Let me check with Isabel,” he said into his phone. “If Trey doesn’t make it this afternoon, I promise he’ll be at practice on Monday.”
“Great,” Dave said. “We need his bat back in the lineup. We’ll make the playoffs, but I want to make sure we go deep this year.”
DJ answered automatically, already striding toward the equipment room. Trey should be there, polishing batting helmets alongside the regulation batboy. He’d arrived at the park almost an hour ago, dropped off by his friend’s father. DJ had gone through the usual routine, shaking hands, asking about the kids’ sleepover, signing a couple of baseballs.
The whole time, he’d thought he was the one with the secret. He was the one who had left a woman sleeping in his bed after a night of sex that made Playboy look like a little Golden Book.
But Trey was the one with the real secret.
He shouted his son’s name as he rounded the corner. The batboy took one look at DJ’s face and went scurrying out of the room, muttering something about collecting the players’ cleats from the night before. Trey looked up from the navy-blue batting helmet he was polishing.
“Sir?” he said, but he wouldn’t meet his father’s eyes.
“Coach Wooster just called.”
Trey didn’t say anything. Instead, he stared at his shoes, pretending that the dirty laces were the most fascinating things he’d seen in his life.
“Are you going to tell me what happened?” Jud
ging from Trey’s reaction, this was going to be bad. The kid was only ten. He couldn’t be drinking already, could he? Using drugs? Christ, he wasn’t even going to middle school until next year. DJ bridled his anger, reducing his threat to, “If I have to call Coach Wooster for the details, your punishment is going to be a lot worse.”
Trey glanced at him with wounded eyes before returning his gaze to his sneakers. “I went to Musicall.”
DJ could barely make out his son’s whispered words. Musicall! What the hell! And then it hit him. Trey had asked about the goddamn music class. He’d asked and been told no. Little League was a commitment. The team was his future. What sort of kid would pass up a slot on the best team in North Carolina to go clap his hands and sing a song or two?
DJ swallowed the first three things he thought about shouting before he settled on, “Coach Wooster was counting on you for those practices. For those games. For today’s game.”
Trey’s lower lip started to tremble. Dammit. The kid hadn’t cried in front of him for two years, at least.
DJ sighed and sat on the metal bench beside his son. “You know I think Little League is important. But I’m a lot more concerned that you lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie!”
“You didn’t say anything out loud, not any of the times I talked to you while I was on the road. But you didn’t tell me the truth, either. You didn’t let me know you were skipping practice.”
“Musicall is more important than practice!” Trey’s defiant shout bounced off the metal lockers behind DJ. “It’s a lot more fun! And Miss Samantha said—”
“Samantha knew you were there?”
Trey gave him a weird look. “She’s the one who teaches Musicall.”
Christ! Sam had heard him tell Trey, in no uncertain terms, that the kid couldn’t go to music class. She’d sat there at the dinner table, eating her steak, drinking her fancy sparkling water. She’d nodded at him, accepted what he’d said.