Twenty Times Tempted: A Sexy Contemporary Romance Collection

by Petrova, Em

  Of course, it was a risk, for me and for them, but it was all I could do.

  Mercifully the elevator was empty as I rode it down, huddled in the corner and giving myself a pep talk, doing my best to cheerlead myself into this next challenge but not managing terribly well. Self-analysis wasn’t my forte, not when the motivation led only to facing down a lion’s den. I needed something a little more tangible, physical, something that would break a sweat without breaking my resolve. It was fortunate I was meeting Sam for another stab at getting back on the court, away from graphs and charts and equations, back to my roots. It had been a while. My body and my brain missed it. It was just the thing to clear my head.

  Throwing my gym bag over my shoulder, I joined the happy tourist wave and followed it to the Y where Sam waited for me.

  I could almost feel the knubby surface of the ball against my palm…

  I licked my lips and realized … that wasn’t all I could feel.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rob

  Rough palm on rough leather, the texture already slicked down from sweaty palms and froth, the basketball spun, the orbit negative on the bounce and sending it spiraling back. We of the non-fit oozed fluids from every pore, every orifice, trumped only by our determination to man up and own it, work it, baby.

  Own it because we owned nothing else, no date, no significant other. Saturday night in the Big Apple, the city crawling with the willing, trolling for a look and a refill, maybe even a score. We didn’t need no stinkin’ dates, we had a different kind of score in mind.

  Two teens the size of brick shithouses lumbered to my left, the one a clueless guard, the other a power forward if power was measured by the metric ton, a freight train parting the sea of man-on-man. His job was to clear the run-way, give me time to work my way up court and position for the elusive three. I used to be good in the corner but age and the bifocals I refused to wear put paid to that with air-balls and derision. So I looked to drive down the paint for the easy two. Except they weren’t coming easy tonight.

  The lookyloos had gathered in droves, pausing to catch a breath between treadmilling and free weights, the court situated on the quarter mile circular walkway leading from one venue to another. Most nights they ignored us. But this wasn’t most nights.

  I balanced on the balls of my feet, rocking side-to-side, looking for Karim, a hustler my age usually out trailing the Channel 6 cameramen, hauling ass with their lighting equipment. He was skinny as a rail and strong as an ox, you had to be to tote those loads.

  But he was shorter than the six foot tower of muscle and ’tude blocking me with every step, left, right, feint.

  Damn, she was good. And persistent.

  “Come on, Horndog!” I followed the sound and lobbed it high and short, hoping Karim was on the other side of … her.

  She was different, her dark hair unkinked from the cornrows and yanked tight into a tail, the ends tinged with golden blonde highlights. The ‘do did nothing to soften the fierce set to her mouth and the distaste in the cant of her chin once she’d realized I was on the court, taking over for a guy with not enough lungpower to handle the rapid turn overs.

  I didn’t plan it that way, it just happened. She was shooting a foul, a double, swish—nothing but net on the first—but the sweaty ball got away from her and it pinged off the metal and floated. I grabbed it from behind her and partied my way into the corner, getting an elbow and an evil grin for my efforts.

  The ball lazed its way out of bounds, still ours.

  Karim was a one-handed wonder, sure-footed and quick enough to scoot around the muscle, but he was predictable. Tay took advantage, owning the post position, spreading her impressive wingspan and flicking at the ball every time one of us approached.

  TayLOR, TayLOR!

  The crowd was already taking sides. They filled up the spaces behind both baselines, the front row kneeling or sitting, allowing some stacking for visibility. The rest jostled for position, avoiding the neutral zone as best they could.

  We switched out, evening up on size and ability. A tall black student subbed for an older man by the name of Sam who took up referee duties. Somebody handed the old guy a whistle. We were going full court as the less aggressive jocks yielded and took places with the fans.

  Game on.

  The outhouses played panzers with each other, lost in their own little good natured spat. I guessed they were roomies at the University. Taylor had been a point guard but tonight she slipped into power forward, being the fastest and the most flexible, running a man-to-man defense.

