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Loving Him Off the Field

Page 13

by Jeanette Murray

One large hand smoothed over her back, rubbing with the lightest of touches. “Slow it down. Gulping in air will only make you lightheaded. Stand up, come on all the way . . . there. Now in through the nose. The nose.” He tapped the aforementioned body part with one finger. “In through here, out through the mouth.”

  When her lungs seized in a vice-like grip, she panicked and wheeled her arms around, as if that would help. God, she was going to choke. Choke on fresh air. What the hell kind of irony was that? But the more she tried, the harder it was to bring new air into her lungs. Frightened, she dug in her jacket pocket for her cell phone, but his hand stilled on hers. The other cupped her chin and brought her face up to look at him.

  He was watching her with an intensity she hadn’t seen before. As if she were the goal post and he had no choice but to make the winning field goal. Total focus, absolute concentration.

  “Breathe. Come on now. You’re fine, I promise. I won’t let anything happen.” He used the heel of his hand to cover her chest, where her lungs worked frantically. “You can breathe, you’re just blocking it.” He pulled her in close, so their fronts were melded together. The pressure against her front seemed to help, as if the touch were a physical reminder to keep working. Keep breathing in air to push the pressure away.

  A pair of joggers passed by, slowing down a little to watch. One, a man in his forties, stopped completely. “Hey, is she okay?” He took a few steps over, but Killian waved him off.

  “She’s fine. Just pushed it too hard. Thanks.”

  Sensing she was in capable hands, or maybe just not wanting to get involved, the pair continued on.

  After a minute of more steady breathing, he guided her off the path and over to a tree to lean on for support. She glanced down and choked out a laugh.

  “What?” He looked around, and didn’t see what she did.

  “This is our tree,” she croaked out. “You know, from the last time.”

  Understanding dawned in his eyes. One corner of his mouth kicked up. “Damn good tree. Always there when you need it.”

  She rested heavily against the rough bark. Sure. Damn good tree.

  He smoothed her hair from her face. What strands hadn’t already been slipping from the crappy ponytail she’d pulled it into before leaving her apartment were now flying around her face from her first—and last—run. “Aileen . . . why’d you run?”

  “I thought . . . that’s what . . . people did here,” she said slowly, using deep breaths between the words.

  “Most people don’t come to the trails to sprint hell for leather, like they’re running to catch a bus. Especially when the most workout they’ve done recently is—”

  She glared at him.

  “—pick up a bowling ball,” he finished innocently.

  She pushed at his shoulder. He didn’t budge.

  “Come on, that was a good one.”

  His boyish grin, so satisfied with himself, had her fighting a grin of her own. In these unguarded moments, it was all she could do not to yank his mouth down on hers and show him exactly how irresistible his true personality was. How much he shined when he opened himself up to someone else.

  Journalistic integrity, Aileen . . .

  Okay, another tack. She waited for her heart to slow to something resembling a human’s heartbeat, instead of a jackrabbit’s, and asked, “Is it my day, or yours?”

  He blinked, and it was as if she could see him mentally taking a huge step away from her. For the best. Still hurt. “I’m not sure anymore. It’s . . . someone’s.”

  She laughed. “Bunch of professionals, aren’t we? Maybe we’ll call today a wash and start tomorrow. You can have it, though I’m still not sure what you’re up to and why you want interview days with me.”

  He watched as she straightened and took a few wobbly steps. His hands were by his sides now, but his alert posture told her if she started to pitch forward, he’d catch her without hesitation. “I’d feel better if you came back to the apartment with me. You’re a little shaky right now.”

  “No, I’m good. Besides, you have to take me to my place anyway,” she reminded him, then took a chance and headed back to the path without any support. He didn’t argue when she turned back toward the parking lot. “Just watch to make sure I get inside my door, if you’re worried. That should satisfy your manly complex.”

  “I don’t have a manly complex. I have an I give a shit about you complex.” He all but growled it, but she heard him clearly enough. “Is it so hard to believe I’d care about another human being?”

