Loving Him Off the Field

by Jeanette Murray

  She whizzed by the blinking sign and walked into his room.

  * * *

  Killian raked a hand through his hair and let the key card and his wallet fall on the desk in his hotel room. He’d been running on impulse all evening. First the impromptu decision to join his teammates in Michael’s room for pizza and a movie, then the choice to block Aileen’s exit from his floor, to finally dragging her to his room like a caveman.

  But now that the impulsive edge had softened and he could think more clearly . . . what the hell did he do with her?

  She sat primly on one of the two armchairs in the room. Telling, that she’d picked a chair instead of the edge of a bed. “So, what?”

  “Huh?” He stared at her. “What, what?”

  She cocked a brow and tilted her head a little. “You didn’t take any hits today, so I’ll assume that was a question asked from indecision rather than confusion. Why am I here?”

  Why was she here? Fantastic question. He blinked, remembering she wasn’t staying on this floor. No media stayed on the same floors as the team. “Why were you here? Before? And don’t say you’re on this floor because we both know that’s crap.”

  She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I was coming by to congratulate you, but you weren’t there. So I was going to just go back to my room. Or maybe the bar for a drink.” She held up her hands. “Nothing sinister, promise. No lock pick set in my bra or master key up my sleeve. Just thought we could . . . talk.”

  The story. She’d been after more quotes, more information for her stupid story. For some reason, the reminder she wasn’t here for him, just as a woman knocking on the room of a man, pissed him off. “Don’t you get tired of living through other people’s lives?”

  “I live.”

  “You constantly learn about other people and how they live. Prying, annoying, picking at all the details until they resemble something ugly,” he tried again.

  “I find it fascinating, though the picking analogy wasn’t overly flattering.” Her voice was as smooth and calm as an iced-over lake.

  The fact she didn’t have the decency to get pissed just pissed him off even more. “Stop prying into my life, damn it.”

  “You made a deal with me.” She stood and walked toward him. “If you’ve got a problem with it, too bad. Should have thought about it before you struck the deal.” She poked one small finger in his chest. “I’m doing the story and following the rules you set out. I’m not trying to pick your life apart. I don’t want to make anything look ugly. I want to know the man behind that shield you wear along with your pads and helmet.”

  “So you can share me with the world,” he shot back.

  “I don’t want to share you with anyone,” she said, then her eyes widened a little and she took a step back.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” He grabbed her upper arms and hauled her toward him. “Run that last one by me again, Freckles?”

  “I don’t . . .” She bit her lip, eyes darting around the room before landing squarely on his sternum. “I don’t like it when you call me that.”

  “Yes, you do.” He pulled her a little closer, so her nose was all but touching his chest. “Now try that part about not wanting to share me with anyone.”

  His heart skipped a beat as she shook her head. Her nose brushed his pectorals, and he pulled her into him so she had to turn her head and rest her cheek against him.

  “You can say it.” He needed to hear it, one more time, without the bite of a fight behind it.

  Needed it, to know he wasn’t about to make a horrible mistake.

  “I don’t want to share you with anyone,” she whispered, her hands coming up to the soft, worn cotton of his T-shirt.

  He leaned her upper body back enough so he could look into her eyes. They looked equal parts horrified and hopeful. And he knew he was going to make a mistake either way.

  But damn if he’d regret it.

  Chapter Eleven

  He kissed her. And as before, she ignited him. He was helpless to stop the moment his lips touched hers. It was as if she were a drug, and he was getting another taste of the kick.

  A small part of him—the cautious, loner part—waited for her to push him away. Hoped for it. Needed it.

  But she clung closer, fisting her hands tighter in his shirt and dragging him over her, as if he were almost holding her in a swoon. And he wasn’t about to let go and stop now.

  When those small hands skirted up and under the hem of his shirt, he shivered. Her thumbs drew small circles around his nipples before smoothing to run up and down his back. Her nails scratched lightly, and his balls tightened in response. Jesus, God, that felt good.