  I was close to her height and size, a good physical matchup but the jury was still out on the shooting. When I ran onto the court her side was ten up, then she bobbled the foul shot and I got a quick two. It didn’t take long to draw even as we shuffled bodies and bills changed hands along the sidelines.

  Being a lefty in this crowd was an advantage. Most of the jocks could dribble with either hand, but shooting was another matter. That’s where I had the advantage, or so I thought. Karim put pedal to the metal and scooted down the court like a zepher, planted and choked. Taylor somehow had gotten there first, flicking, picking, tickling the leather and forcing my man to back off. He had a three in him, but not if he was thinking about it.

  Somehow Taylor knew that. She kept niggling at him and the more she did it the more flustered he got.

  Coming around behind Karim, I hissed, “Tank,” meaning the jolly green giant on our team, “then me. Clear it.”

  There were no shot clocks but the guy called Sam made sure we didn’t take all day, growling out a one Mississippi, two Mississippi if we dawdled. Hisses from the peanut gallery ran vocal backup.

  I took the pass, a bad bounce that went my way, scooping it up and powering my way down the right side, smack into traffic as the lane closed. Dancing away, I heard Karim yelling something but it was lost to high empty spaces and the skritch of composite soles on polished hardwood.

  Karin floated at the top of the post, spun in an ankle-destroying move and played bumper cars with their guards as I cut across the grain and lobbed a reverse lay-up, coming down hard against Taylor’s right side.

  The gallery called for offensive charging but Sam had a sea of bodies in his line of sight so I dodged that one.

  I heard the ‘oof’ and her muttering in Italian. No props for guessing what she said. Her eyes expressed it all, most of it as four letter words in creative combinations.

  Karim chose to stay and dog their small forward, a decent ball handler but prone to confusion. I’d played on the same side with the man, never as an opponent. The change in perspective was interesting.

  They had two shooters: Taylor who’d yet to develop a hot hand but was rock solid on defense with her thou shalt not pass chokehold on the center lane and the new guy by the name of Karver. Whether that was his first or last name nobody said. He had a three off the outside, then ran cold, the ball doing a tease and roll, popping out and away every time.

  Our outhouse, Tank, was good at rebounding and passing off to somebody who knew how to dribble. We didn’t need him to shoot; he was our screen and obstacle course, making sure the zippity-do-dahs had to run extra miles around his bulk. Sometimes that worked for, sometimes against. Once planted, Tank was the immovable object.

  Except, Taylor seemed capable of finding her way around him, using a dodge and a feint to make a fade away jumper, mostly for twos, but she was getting her range and working it systematically farther back. Almost outside the three circle. If she started hitting from there, it would pull me out from under the net, something I was loath to do.

  Losing concentration as I watched her move, I imaged how it might feel skin on skin as she arched away…

  “Shit man, wake up!”

  “Crap, sorry,” for what I wasn’t sure but I said it again, sorry sorry sorry, and motioned for one of the original players to spell me while I caught my breath. I was in reasonably good shape but at thirty-five, that wasn’t sayin
g much. I could and did pound the pavement for hours on end, but this kind of unrelenting cardio was doing more than making me feel the burn. The hangover from the night before wasn’t helping. Whatever blood I had jackhammered in my ears, spazzing my forehead and locking vision into a narrow range of close but no cigar for shooting.

  I had another kind of burn, too, and that wasn’t helping any—the kind that would keep me up at nights with coulda, woulda, shouldas, the kind needing cold showers and leaving me with cramps in my left hand.

  Everyone took a quick breather, substituting players and gasping out advice and strategies. On the other side of the court, the mob circled the wagons around Taylor. Whatever she was up to wasn’t going to be good news for my side. Karim implored us to stop playing with our hands in our pants and looked at me when he said it.

  The thought filtered through that I wouldn’t mind playing with her hands in my pants as we piled onto the court with the echo of ‘get physical’ in our ears.

