Playing it Cool (Sydney Smoke Rugby)

by Amy Andrews

A tap on Harper’s shoulder coincided with a flicker in her peripheral vision, scaring her witless. She leaped back, ripping her ear buds out. It was a couple of seconds before the mist of fright cleared enough that she realised who it was.

  “Hey.”

  “Shit, Dex,” she gasped, clutching her chest, her heart thumping like a bongo drum. “You scared the bejesus out of me.”

  “Sorry.” He held his hands up in surrender, but the laughter in his gaze belied the apology.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Had her horny vibes conjured him up? God knew they were pretty damn powerful, if the constant electric hum of her body was anything to go by. She wanted to touch him to see if he was real, but damn if the man didn’t look good enough to eat. She wasn’t going to risk touching him in case she grabbed him and took a bloody great bite.

  He was in casual shorts and his silver and blue Smoke jersey, tight in the shoulders and snug against his chest. It was clean and smelled of sunshine and laundry detergent, unlike the night he’d rescued her from Chuck, when it had been covered in grass and dirt and smelled like sweat and muscle liniment.

  Smokin’ hot—the team’s catchphrase—didn’t even begin to describe him.

  She, on the other hand, looked a wreck. She was wearing her baggy overalls, which zipped up at the front and left everything to the imagination. Her hair was scraped back into a high, messy ponytail, and there was, no doubt, paint in it somewhere.

  There was always paint in her hair.

  “Just finishing up a scheduled visit to some of the wards. The different teams in the comp do it regularly.”

  “That’s very cool,” she said.

  “Yeah. It’s good fun. Except for the media that follow us around asking dumb questions and taking a zillion pictures, which makes it feel fake. I was kind of over them, so I thought I’d slip away and see if I could find you.”

  “Oh.” Harper didn’t know what to say. They’d agreed to do something on Sunday afternoon. The Smoke played on Saturday night, and he was going to text her the next day with some plans. She hadn’t figured she’d see him until then.

  Except in her dirty, dirty mind.

  The fact that he was here, seeking her out, was… interesting. Also, just a little bit thrilling.

  “Man…” His gaze wandered over her from head to toe. “You look good.”

  Harper glanced down at herself. “I…do?”

  He nodded as his gaze zeroed in on the front zipper. “You do.”

  “I’m in tatty, baggy old overalls and have paint on my hands and in my hair. I smell like I’ve taken a bath in turpentine.”

  “Yeah,” he murmured, his gaze slowly returning to her face. “Who knew that was such a sexy combination?”

  His lopsided smile caused her heart to skip a beat. Heat crept up her chest and neck, and she was thankful for the thick material of her overalls as her nipples tightened in blatant response.

  He dragged in a breath and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, come on, woman, tell me about the damn mural before I do something impulsive.”

  Impulsive? Like what?

  The low growl twirled and twined itself around internal muscles with a gossamer touch, sparking to life all the pent-up lust she’d been trying to control the last couple of days.

  Harper wiped the scenarios from her mind’s eye with a quick clearing of her throat. “This is my…under-the-sea mural,” she said, jerking into action. She wandered down to where it started, sucking in some much needed air as she fought to control her reaction to his nearness.

  It was insanity of the highest order how easily Dexter Blake could affect her body. No man had ever left her panting with his presence alone.

  Determined to keep this aboveboard and professional in her workplace, she explained succinctly and methodically what she was trying to achieve. She pretended he was one of her school-age art students and not a fully-grown man who was emitting so much testosterone she was almost faint with it.

  She discussed colour and technique and where she was going with the bare sketches on the unfinished section as her pulse fluttered madly. Some would have called it babbling. But she had to engage her mouth in something useful lest it develop a mind of its own.

  She was too aware of him to relax. Too aware of his hands jammed in his pockets, his gaze on her mouth as she talked…his heated interest in her zipper.

  His cursory questions and complete disinterest in the answers seemed merely an excuse to let his gaze wander freely over her. He didn’t touch her, but she felt the hot, sticky fingerprints of his attention mark every part of her body.

