by Amy Andrews
It took all her willpower not to grind against him. As if he knew it, his hands came to rest in the small of her back, his fingers splaying again, pressing her closer.
“I think it’s time—” She stopped to draw in a ragged breath. There wasn’t enough air in her lungs when she was this close to him. “For my birthday kiss.”
His mouth was so close it almost brushed against hers as his lips broke into a smile. “I think it’s past time.”
“Okay. Don’t move,” she whispered. “Let me.”
He didn’t move. He stayed perfectly still as she fitted her mouth to his. So still she could feel the tension of his neck muscles and the rigidity of his abs and quads, the steel band of his hands in her lower back. But he let her lead, standing passively in the circle of her arms as she nibbled and tasted his mouth, her tongue licking along the seam of his lips. They parted under her probe, and she moaned triumphantly as she tasted beer.
Val’s senses swam with it, and she pulled back, temporarily overloaded. By him, by who he was, by what she was doing. She shut her eyes as she ran her tongue over her lips, savouring his taste, humming her approval. Her eyes fluttered open to find him watching her intensely.
“That was…sweet.”
“Sweet?” He made a low, growly noise at the back of his throat. “Fuck that.”
He kissed her then. Really kissed her. A proper birthday kiss. Nothing sweet about it. Not one little bit.
It was hard and fast and dirty, the power of it crowding her backward. Back, back, back until her ass and shoulder blades hit the wall. Val barely noticed as his tongue—his clever, clever tongue every bit as good as he’d promised—took full possession. A hand slid under her hair, clamping at her nape while his mouth roved over hers, twisting and turning and demanding that she answer him back with the same fervour.
And she did. God help her, she did. Every desperate breath she sucked in around the demands of his mouth was full of him.
Full of beer and voodoo. Heady. Intoxicating her beyond all reason.
It was the kind of kiss that belonged in a movie. That was hot and effortless and arousing. That made the audience tingle and sigh and yearn. Made them pull over the car on the way home for a quickie.
As abruptly as it’d started, it stopped, and Val was thankful for the solid presence of the wall behind her as her knees almost went from under her.
“Better?”
She could hardly hear him above the hammer of her heart, let alone form coherent words. She made some kind of nonsensical noise instead, which he clearly took for agreement.
“Good.” He slid his hands to the backs of her thighs and lifted her. “Plenty more where that came from.”
Val gripped his hips hard between her thighs as he strode off to god knew where, all she knew was his mouth was back on hers, and she was moaning and hanging on, utterly lost in the havoc of his kiss. Time ceased to exist until she was suddenly falling, falling, falling, a soft mattress breaking her fall, her loose hair landing all over her face.
She brushed it away, sweeping it out from underneath her head and shoulders, her slightly out-of-focus gaze landing on Kyle. He didn’t bother with a light, but her eyes had adjusted to the dark so that she could see him clearly enough, and he was looking down at her like all his birthdays had come at once, the heat from his gaze scorching her from the tips of her nipples to the purple scrap of material between her legs.
His chest heaved in and out, and she could just hear the ragged jag of his breathing above hers. “How do you want this, birthday girl? Fast and dirty or slow and gentle?” He spread his arms in an all-encompassing gesture. “Your wish is my command.”
Val’s belly turned cartwheels. God. He was her own private birthday genie. She was pretty sure all it required for her to erupt into a spontaneous orgasm would be for him to say that a few more times.
Hell, she’d probably come the second he stripped off his underwear.
“Fast. And dirty.” This was a hookup, damn it.
He grinned at her like he knew she was going to choose that option all along. It was conceited and arrogant and so damn male.
Sexy. As. Fuck. And her whole body throbbed with wanting him.
She yelped in surprise when he reached down and yanked at the straps of her thong, stripping it off her legs in three seconds flat, tossing it over his shoulder as he pushed at his own underwear.