  It was their ball and the Karver guy stood at mid-court and lobbed it over Tank’s head and into Tay’s hands. I backed up, fast, occupying the center lane and waving everybody to come in close in a three-two zone defense. We were killing ourselves man-to-man, running out of steam and tripping over each other. That we were still within four was due to them running cold, not on our sterling defense.

  The old guy, Sam, was doing his best to call the fouls but unless they were blatant, with blood on the floor and fingers up the opponent’s nose, we pretty much got away with murder out there. We were all playing like we had Sunday free to recover.

  Get physical. Riiiight.

  Stepping forward in the lane, I let my two guys form the base of the triangle. Taylor was better inside and had yet to find the sweet spot for the threes. I was counting on her to try spinning out and around, in which case she’d run head first into one or the other guards and maybe get nailed for a charge. If we couldn’t take them on buckets, maybe we’d pull closer on our higher percentage foul shooting.

  In any case, neither side could buy a bucket for nearly a five minute run. I was only guessing on the time. It was probably closer to eternity and a day.

  Frustration and needing, obsessing on getting laid made Robert van Horn a very bad boy.

  TayLOR! TayLOR!

  HORNdog, doggie, dog!

  She was lobbing the passes hard and tight, right to left to right, so fast I barely had time to see where the ball ended up, and all the while she backed slowly down the lane. The ball went high but she snagged it out of the air even before I could lift my hands to make a grab at it. Dribbling left-handed she taunted me, knowing I was stronger with my left, forcing me to lean to that strength, and get myself unbalanced enough to not recover when she’d plant and pivot, either going for the layup or the hook.

  Bent over, she was dribbling close to the ground, her head pivoting left and right. She knew I was there and invaded my space, inching me and her body closer to the basket. I smelled the turnaround jump shot and moved into her, front-to-back, so close it felt indecent, almost like makeup sex and my concentration sucked monkey balls as her slick shorts scooted across my fleece, raising semaphores and illicit thoughts.

  Get physical.

  I should have extended my arms … look, ref, no contact here … but instead I gripped her waist and ground my cock into her ass and nodded as Karim hissed, “Fuck me,” to the catcalls and appreciative hoots.

  I am dying and going to hell…

  Tank, my other post player, called over, “Not that kind of physical, man,” and snorted.

  The dribbling got slower, lower to the ground as she yielded no quarter; and I felt or imagined the tremors, like I had the other night when I’d ruined everything and drove her away under the guise of full disclosure.

  Everyone saw it coming but me, the swing to her right, ducking the left shoulder, the elbow angled down and low, low enough to graze with authority but not incapacitate. Whether the moans and groans came from my own throat or from the crowd was a mystery for another day. It could have been worse. I was still standing when she turned, planted and scored.

  Tank muttered, “Jesus,” but I didn’t think he was calling for divine intervention on my behalf.

  There was some limping and walking out if it, but I was pretty much toast for the rest of the game. We lost resoundingly.

  The Sam guy took Taylor’s elbow and guided her out the far door to the applause of her appreciative fan club, and took the left in the direction of the ladies lockers. Bolting through the near door, I trotted the shortcut and watched her duck inside. The corridor was empty this late, not many women willing to advertise their dateless status by being seen on the Saturday night loser roster.

  Without knowing who Sam was, or why he seemed to be taking charge, I decided to risk making a total fool of myself and barged into the locker room. It was empty save for Taylor in her sports bra and spandex sports briefs, sweat glistening like opalescent crystals and running in small rivulets between her breasts.

  The fact that I even noticed the beads of moisture and how it made her skin come alive spoke to how far I’d sunk in my desire to possess her. If that made me a crude savage, then so be it.

  “Taylor?” I waited for the klaxon of a shriek but she stood there, tall and proud, athletic and hot and sticky, daring me to come closer.

  So I did. A stride, two, until nothing but sultry lust, and a slam dunk, separated us.

  Palming her face, I whispered a kiss along her chin, sucking in the salty moisture and following the line of her neck to the indentation, tonguing it until she moaned something deep in her throat.