  Christ. He was turning her on just by looking at her.

  “Okay,” she said, her voice tremulous with desire as she ran out of scintillating factoids about the mural. He needed to stop or she was going to do something impulsive. “I think it’s time you left now.”

  To his credit he didn’t protest, or pretend he didn’t know why she was kicking him out. He nodded. “I really did come down here just to say hi but… Jesus.” His gaze dropped again to her zipper. “Are you wearing anything under that?”

  A twinge, like the low, sexy notes of a saxophone, undulated across her pelvic floor. Dex was looking at her like he wanted to peel her out of her overalls as if she were a ripe banana. God knew he could do it easily. He was only an arm’s length away. He could just reached out and yank if he wanted.

  Harper swallowed. Her breath hitched. “Well, I’m not naked, if that’s what you mean.”

  His low groan rubbed against her skin like the finest grade sandpaper, her nipples beading painfully against the fabric of her bra. “Damn.”

  The word rumbled out of him, arrowing heat from her breasts directly to the bullseye between her legs. She should send him on his way for both their sanities—push him out the door and tell him she’d see him on Sunday—but the desire darkening his usually light green eyes was a heady thing.

  “I’m wearing underwear,” she clarified quickly, as if it might give some protection from the incendiary gaze threatening to melt her overalls right off.

  “Christ,” he muttered, his gaze once more zeroing in on the tab of her zipper as he reefed a hand out of his pocket and jammed it through his hair. “All I can think about is yanking that damn zip down.”

  It was all she could think about, too.

  Harper’s breath was thick as fog in her throat, her pulse slowing. He took a step toward her.

  “Tell me to go,” he murmured, his gaze, almost feral now, on her mouth.

  Harper couldn’t. She was virtually paralysed with lust. How she was managing to stay upright under his thorough eye-fucking she had no idea.

  “No.”

  She should. But she couldn’t.

  It was like an invisible string pulled them inexorably together, and she didn’t have the power or the will to break it. He was going to have to man up if he wanted out of here unmolested.

  “Jesus, Harper,” he whispered, looking at her for long moments, looking into her eyes this time as if he was searching for some kind of lifeline.

  She clocked the exact second he stopped searching.

  “Goddamn it,” he swore, taking the one pace necessary to cover the distance between them, his hands grasping her upper arms, yanking her toward him as his mouth closed on hers.

  After days and days of sexual fantasies, the touch of his mouth was like petrol on a fire, and she blazed with need. Harper had heard other women talking about hearing the Hallelujah Chorus when the right guy kissed you. Choirs of angels and all that jazz. But that wasn’t what she was hearing. There was music all right, but it was no glorious benediction. It was rock-and-freaking-roll.

  It was the bourbon-gravelly tones of Nickleback singing about pants around her feet and dirt on her knees.

  She was vaguely aware of him walking her backward toward the wall, her legs moving automatically at the insistent push of his powerful thighs, and she had just enough sense in her rapidly
devolving thought processes to protest.

  “No, no,” she muttered, tearing her mouth from his. “The paint’s wet.”

  The harsh suck of his breath was loud in her ears for the moment or two his glazed eyes raked her face before he growled in frustration and grabbed her hand, pulling her into the nearest bathroom. Harper was only vaguely aware of their surroundings, of being spun and planted firmly against a strip of wall between the doorway and a washbasin, of the disinfectant foam pump not far from her head, of the two open toilet doors over Dex’s shoulder.

  She was much more aware of the heaving of his chest, the rich glitter in his eyes as his gaze raked down her body, and the exciting perfume of hot, hard man. The familiar chemical smells of paint and turps were drowned out by the enthralling waft of more natural chemicals.

  “I haven’t been able to get you out of my head,” he murmured, his gaze fixing on her zipper again.