Even in the dark, his cock stood out like a freaking beacon, thick and heavy, springing proud and free from a thatch of black hair. So goddamn…ready.
If she’d been an artist, she would have sketched it. If she’d been a sculptor, she’d have cast it in bronze. If she’d been a poet, she would have written a bloody sonnet about it.
But all she was right now was a woman, and all she really wanted was to fuck it.
With the minimum amount of movement, he located a condom in a bedside drawer and rolled it on, all without taking his eyes off the soft titian down at the juncture of her thighs.
“Spread your legs.”
Val’s pulse spiked at the rough command, but she spread them. And then, his gaze boring into hers, his knee was on the bed, and then his body was on hers, and then his mouth was on hers. On her lips and her throat and her nipples, and his tongue was lashing the hard tips, and she was gasping and arching off the bed, one hand sunk into his hair, the other clutching one firm ass cheek as his cock slid through the slick heat between her legs, prodding, thick and hard at her entrance.
She spread wider for him as his hips flexed, and he was inside her, thrusting deep. She cried out at the intrusion stretching her so damn good, and he abandoned her nipples for her mouth.
“It’s okay, baby,” he whispered against her lips, “I got you.”
And he did. He had her, completely and utterly. He had her quick and dirty, just like he promised, his hand moving between them to rub her clit. It took three strokes to catapult her orgasm from a promise to stark reality, and she shattered beneath him so hard and so fast it sucked her breath away.
It didn’t take him long to follow, thrusting with deadly precision until he tore his mouth from hers and groaned his release into the side of her neck. His breath was hot as he took them all the way to the finish line, drowning them both in pleasure and a wild voodoo aroma.
Val cried out, high on their joining. High on the rock and the pound and the shudder. High on the thrust and the quiver. High on the forbidden fruit that was Kyle Leighton.
Chapter Three
Kyle leapt into the air as the final hooter sounded. They’d won. His first game with the Sydney Smoke since he’d started training with them two weeks ago, and he’d scored three tries. At Henley stadium. In front of their home crowd.
Who were going off in the stands, chanting his name.
The guys were slapping each other on the back and shaking his hand. One or two of them had been a little pissed at him a couple of times for backing himself and making a run for it, but they could hardly stay shitty when he’d delivered.
He knew his take-charge style of game wasn’t for everyone, that it’d take the Smoke players some getting used to. But he’d learned early to never rely on others and to back himself. Once they saw he always followed through with results, they’d let him do his thing.
And it drew the crowds. The punters loved it, which meant more bums on seats. Which meant more money for the game. Which meant he was a rugby executive’s wet dream.
He sure as hell hadn’t let what people said about him and his bright future go to his head—that shit could end in a blink of an eye—but he intended to exceed their wildest expectations.
Kyle couldn’t work out if Griff was pleased by his performance or not. Who knew? The man’s expression seemed to be permanently set to scowl. He had one for every occasion. Kyle just hadn’t been around long enough to figure out what each one meant.
He knew the terrible backstory to the coach’s infamous personality. Everyone did. And he understood why something
like that could turn a man hard. He wished it hadn’t happened to Griff or his family—but it had, honing the man into a machine, into the best, and Kyle knew that Griffin King could make him into the best, too.
Unfortunately, the coach wasn’t exactly happy about having him on the team. In fact, he’d come right out and told Kyle last week that if it had been up to him, Kyle would have still been with the Centaurs. Not exactly thrilling news for someone who’d wanted to be coached by the King for as long as he could remember.
He’d been super pumped to finally have the world’s most successful rugby coach as a mentor, but Griff had told him in no uncertain terms he wasn’t interested in flashy talent, he was interested in substance. So Kyle had promised him substance, and Griff had run his ass off every day for two weeks.
Kyle had taken everything the guy had thrown at him and, with three tries under his belt tonight, Kyle believed he’d delivered on that promise of substance.
