“Actually, I am. I have a date.”
“Oh. Okay.” His thoughts stumbled, mental gears grinding as he rewound his plan and revised his expectations. He leaned against the island and opened his notebook, dizzy from the shift in circumstances. “We can make this quick. I’ve already had a look at—”
“Brendan.”
Erin’s hands were on her hips, her expression stern. “Don’t be deliberately obtuse.”
He blinked. “What?”
“You’re my date, idiot.” She rolled her eyes, coy demeanor evaporating as she clomped across the hardwood floors to where he stood. She leaned over and shut his notebook, shooting him a pointed look.
He took in the lone candle, the wine, the napkins artfully folded on top of the dinner plates. Her fancy shoes. Her perfectly tailored dress.
The irritation narrowing her eyes.
He sure could fall for her if he wasn’t careful.
“If I’d known I would’ve worn something a little classier.” He raised his palms in a gesture of helplessness, glancing down at his jeans and beer logo T-shirt.
She grinned. “I like the casual look. I almost never get to wear heels, so I thought I’d take advantage while I could.”
“How tall are you in those?”
“Six-foot-two.”
“Still two inches shorter than me.”
“Exactly. See?” She stepped in close, the tips of her breasts a breath away from brushing his chest. The scent of jasmine lit up his senses.
“I see. I like your dress, too. Real pretty.”
“It’s my seduction special. Is it working?” She turned a slow circle, giving him plenty of time to examine the way it hugged every contour, accentuated every swell.
He swallowed. “Yeah. It works.”
“Good. I thought you might need some convincing.”
“About that, I’ve been thinking—”
She shook her head. “First things first. Wine?”
He watched her pour herself a glass of the merlot, knowing full well he should decline. He had a full day of training tomorrow and the league final was around the corner. He was still shaking off the dust from all those months on the bench, and physically he wasn’t quite where he wanted to be. He should knock off the booze until the season was over. He should get up early tomorrow and go for a run, too. He shouldn’t stay up late. He shouldn’t get distracted.
He probably shouldn’t be here at all.
“Just half a glass,” he acceded.
She ignored him, filling it to the brim and sliding it across the counter. They clinked their glasses together and then simultaneously took their first sips, eyes meeting over the rims.
Erin put her glass down first. “You said you’ve been thinking. About my offer?”
He nodded, placing his glass beside hers.
“And?”
“I’m worried.”
“About?”
He looked away, his line of vision landing on a pricey box of chocolates wrapped with a bow on top of the microwave. The angle of its placement suggested Erin had tossed it there, a gift too meaningless to bother putting into a cupboard, let alone opening.
Had another man given it to her? He imagined a model-perfect guy in a suit turning up at the door he’d just walked through, hopeful, slightly desperate, his romantic gesture waved off as Erin explained it had been a one-time thing, it couldn’t lead to anything more, and she appreciated his discretion.
Where had he heard those words before? Oh, right. Straight from her mouth on the same afternoon Roland informed him he was suspended for three months.
When he looked back she was still waiting for his answer.
“Obviously I like you,” he admitted. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t even contemplate this. But we’ve been down this road before, you and I. That phone call in February—it hurt. You kicked me when I was down.”
Her gaze dropped to the counter as she fiddled with the stem of her wineglass. “I was in negotiations with the league to take the new job and I panicked, worried that night in Vegas would come back on me somehow. That’s not an excuse, though. It was a shitty way to behave, especially since we’ve known each other for so long. I’m sorry.”
He shifted his weight, surprised. He’d expected her to roll her eyes or say something flippant that would make it easy for him to walk away. He never thought she would apologize.
“I like you too,” she ventured, her gaze finding his again. “I’ve liked you since I met you. If I’d known that sleeping with you in Vegas was going to mess things up, I wouldn’t have done it. If this is going to mess things up”—she gestured between them—“then let’s forget about it. I can do sex without commitment—I always have—but I know that’s new for you. I want us to be friends, and if the ‘with benefits’ element is going to derail that, I’d rather leave it than lose everything.”
There it was—she’d given him an out. He should take it. Tell her they should keep things friendly, nothing more. Partners in bets but not in bed. Say goodbye in a couple of months with their friendship—and his heart—intact.
“I have a condition,” he told her instead.
“Tell me.”
“It has to be just me, no one else, for as long as we do this. I can’t be with you knowing you’re with other guys on other nights.”
“I’ll agree to that.”
“Good. Any terms on your side?”