  Harper’s head spun at the admission. It was an intoxicating statement, and she bunched the hand she didn’t know was resting on his bicep into the fabric of his jersey. Her breath rasped as his hand stroked down the open collar of her overalls into her cleavage to toy with the tab of the zip. His fingertips brushed against the rise of her breasts as he played with it. Her nipples tightened into painfully hard points in response.

  “You’re driving me crazy,” he said. “This tab is driving me crazy.”

  Harper knew exactly how he felt. Thoughts of Dex had occupied a stupid amount of her time. Thoughts of him soothing the painful ache of her nipples with his tongue were all she could think about now.

  The give of the first tooth was louder than the husky saw of their breathing and the jitterbug of her pulse through her ears. Harper’s gaze fell on the cheekbones of his bowed head as he tugged some more, tracking the progress, watching his handiwork—watching the zipper cede to his insistent downward tug, and the slow reveal of her underwear.

  Somewhere in the sludge that was now her brain, she was thankful she’d chosen to wear a matching set today.

  Her overalls slowly parted to reveal all of her, and Harper moaned as he anchored the zipper at its southernmost point, his fingers brushing softly against her crotch.

  “Oh yes,” Dex whispered, his voice reverential, his head still bowed. “God yes.”

  He slid his hands inside her overalls. Her breath hitched. Nerve endings beneath her skin twitched at his touch. “I knew you’d look like this,” he said, his hands sliding north, gliding over the cups of her bra and squeezing.

  She gasped this time, her back arching involuntarily, her shoulder blades still anchored to the wall as her hips, the same height as his, ground against him. He ground back, the hard ridge of his cock hitting her in just the right spot.

  “Fuck,” he groaned, burying his face in her neck.

  “Mmhgnh,” she muttered unintelligibly, grinding again, finding some relief for the pressure building to fever pitch between her legs.

  Her eyes practically rolled back in her head as he yanked her bra cups aside, his greedy hands each claiming a breast. They ground on each other like horny teenagers, and Harper moaned as he dropped soft kisses down her neck, into the hollow of her throat. She whimpered as he traced a wet path lower. When his mouth found a nipple, she cried out, a violent clenching between her legs bringing her out of her sexual stupor.

  If they didn’t stop this now, she was going to come embarrassingly quickly. Possibly even right now. Not to mention the fact she never let men she barely knew unzip her and suck on her nipples.

  Hell, they weren’t supposed to even be doing this.

  “This isn’t starting very well at all,” she panted, concentrating hard on sounding reasonable as he sucked, so damn good, on her nipple. “We seem to be well and truly breaking the ground rules.”

  Which was putting it mildly. The ground rules were lying in smoking rubble at their feet.

  He released his mouthful, panting as he straightened to look her in the eye for long moments, potent male frustration brimming in his gaze. “Maybe we can bend them a little?”

  Harper struggled to sound normal instead of someone who’d just had her nipple sucked by a goddamn Jedi. “Bend them?”

  He nodded. “I know you’re not averse to a spot of masturbation. Why not let me help you with that?”

  The hands on her breasts moved south, the fingers trekking over her belly to dip just under the lacy edge of underwear.

  So much for not letting him near her lady parts. If they could talk, they’d be begging him to come closer.

  Her usual awkwardness over the softness of her belly and the roundness of her hips was nowhere to be seen. All that existed was sensation. It felt so damn good, Harper had to squeeze her legs together to stop from coming there and then.

  He wanted to get her off? Hell-fucking-yeah. She was too far-gone to deny him or herself. She’d think about the reasons and the implications later.

  After.

  “As long as it’s mutual,” she said, grabbing for the hard length of his cock, jammed between them and still taunting her in all the right places.

  The way his eyes shut tight, and the guttural desperation of his strangled groan went straight to the part of her that was 100 percent female, and she squeezed him through his shorts.

  “Christ,” he swore under his breath, his eyes pinging open. “Abso-frickin-lutely.”

  His hand pushed past that lacy border and slid, in one easy movement, into the slick heat between her legs. The sensation tore through her like an electric current, and she cried out as she bucked against the blissful invasion of his fingers.