  Almost as good as the suction of her mouth, of the scrape of her tongue as she met his thrust for thrust. He was all but mindless to stop from running his hands down her arms, her waist, to grasp her butt and lift her up. She was tiny enough, and it felt like carrying a rag doll as he maneuvered her to the bed and laid her down. Her hips pushed against his groin as he covered her with his body. And even fully clothed, it felt like the most erotic thing he’d experienced in years.

  When her hand slipped down to tug at the waist of his jeans, he groaned. Too far gone now to resist, he let her undo the belt and tug it loose before he turned and tossed her onto the bed. She flew with a shriek that bubbled into laughter when she landed with a bounce.

  “Killian!” she laughed, but he was already covering her mouth again with his. Dragging his lips down her jawline, to her neck, he tasted the creamy sweetness of her skin. She helped by worming her hands between them, grasping the hem of her shirt and tugging it over her head. The shirt fell to the floor as he popped open the clasp of her front-fastened bra and pushed the cups aside.

  “You know,” he said, his voice hoarse, “these have been my downfall since day one.”

  “Hmm?” she asked while he let his mouth cruise over her collarbone.

  He touched the tip of his tongue to one sweet dot directly between her breasts. “These. Your freckles.”

  “Those?” She nearly sat up in surprise, but he restrained her with his weight. “You can’t be serious.”

  “They’re delicious.” He licked a path from the first dot to another, high on her left breast. Then to another, just on the edge of her nipple. “I wanted to find all of them, just like this.”

  His mouth closed around her peak and he sucked hard. Aileen gasped and funneled her fingers through his hair, keeping him close. “That’s . . . that’s not a freckle.”

  “My bad.” He kissed the one between her breasts again, then three that rode over her right mound. “Maybe this one?” He took the second nipple in his mouth as she started to laugh. The sound morphed into a whimper of need the instant he sucked.

  He wanted to dedicate as much time as he could to every freckle that bedecked her sweet body. But if he didn’t get inside her in under a minute, he was going to lose his mind.

  “Freckles,” he panted, his hand racing down her body to unbutton the top of her jeans. “You’ve either got to leave right this second or this is happening.”

  “What, and walk out there without a top on?” She grinned when he narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m not going anywhere, Killian.”

  Thank you, sweet Lord.

  With about as much finesse as he could physically manage—which was next to none by that point—he unzipped the stiff metal zipper and tugged until her jeans were at her knees. Realizing she was still wearing socks and her Converse, which were tightly laced, he sat back on his haunches. “Yeah, I can’t do this alone.”

  She laughed and sat up, kicking at the heel of one foot with the toe of the other until the shoe popped off. She reversed the process with the other, and soon both shoes were on the floor by the foot of the bed. He grabbed her jeans and yanked hard, pulling her socks with them in one hard pull. The motion hauled Aileen with it and she crashed into his thigh with a gasp. “Jesus, I’m sorry. Sorry, are you okay?”

  Her shoulders were
shaking and her face turned into the comforter. He grabbed her arms and pulled her up gently. “Please tell me you’re okay.”

  “I’m . . . fine,” she managed between laughs.

  She was laughing at him. The little . . .

  He growled and pushed her back down, managing to get his jeans off with minimal fuss. They were naked now, skin to skin, and it was heaven. Her front was so cool against him, like cream, easing the heated ache he’d been living with for weeks. He pressed against her hip with his erection and she flexed up to meet him, arching her back.

  “More,” she groaned. “Everything. Killian, everything.”

  “Nothing less,” he promised, then kissed her and all but sprinted to grab a condom from his toiletries case in the bathroom. Probably looked like a jackwagon, jogging around the hotel room with his dick wagging, but if she thought so, she kept quiet. When he returned to the bed, she had one leg drawn up, both arms over her head, and a sleepy, dreamy look in her eyes.