She shook her head. “Nothing I haven’t already told you. We can be friends, we can have sex, but don’t ask me for anything more.”
“I won’t,” he said firmly, making the promise to her and to himself. He could do this. It would be worth it. He would be fine.
“Great.” She raised her glass in a toast and he did the same. “When do we start?”
“I don’t know.” He glanced around the room, suddenly embarrassed, and his gaze snagged on the table. “You put plates out. Did you make dinner?”
“No, I just thought they made the table look nice. Why, are you hungry?”
“Not really.”
“Me neither.”
For a few moments they stared at each other, silent, the space between them growing tighter and heavier with each passing second. Eventually he asked, “Now what?”
“Now you take me to bed.”
Before he could register her statement she replaced the glass on the counter and slightly shimmied her shoulders. The movement accentuated the heft of her breasts, and he knew it was rehearsed. Such a well-worn, practiced come-hither gesture he bet she didn’t even realize she did it. It was part of her veneer—her personal brand. Erin the superstar athlete. Erin the high-flying executive. Erin the no-strings sexual dynamo, here today, gone tomorrow.
She closed the space between them and linked her arms behind his neck, but he stiffened. She sensed it and pulled back, and as her eyes searched his he saw it—the flash of uncertainty. The long-ago softness she worked so hard to pretend she’d outgrown.
“One more condition,” he told her.
“What is it?” she asked, not impatiently.
“I want the Erin I met her first month in college.”
He drew breath to go on but her shaking head interrupted him. “If you have some porno fantasy of a quivering, eighteen-year-old virgin we can call this off right now because that’s the opposite of—”
“Stop.” He silenced her with hands on her waist. “I want the Erin who trusted me. Who told me the biggest secret of her life, confident I would never share it with anyone. Who’s walking into this with her arms wide open, because she knows she’s safe with me—just like she was at that party.”
She opened her mouth, the objection already half-spelled in the shape of her lips, then snapped it shut. A series of emotions chased across her face so quickly he only caught a few of them�
��disagreement, refusal, distress and outright panic—and he couldn’t make out the winner as her expression resettled coolly.
For five heartbeats he held his breath, schooling his features not to give any indication of how much he wanted this. They stood inches apart but the distance between them was vast, maybe insurmountable. Maybe they were about to wrench apart irreparably.
Or maybe they were about to fill the aching void that had yawned between them all these long, lonely years.
She slid one palm along the back of his shoulders, drawing nearer.
“Okay,” she whispered, the word as intimate as a confession. “You’ve got me.”
He cupped her cheeks and kissed her, choosing to believe what she said and hurling himself headlong into this…whatever it was. Tryst. Affair. Arrangement. Whatever you called a situation where nothing was held back but nothing was given or kept, either.
Her red-wine taste raised memories of Vegas, of decadence and reckless indulgence. As much as he thought he read her promised trust in the softness of her posture and the gentle parting of her lips, for a second he stopped himself, his mouth pausing on hers.
No strings. Two words resonating in his mind with the dull thud of a dealer knocking card decks against the table.
He’d always been a cautious gambler. Obsessive, calculating, risk-averse. This might be the first bet he couldn’t afford to lose.
Erin leaned back in his grip and looked up at him, her voice soft as she asked, “What?”
“Nothing,” he said firmly, lowering his hands to her arms. He jerked her against his chest and brought their lips together again, lapping up her taste, luxuriating in the heat he found inside her mouth.
Too late for second-guessing. The cards were dealt, the chips were stacked. He was all in.
* * * *
Erin’s heart had hiccups.
The first few times she ignored the twitching inside her ribs, too focused on Brendan’s kiss. But as the erratic, fluttery beats became more frequent and intrusive, some self-preserving chunk of her mind detached to examine the situation. An irregular heart rate, tightness in her lungs, a slight but unpleasant tilt in her stomach.
Maybe it was something she ate. Early signs of food poisoning, even? Hopefully not—that would certainly spoil the evening. It was probably overexcitement. Or exhaustion from too much work and too much travel.
Or maybe she was having her first-ever panic attack.
No, there was something distantly familiar here, dimly remembered from many years ago. Unsteadiness in her fingertips, dryness in her throat.
She was nervous.
Brendan’s palms sliding down to her waist told her she shouldn’t be, as did his lazy thumbs lingering against the sides of her breasts. Not to mention they’d done this before. He’d seen every inch of her in Vegas, more than once lights off and on.
But while her mind rattled off these logical arguments, her heart knew better, and again hiccuped its anxiety.