  “Hard to believe you’d care about a journalist. Just think, if I stroked out, you’d be free and clear.” She said it lightly, with no malice, but his hand viced around her wrist and forced her to stop her slow trek. “What?”

  “Don’t joke about shit like that. It’s not funny.” He was staring at her as if he had blinders on, oblivious to the world around. A jogger approached, slowed, then sighed and detoured around their statue-like bodies. She heard him grumble something about them being assholes before he continued.

  “It was a joke,” she said slowly, tugging a little on her arm. He didn’t relent. “I’m sorry, it’s just a saying. I didn’t mean . . .”

  He shook his head, then kept walking beside her. But she could tell he wasn’t happy with her.

  Why had she made the joke in the first place? Death had never been an amusing topic for her, especially after her parents’ crash. All the sudden, she felt the need to make an awkward pun about dying? What was wrong with her?

  She felt uncomfortable, that’s what. She was on shaky ground with Killian. Journalist/subject? Friends? More than friends? She’d let the lines blur in that hotel room in San Francisco, and that was her fault.

  But worse than that, she wasn’t sure anymore where she wanted the needle to officially land when the fuzziness had cleared.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Killian approached the sad row of apartments. Each one looked more decrepit and ramshackle than the last, until she pointed to the final building on the right. “That’s me. I’m on the top floor.”

  He glanced around, unimpressed by the area. A few beer cans littered the parking lot, the grass was either burned out or completely missing in patches, and . . . was that a bong, just sitting under that bush? Christ in-between the uprights, the place was filthy.

  “Lived here long?” he asked in a neutral tone as he got out of the car. He hurried around to open her door, still concerned about how bone-white she’d turned after exerting herself on the trail. She was a bit too shaky for his taste, even half an hour later.

  She raised a brow as she opened the door herself a second before he could reach it. “About three years. Why?”

  “Nothing. Just curious.” He hovered, there was no other word for it. But he refused to be anywhere but right next to her, in case she actually did pitch forward and try to face plant on the cement sidewalk. He kept his hands to himself, however. That seemed to be where the trouble with Aileen always began. Touching.

  She laughed, a little huff of breath. “Just curious, my ass. I know it’s a dump. But I’m saving up. Eventually I want to buy a condo, so while I do that, I put as little money as I can into rent and as much as possible into savings for my down payment. It’s an eyesore, but it’s not like I own it, so I don’t care if it looks run down or grosses people out.”

  “Is it safe?” He avoided touching the railings as they went up. They were rusted. “I mean, ever had problems with break-ins?”

  “Once, about a year ago.” She took her key from her jacket pocket and opened her door. “But then again, anyone can get broken into. I figure once in three years isn’t that big a deal. They got my spare change jar and my cell phone charger, sans cell phone. I’d had my laptop and phone with me, luckily. The TV was one of those old tubes, too heavy to grab and run. I basically live like a broke college student, so there’s next to nothing to take.”

  She swung the door wide open, and he saw she wasn’t kidding
. The entire apartment was likely less than five hundred square feet. And other than the bathroom, it was all one big room, studio-style. Clean, functional, but worn down in a way that had nothing to do with housekeeping and everything to do with the age of the building, and the clearly second-hand furniture.

  He wanted nothing more than to scoop her up and run—not walk—to the nearest safe apartment complex and deposit her there. But there was no way she’d allow it. And he had no right. He took a few steps in and nodded, glancing around. “Not bad.”

  She snorted and toed off her shoes, kicking them toward the end of the bed. He followed suit, though he placed his own running shoes near the door. “You don’t have to take your own shoes off. I’m not a dirt freak.”

  “Habit.”

  “Well, it’s cool if you want to keep them on. It’s not a great place, I know that. It’s pathetic. I mean, you don’t live in a palace or anything—”

  “Don’t hold back,” he murmured with a smile.

  “But I know it’s better than this. Some of us just don’t have the golden foot.”