So, right now, whatever Griff’s expression meant, Kyle was ten feet tall and bulletproof, and he wasn’t going to let anyone kill that buzz.
The only thing that could make it better was birthday girl from last week suddenly reappearing. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her, those freckles and that red hair, or how they’d gone slow and gentle after quick and dirty, and how she’d ridden him like a carnival ride the time after that.
He wondered absently if she’d been watching tonight. A chick who’d known his stats had to be seriously into rugby. He hoped she’d seen it, because a part of him had been playing for her.
The team moved into the locker room. The post-match, on-field television interviews were done, the victory laps had been completed, the fan merchandise had been signed. Now it was time to celebrate. But all Kyle could think about was how falling asleep with Val in his arms had been the perfect end to a sexy workout.
And how bitterly disappointing it had been to wake and find she’d done a runner.
She had left her purple thong behind, but short of squiring it around Manly on a velvet cushion, he didn’t know how to find her. All he had was her first name, the fact she was ranga, and that she’d apparently known the guy behind the bar quite well. He didn’t know if she was from the area or even if her name actually was Val.
It wouldn’t be the first time a woman had given him a false name.
But the bartender had also called her Val that night, and when he’d gone back to try and pump the guy for info, he’d been told to leave Val the hell alone. It hadn’t been particularly helpful, but Kyle had no reason to doubt that Val was a Val.
The locker room was its usual hub of activity post-game. Players and officials and members of the medical team and media all coming and going, the door wide-open for easy access. Their win ensured the mood was jovial, and Kyle was enjoying a beer and the edge of excitement that always infiltrated the winning locker room.
He looked around for Griff to talk to him. To thank him. There would be time enough for performance analysis in the coming days. Right now he just wanted to thank the man for the last two weeks and assure Griff any reservations he had were unfounded. And damn it, maybe, just maybe, there’d be a glint of something in his eyes. Some kind of recognition of Kyle’s talent.
He didn’t expect a medal or even special treatment, but he did crave a connection with the man he’d hero-worshipped since he’d been a kid.
“Where’s Coach at?” he asked Donovan Bane, the big half-Maori guy who could plough through a pack with startling power and efficiency, a contrast to the photo on the inside of his locker of his daughter, then eight years old, braiding his hair.
“He’ll be in his office watching the tapes.”
Kyle blinked. “Already?” Surely the man took an hour off to have a beer and celebrate his team’s win with them?
Dono nodded, his expression grave. “Yep.”
“Okay.” Well…in that case, he’d go to the mountain.
Shirtless and sweaty, the cleats on the bottom of his shoes clacking on the cement floor, Kyle stepped out into the bustling corridor that lead past the locker room. To his right it led to the stadium, to his left were several offices for the medical, admin, and coaching staff.
A flash of red hair tucked up under a Sydney Smoke cap caught his eye and kicked him hard in the chest. He reached for the owner, wearing jeans and a Smoke jersey, before he even knew what he was doing, turning her—instinctively he knew she was female—to face him.
“Val?”
Unforgiving fluro lights from above turned eyes that had been a clear hazel the other night to a muddier shade and hinted at the freckles, which were now mostly concealed. Some kind of gloss shone on her lips, accentuating the contours of a mouth that looked reddened from being out in the cold for the last couple of hours.
Christ…she was fucking beautiful.
His heart thumped in his chest. A surge of triumph similar to what he’d just experienced out on the field flowed through his veins.
“It is you.”
She licked her lips as her gaze flicked over his shoulder, like she was trying to see past him into the locker room, before returning her attention to his face. “Kyle.” She shook gently out of his grasp and didn’t exactly looked thrilled to see him, but he didn’t care—he’d found her.
“Jesus…what are you doing back here?” She opened her mouth to say something, but he shook his head, halting her before she got it out. “Oh Christ, I don’t care, I’m just pleased you are. I went back to the bar to try and get Chuckers to tell me where you worked or lived or even your last name, but he wasn’t very helpful.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You did?”