  Nudging her drawn leg down and over, he settled between her thighs. “Aileen, I—”

  “If that’s another get-out-now speech, I’m going to roll you over and put your penis in me myself,” she warned, determination glinting in her smoky eyes.

  It was enough. It was more than enough. He pulled back, positioned himself, and pushed home. The feel of her surrounding him made his chest tighten. His arms flexed with the effort to control himself. He would last more than thirty seconds. He would.

  Thirty-five, minimum.

  “Oh, God. Killian.” Head thrown back, she laced her fingers around his neck and pulled him down. He let his mouth explore her neck, her shoulders, the pulse just under her jaw. With every thrust, that pulse jumped. When he twisted his pelvis around, it all but stopped. And when he sucked lightly, leaving a red patch behind, it nearly leapt through her skin.

  “Like that, don’t you?” he murmured into the crook of her neck.

  “Like you,” she whispered.

  His heart jumped, pressed against her breast, and his hips sped up in time. Reaching down, he used one finger to find the little bundle of nerves he knew would hold the keys to her climax and rubbed until he found the pattern that affected her breathing.

  “Oh . . . okay yeah,” she said with a sigh. “Just like that, just like . . . oh!” She half-spiked up, but pinned by his body weight she didn’t get far. “Oh, I’m . . . yeah, I’m definitely coming.”

  Thank God, he thought, since he was about seven seconds behind her. He kissed her to cover her cries and moans as she reached her orgasm.

  And to cover his own.

  * * *

  If she smoked, now would have been a fabulous time to light up. Aileen tensed all her muscles, then slowly relaxed them in one of the few yoga moves she remembered from that one time she’d been tricked into going. Her body responded with almost as much mindless pleasure as it had minutes earlier when Killian had given her that third orgasm.

  Orgasm. Killian. Her eyes flew open.

  Oh, holy hell. What have I done?

  He was lying mostly on his stomach next to her, one knee drawn up to leverage his hips off the bed. His face, however, was turned away from her. And she heard a small rumbling sound. She placed her hand flat on his back, smiling when it vibrated. He was purring in his sleep, like a cat who’d been petted and stroked into an afternoon nap.

  Her phone rang, and she snatched her hand away from his back. She went diving for her jeans, but came up with her shirt instead. She found her jeans half-buried under the comforter, which had been thrown to the floor somewhere between their second and third round of heart-stopping sex.

  The instant she located her pants, she knew it wasn’t her phone. Hers vibrated along with the ring. Which meant it was his. Damn it, one of them really needed to change their ringtone.

  She started to grope around in the dark to find his pants to dig the phone out, then stopped. Would she be tempted to check the read-out to see who the call was from?

  Probably.

  And unless she got lucky and pulled it out of his pocket upside down, there was no way she could miss the display. It would be a line she didn’t like skirting around. He’d probably call her out for snooping. Which was really rude, considering she was mostly concerned about him getting to the phone in time.

  Irritated with him—though he hadn’t actually done anything, technically—she pushed at him with both her feet. His legs went sideways over the slick hotel sheets, but he didn’t wake up. She sighed, then shook his shoulders. He grumbled, wriggled, then nuzzled back into the pillow.

  The ringing stopped. Oh, well, his loss. She was ready to follow his lead and burrow back under the covers when the phone started up again.

  Okay, either he was going to answer it, or turn it on silent. She was not listening to that for another hour. It was ruining the post-coital high.

  “Killian.”

  He held up a finger . . . the impolite one.

  “Your phone is ringing.”

  He flapped his arm off the side of the bed, as if that could magically make it go away.

  “Do you want me to answer it?”

  That, as it turned out, was the magic bean that got his ass out of bed. If she’d yelled “Fire!” he might not have moved so fast. He bolted out, stumbled as his feet tangled in the heap of sheets at the end of the bed, and fell to the floor with a muffled expletive. The whole thing would have been pretty darn amusing, if it weren’t for the fact it was happening because he didn’t trust her to just pick up a damn cell phone and hand it to him without snooping.