  He fought back the pang of guilt over that comment, joking though it was. He’d always felt a tinge of conscience about making the kind of money he did . . . for kicking things. It just seemed so absurd, especially since he had never been that little boy in Pee Wee football dreaming NFL dreams and wishing for a pro jersey. “Yeah, well, I’ve got the golden foot, you’ve got the golden pen.”

  “Keyboard, but same thing.” She grinned and sat at the edge of the bed. It creaked a little. “Thanks for the ride home. I didn’t look forward to eating Ramen for a week to compensate for the taxi home.”

  He sat beside her without thinking. It wasn’t like there was a sofa for him to use, anyway. “Why didn’t you call me and ask me to come bring you out there?”

  “You were already at the trails. Plus, you were a little short with me on the phone,” she added with an accusing look. He flushed a little. He’d definitely been short. But that had been deliberate. He’d been afraid if he’d stayed on the line longer, he’d have said something embarrassing.

  Like . . . I miss you.

  Jesus, he was a mess.

  They sat a moment longer in silence, until he couldn’t take it any more. “Today’s a wash, right?”

  “Mmm,” she said, nodding, looking at the closed front door.

  “It’s not your day, or my day.”

  “Mmm.”

  He faced her. “What the hell does ‘mmm’ mean?”

  She turned her head to look at him, their mouths inches apart. There was an amused gleam in her eyes as she raised one brow. “Mmm.”

  He’d show her “mmm.” He cupped the back of her head and crushed his mouth down on hers.

  * * *

  She was seeing stars. First, she thought it was because their lips had met with such an explosive collision, they were from the pain. But no, as her lips moved with his, opened, parted to let his tongue dance inside, she realized there was no pain.

  Then her lungs started to burn, and she realized she’d been unconsciously holding her breath. She tore away and gasped for air, one hand clutched to her chest. How the hell did he do that? Quite literally rob her of air?

  “Hey, hey.” He rubbed soothingly over her back. “What’s going on? Are you getting sick? Is that why you’re having trouble breathing? Asthma. Do you have asthma? An inhaler?”

  The actual answer—you took my breath away—was so corny and pathetic she wouldn’t even let herself think it again. So she fought for indifferent and went with, “Eh.” It was all she could choke out while gulping in new, life-giving breaths.

  “You’re starting to freak me out. Should I take you to the ER or some clinic or something? Maybe it’s bronchitis.” His face pulled in such an expression of concern, she couldn’t hold back the smile.

  “It’s not bronchitis,” she said quietly. “It’s stupidity. I shouldn’t have sprinted earlier, and I’m still paying for it now.” When he raised a brow, she added sheepishly, “I forgot to breathe when you kissed me.”

  He absorbed that for a moment. Then a proud smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Made you forget to breathe, huh? That’s a new one to add to my resume.”

  She kicked at him, but he pushed her flat to the bed and pinned her easily. She didn’t bother fighting. If he wasn’t in the mood to let her go, he wouldn’t. And at this position, she could feel his erection pressing heavily against her hip.

  “You’re sure you’re not sick?”

  She nodded, forcing her lungs to work slowly, methodically, to pull in the air. No more gulping like a landed trout.

  “And I didn’t hurt you.”

  She shook her head.

  “Then you’re going to lie there while I make sure you’re okay.” One large hand skimmed down her ribcage, then back up to rest on her sternum. “I won’t be responsible for you keeling over.”

  “I’m not going to—” She nearly bit the finger he pressed against her lips, but just sighed instead and kept breathing deeply. And really, she did have her breath back . . . mostly. But the deep breathing, slow and steady, was relaxing her. Maybe this was what people did during yoga. Was the breathing why everyone carrying yoga mats looked high on endorphins?

  “Just lie still.”

  She shook her head and tried to sit up. “I’ve got my breath, I’m okay. Just embarrassed.”

  He didn’t bother asking her again, just pushed gently until she was flat on her back, her feet now suspended off the floor. He leveled his body over hers, keeping his weight on his knees and forearms. The position was sensual, and yet not quite sexual. His eyes were filled with concern, and his brown hair flopped across his forehead as he examined her face.