“I did. The man threatened to throw me out.” He grinned at the memory. He’d been plenty pissed off at the time, but despite that, he’d been pleased to know Val had people who looked out for her.
“At least he didn’t pull his shotgun.”
Kyle laughed, still not believing the evidence of his eyes. God, this Saturday night had ramped up from awesome to spectacular. “Did you see the game?”
Another flick of her gaze over his shoulder before it was back on him. “Yes.” She was nervous, like she’d been the other night, but she smiled at him then, and he was back in that bar with her, playing secret agents. “You were on fire.”
Her compliment totally went to his head. And his dick. And he couldn’t keep his hands off her any longer. She was smiling at him, and it’d been too long, and she was here.
He grabbed her hip, hauled her forward, her Smoke jersey cool against the heat of his chest as he kissed her long and hard. Her hands pushed briefly against his naked chest, then they stopped, and she melted against him, a little whimper at the back of her throat escaping as a full-throated moan.
His hands slid to her ass to stop her melting away, pressing her close to a groin that was already stirring like Pavlov’s dog. She smelled incredible and tasted better than he remembered, and fucking A he was dragging her home tonight and picking right up where they left off.
There was a thing on at Tanner’s—the Smoke’s skipper—but he could blow it off. Or maybe she’d come with him?
He wasn’t aware of the hush that had descended in the corridor or the locker room behind him. He was only aware of Val. The press of her, the taste of her, the pertness of her ass cheeks in his hands. And his own body. The thick, loud thud of his heart banging in his chest and reverberating through his ears, the harsh catch of his breath as he tried to supply enough oxygen to his brain and kiss the hell out of her at the same time.
“Leighton, if you ever want to play rugby again for the Smoke or any other team in the southern hemisphere, you better take your hands off my daughter’s ass immediately.”
Kyle froze as dread slid down his spine slick as sweat. My daughter? What the fuck? His hands fell from her ass as Val tore her mouth away with a muttered curse, stepping out of his arms. He stared at her, his heartbeat galloping madly. Now he was aware of the silence in the corridor
and from the formerly raucous locker room behind him. He was also aware of about a dozen very hostile eyes burning into a spot between his shoulder blades.
He supposed he should be addressing Griff, but he couldn’t think beyond the incredible revelation. Val was Griffin King’s daughter? Val, who he’d known for less than one hour when he’d taken her to his bed and done…
Crap. He didn’t even want to think about the things he’d done to her. The things he’d fantasised about doing to her again, should their paths ever cross.
And here she was, eyes downcast, not even able to meet his gaze. “You’re his daughter?”
What a fucking idiot he’d been.
She peeped up at him from under the brim of the cap. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He gaped at her. She was sorry? He had ignorance on his side…what was her excuse?
“The two of you. My office.” Griff’s voice could have frozen lava, and Kyle had thought he’d already heard the entire range of Griff’s pissed off. “Now.”
Kyle followed Val into the office, excruciatingly aware of the blatant curiosity they’d left behind in the corridor. Aware, too, of how she wore the Smoke jersey tucked in, which gave him a bird’s-eye view of how her skinny jeans clung to her hips and thighs and, god help him, her ass.
An ass that was so off-limits it might as well have belonged to a Kardashian.
He’d been with the Smoke for two weeks, and one of the first things he’d learned from the team was the coach’s daughter was strictly untouchable. It had seemed a straightforward kind of rule, one he didn’t have any issue with.
Obviously he should have enquired further as to who she was, in case he’d somehow accidently sleep with her.
Jesus fucking Christ. No wonder she’d known so much about his stats and his career…
Griff was standing behind his messy desk, arms folded, glaring at both of them, his jaw tight, his mouth a grim slash. They stood next to each other on the opposite side of his desk. Kyle opened his mouth to apologise. This was going to be an uncomfortable conversation—trying to defuse it before it even started seemed like a good strategy.