  It felt like yes.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tay

  There was a decent-sized coffee shop on the far corner and if I craned my neck, I could see it from the second floor spare bedroom window … just.

  Marie said they served a nice meal on a Sunday morning: Polish kielbasa, eggs over easy with whole wheat toast slathered in butter. The first wave would hit around ten, right after the early mass, St. Alban’s being two blocks north, bordering the small park and a cemetery.

  That would be the breakfast. Brunch was when the Lutherans dumped out closer to eleven. The menu would shift a little toward sandwiches but the main entrée was still heavy on carbs and protein.

  I liked their French toast. They used big slabs of day old bread from the Italian bakery up the street, dunked in whipped eggs with a hint of vanilla and nutmeg, then fried up on the grill using butter, lots of butter. It was sinful and rich and the thick maple syrup made the whole concoction slide down like your throat slicker ‘n goose grease.

  The thought of grease, or any lubrication, had me rubbing my scalp and yanking on the new braids that my cousin’s wife had done the night before. It’d been soothing in a way, having her thread her fingers through the kinky strands, and given my state of vexation with Sam it had been a better outlet than words I might not be able to take back.

  Either he didn’t knock or I was so focused on watching for Robert van Horn to swing around the corner that I couldn’t hear the mountain coming to stand behind me.

  “Marie’s making cornbread.”

  “Uh-huh, I can smell it.” And it smelled delicious.

  “Maybe he won’t show.” He sounded smug and hopeful.

  “If he doesn’t then I’m going to…”

  “Hon, don’t you go and start with me.” He inched me over so he could lean against the window frame, chin resting on my head.

  “Well, you didn’t have to go all machismo on him last night, Sam. I mean, for crying out loud, he was just…”

  “Dry humping your leg?”

  “Sam!”

  “Well, wasn’t he?”

  Yes, yes he was. And doing other things that had me in a mental puddle, with all my resolve to stay away, all that righteous annoyance and holier than thou flamed out, and he tasted like the kind of sin that set my innards on puree.

  “Is that him?”
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  My attention span cranked from lollygagging to full alert. “Yeah,” or maybe not, it was hard to see with Sam’s chin pile-driving my head into my shoulders. It looked like him…

  “I’ll go tell Marie,” and then he was gone, the lord and protector of my virtue and the sense that god gave geese.

  Geese again. Grease and geese.

  My stomach growled. I was hungry, oh my sweet Auntie Mae, I was hungry enough to grovel at the feet of Himeros and beg a boon, whatever a boon was. I didn’t care, just so long as there was an orgasm attached to the end of that clever tongue of his.

  A tongue that never got far enough in one go to satisfy either of us. Fate, divine intervention, Loki … life. The cosmos was intent on delaying gratification indefinitely, and that included my cousin, Sam. Especially Sam.

  While I’d been enjoying the best two point set-up in recorded history, Sam had been having a coronary on the sidelines. He’d whisked me off that court so fast I didn’t have time to see where Rob had got to.

  Then he was there in the locker room, closing the distance, and he smelled hot and male and hungry. And he hadn’t stopped, even when Sam threatened to dump him in the shower, among other things. It had taken some fast talking on my part to separate the bulls. Eventually they’d shaken hands and each agreed, talking over me like I wasn’t even there, to meet up for breakfast, to get properly introduced.

  The emphasis on proper, after-church-respectable…

  It was sweet in a twisted ‘Taylor’s empowerment needs work way’, having two men squaring off over my choices, one I respected and loved because he was family, the other I lusted after for reasons I hadn’t fessed up to anyone, not Marie and certainly not Cordie.

  The truth was … I liked him, a lot. He was scruffy and crude and not afraid to go after what he wanted. That he wanted me was a mystery for another day.

  My best friend’s younger brother held the key to blowing my world to smithereens, something that should have me bolting for parts unknown, yet it seemed less important by the minute. Running had got me nothing but heartache and bad press. It was time to confront my demons, one demon in particular: Michael O’Brien.