  “You seem like you’re okay. How many fingers am I holding up?”

  She paused, waited, then smiled. “That would be none, because your hand is still on my chest.”

  He shifted until the guilty hand cupped her breast through her T-shirt. “How many fingers now?”

  She moaned a little while he pinched her nipple. “Feels like five,” she breathed.

  “Passed the test.” He kissed her again, and she slipped into the warm, waiting waters of lust with him. Ignoring responsibility, journalistic integrity, and anything else the outside world could throw at them, she imagined them wrapped in a cocoon of their own making.

  His tongue stroked hers gently, his hand roaming between her breasts, running up to cup her cheek, then back down again to lift her shirt. But he didn’t pull it off all the way. He bunched it up around her breasts, keeping them hidden still. His mouth left hers and cruised down to her stomach, where his tongue began to trace a pattern.

  She laughed. “What are you doing?”

  “Connect the dots.” He lapped a long line under her belly button. “It’s my new favorite game.”

  “Freckles,” she grumbled. “Kids used to tease me in school. Said I never actually tanned, my freckles just ran together in the summer.”

  He smiled against her stomach and took a quick nip that made her suck in her breath. “I love them. It was the first thing I noticed about you.”

  “Was that before or after you labeled me a big groupie ho?” she asked, and giggled when he squeezed her hip.

  “It was what made me slow down and answer you. You caught me. Nobody else has. Not for a long time.” His voice drifted off, and she wasn’t sure if it was a memory, or a hurt that did it. Either way, it was as if he mentally checked out for a moment. Then, with more vigor than before, he pulled at the waistband of her yoga pants and tugged until they pooled at her ankles, stuck at her worn tennis shoes. A few quick moments later and he had her stripped from the waist down.

  She almost pulled off her own shirt while he toed off his shoes, then remembered she was wearing the world’s ugliest, oldest sports bra. Nasty. She couldn’t have had the foresight to put on a cute bra to meet the guy she’d slept with? What was wrong with her?

  Oh, righ
t. She didn’t own any cute sports bras.

  Aileen sat up and pointed toward the bathroom. “Condoms. Go get them.”

  He blinked, then pushed at her legs, widening them. “In a minute.”

  She would never be able to concentrate on the sexy times before the sexy time if she was worried he’d see this gross bra. She snapped her knees shut. “Get them now, so I’m not thinking about it later.” When he hesitated, she batted her eyes. “Please?”

  He grumbled, but took off to the tiny bathroom. It wouldn’t take him long to search. Wrenching her arms up and around, she slipped off her T-shirt and bra in record time and stuffed the offending piece of stretched elastic and holey fabric under the bed a mere second before Killian popped back out.

  “If they were ever in there, they must have gotten up and jumped out the window or something. I couldn’t find them.”

  She laughed and rolled over to open her nightstand. “Stupid me, forgot I put them here instead.” Yesterday . . . when she’d come home. For luck, she’d told herself, all while cursing her thoughts. She tossed the box at his chest and grinned. When he frowned at her, she opened her legs as he’d wanted her to earlier. His eyes tracked their movement. “Now, where were we?”

  * * *

  She was totally naked now, and he had no defense against her. That tiny freckled body called to him like a siren. He tossed the box of condoms to the corner of the bed and crawled back up to meet her, draping her legs over his shoulders as he went until he was eye to eye with her core.

  As he blew cool air over her heated skin, watched the slick lips of her sex flex instinctively, he smiled. This was what he wanted. Freckles, at his mercy, with no way to squirm out of his reach. Lowering his mouth to her sex, he licked in a slow, deep motion.

  “Ki—Killian,” she gasped, her fingernails scraping over his shoulders, trying for purchase and failing. Her arms were too short to reach. “Killian, get up here.”

  “Hmm?” He rumbled it, knowing she felt the vibrations while he licked and sucked at her clit. “Sorry, what? Can’t hear you.”

  “Yes you ca—oh!” She shrieked as he nipped her inner thigh. “Oh, my God, that was a bite!”

 

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