  That hurt. Just a little.

  He pulled the phone out of his jeans pocket just as it stopped ringing. Another curse, then his fingers flew as he texted someone—presumably the caller. Then he flicked the phone to silent and shoved it back in his pocket.

  Aileen raised a brow.

  Killian scowled at her.

  “What?”

  He ran a hand over his face and hair. “Aren’t you going to ask who it was?”

  She lifted a shoulder, as if the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind. “None of my business. We’re not on the clock. But one of us really needs to change our ringtone.” With as much dignity as she could muster when something deep down was throbbing, she stood and found her pants. Her panties, unfortunately, were not with them. How the hell had that happened? He’d pulled them off together. Whatever. She shoved one leg, then another in and hopped to pull them up.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  She looked over her shoulder as she located her bra draped over the arm of the desk chair. “Back to my room. This is yours, if you don’t remember.”

  “Who said we were done?”

  Oh, that tone . . . She finished clasping her bra and turned to face him. “Look at you. You’re sitting on the ground, guarding your cell phone like a junkyard dog because you’re afraid I’m going to start flipping through your emails and texts or something. Why would you want me here? You got what you wanted, so now I’m leaving.”

  She found her shirt under the desk and bent to pick it up. As she straightened, she gasped when her back hit cool, hard male flesh. His arms banded around her and pulled her tightly against him. His nose nuzzled through her disheveled hair. “I’m sorry. This isn’t . . . I’m not used . . .” He sighed, then pulled her back to the bed. Flopping them both down, they bounced once, her back still plastered to his front. The pose—including her being mostly dressed and him being deliciously naked—should have felt ridiculous.

  It felt sweet and intimate instead.

  “I don’t do this. I’m not the guy with girls in his hotel room during every away game. It’s new for me. Can you cut me some slack if I say the wrong thing?”

  She took a chance and ran a hand over his forearm, which rested right next to the underwire of her bra. “What do you need from me to make this easier? I’ll go, if that’s what you want. I won’t be offended. You’re probably exhausted.”

  He huffe
d out a laugh.

  She pinched his arm. “That’s not what I meant. I was referring to your game earlier, you turd.”

  “Did you just call me a turd?” He nipped her earlobe. “I can’t think of anyone over the age of five calling me a turd in a long time.”

  “Hang out with a lot of preschoolers, do you?” He stiffened, and she mentally cursed their situation. She wiggled, and he let her go after a long moment so she could stand up and turn to face him. He sat on the edge of the bed. Stepping between his spread thighs, she placed her palms on either side of his stubble-rough cheeks. “Killian, what do you need? Just tell me.”

  He blinked, those gorgeous long lashes hiding his eyes for a moment. “I want a break. I want a break from the field, from the job, from interviews”—he tugged her close—“even your interviews, Freckles.”

  “Why do you call me that?”

  He ran one finger down the length of her nose. “You’ve got freckles.”

  Aileen rolled her eyes, then started looking for her shoes. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “They’re adorable.”

  That gave her a momentary hitch in her step. She’d never hated her freckles, exactly. They weren’t the bane of her existence or anything so dramatic. But she’d never considered them an attribute. And it surprised her that Killian did.

  “I’m short, too. Wanna tell me how that’s adorable?”

  He grinned. “Not without getting hit. But watch.” He stood, took her hand, and pulled her to him. He brought their joined hands to his shoulder, palmed the other hand against her back, and molded them front to front. Then, in a move she would never have guessed, he started swaying. “I’m short, too. So, we match.”

  She couldn’t resist resting her cheek against his chest for a few moments, closing her eyes and pretending like this was a normal, natural thing for them to be doing. Like he came home from work and swept her into a dance every evening while she was making dinner.

  The spell broke when his pants buzzed again. He breathed heavily by her ear, and she almost imagined she could hear a silent curse being muttered along with it. Fantasy, maybe.