  “God,” he groaned, his lips at her neck again, his warm breath spreading goose bumps down her throat and prickling in her scalp as his finger swirled languorously. “You’re so wet.”

  Harper had been wet all damn week.

  And his light, gentle touch wasn’t nearly enough for what she needed. She squirmed against his hand, grinding, wanting more. “You want it harder, huh?” he murmured, and she gasped as his fingers suddenly became serious, dropping all the pansy-assed swirling and ploughing hard and true, straight to the erect knot of nerves he was seeking.

  She gasped and bucked when he found it, shoving a hand into the hair at his nape and crying out when he rubbed—hanging on tight to him as he rubbed and rubbed, relentless in his quest.

  “Yes,” she moaned over and over, squeezing his cock in her hand reflexively. His corresponding groan filled up her senses and expanded in her chest, and she delved frantically inside his shorts, needing suddenly, desperately, to feel him, to touch him, to wrap her hand around all that velvet steeliness.

  “Fuuuck,” he groaned as she hit pay dirt and quickly—greedily—slid her hand up and down the length of him.

  Then his mouth was on hers and they were kissing hard and deep and wet, and they were moaning and rubbing and tugging and grinding. Harper’s heart crashed in her chest and her pulse roared in her ears and her breathing came in shallow gasps and her breasts were squashed against his chest and they were in a goddamn bathroom at her work and she didn’t care.

  Only his hot, frantic kisses and the build of tension inside her pelvis mattered in a world that had narrowed down to just the two of them. The rub of his finger on her clit, the slide of her hand on his cock, the frantic noises they were making at the backs of their throats as they kissed on a far deeper level than just their mouths.

  Deeper than Harper had ever been kissed before.

  Somewhere inside her, lost to the insanity that was lust, she knew it was significant. That everything about this man was significant. But that part did not have the con right now. Her clitoris was driving the bus, and it demanded all her attention as it hurtled her recklessly toward the station.

  Which didn’t take much longer. The moment he slid two fingers inside her, all the pressure that had been building and coiling tight in her thighs and belly released in a sudden pop, and Harper was flung into the heavens.

  She
wrenched her mouth away, throwing her head back against the wall as she flew. Dex rubbed harder, quicker, and she reciprocated, increasing the slide of her hand on his cock, knowing from the tremble of his biceps and quads and the deep guttural edge to his groans that he was close.

  Suddenly his hips jerked to a halt. A loud bellow ripped from his throat. Harper milked him harder, faster, crying out in pleasure and triumph as he came, too, spurting hot in her hand.

  Her eyes were shut, but with her hand still firmly anchored at Dex’s nape they spiralled together, the pleasure so intense it felt like it was never going to end. She wanted to slow it right down, coast along with him through the wonder of it and marvel at the magic they’d created.

  It felt like they’d been plunged into a rainbow, or maybe even seen the face of God. Harper wasn’t a religious person, but if anything was going to convert her, coming apart with Dex like this would do it.

  They seemed to drift through the thrall forever, and it wasn’t until the chime of an incoming text message interrupted the moment that Harper came back to herself. Dex had collapsed against her, his full weight pinning her to the wall, his ragged breath hot at her neck. His hand was still in her pants, his semi-erect cock still in her hand, and his come was splattered over both of them.

  She was a hot, sticky mess, and she’d never felt so damn good. So damn desired.

  Powerful and female and wanton.

  Harper could only begin to imagine how good she’d feel if their bits ever got to bump together for real. He had a lot going on between his legs, and while his fingers had sufficed this time, she sure as hell wanted that all up in her business.

  “It isn’t mine,” she said eventually, when the chime sounded again.

  “It’s mine,” he said, his lips brushing her neck, his voice muffled. “It’ll be one of the guys.”

  He roused himself, his hand sliding out of her underwear to her hip, gripping it as he rocked his weight back on the balls of his feet, the handful of him she had sliding from her grasp.

  “Well…” he said, looking down at himself, his voice still husky, “that was…”

  “Messy?”