In Vegas she’d been triumphant, her already dominant sexual style heightened by champagne and adrenaline and an overpowering sense of conquest. She’d caught the one who got away and spent all night having her way with him.
She reached for the sexual confidence which usually surfaced automatically but came up short. She rooted deeper, digging for the arrogance and self-satisfying impulses that normally spurred these encounters. The feverish drive for completion. The urgency to get what she wanted and slip away unhindered, a thief without remorse.
Except for this time she was complicit. Brendan was her co-conspirator, not her target. She already trusted him with her future, recommitting herself every time they placed a bet, and she’d shared her body with him on New Year’s Eve. There was no reason to be fearful of the trust he asked for now.
Yet her heart hiccuped again.
Stop. Mentally she gripped her own shoulders and gave herself an almighty shake. Yes, Brendan was different from the men she normally slept with. They were friends—he wasn’t disposable. That didn’t mean anything else had to be different. Not the sex, not the post-sex expectations, and certainly not her personal performance.
Unless this was her one chance to make it different. To experience more than self-fulfillment. To allow intimacy. To give as well as take. To find someone who—
“Let’s go,” she said aloud, more to herself than to Brendan. She jerked out of his grasp and away from that momentary wobble, dragging on sexual bravado like a pair of jeans she hadn’t worn in a long time. Tighter and less comfortable than she remembered, but she trusted it’d feel right in a few minutes.
She took Brendan’s hand and pulled him toward the bedroom, barely looking at him as she charged across her apartment. She’d prepared the bedroom to be sex ready, as she often did before dates. Changed the sheets, shoved framed photographs into drawers, hid anything too personal, including perfume. Sterilized it so the man of the hour wouldn’t see anything she hadn’t carefully choreographed.
She practically shoved him inside and shut the door, yanked the curtains across the window, then hastily set about lighting the series of candles she kept arranged around the room for exactly this purpose. Candlelight was second only to alcohol when it came to dulling potentially mood-killing imperfections.
She tossed the spent match in a wicker trash bin, then leaned over where Brendan sat on the end of the bed to switch off the overhead light.
He switched it back on.
“I want to see you.”
“Suit yourself.” She shrugged with a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “Just thought I’d create a little romantic atmosphere.”
“But this is lust, not romance. Right?”
“Right,” she agreed, hoping he hadn’t heard the slight tremor in her voice.
He held out his hand. “Come here.”
She dropped onto his lap, tired of her internal back-and-forth. She’d wanted him for so long. Now he was here, ready, willing, and she was wasting all of her energy on stupid insecurities.
This was only lust like he said. Pure pleasure. About time she started enjoying it.
“Don’t stress,” he urged, arranging her legs on either side of his hips, her skirt sliding high on her thighs in the process.
“I’m not stressing.”
“Don’t lie to me, either.”
“Stop talking and take off your clothes.”
She slid off his lap, kicked off her heels and drew her legs up beneath her. His eyes widened but he obeyed and pulled his T-shirt over his head, leaving his hair mussed in its wake.
“Stand up,” she instructed, relaxing into the familiarity of control. “Take off your jeans.”
She admired the nearly six and a half feet of him as he straightened. He stepped on the heel of one sneaker to pry it off, then the other, never dropping eye contact—until he realized he had to reach down and tug off his socks. She muted her smile as he contorted, his lanky frame bent in half, all efforts at sexiness momentarily abandoned for the sake of logistics. When he stood again she made sure her expression gave no sign of how utterly adorable that had been.
He recovered quickly, undoing his belt and dropping it on the floor, the metal buckle clattering against the hardwood. The muscles in his forearms flexed as he lowered his zipper and let the waistband hang loose, briefly framing the ridges of muscle above his hips, the flat plane of his lower abdomen. Then he shoved his jeans to the floor and stepped out of them, kicking them against the wall.
She crossed her arms over taut nipples as she appraised him, smiling her approval. Long, long legs, from the elegant arches of his feet to the thick muscles of his thighs. Chiseled arms and broad shoulders, the delicious taper of all that width into a narrow waist. Pale hair standing out against tanned skin, fading evidence of a summer spent outdoors.
She imagined him lounging shirtless in his backyard, squinting a
t his notebooks through dark sunglasses. Tossing the books aside and moving restlessly around the perimeter, checking the gardener’s handiwork. Taking a soccer ball from the shed and toeing it to his knees, to his head, back to his knees, counting the keep-ups until his sun-warmed skin was spotted with beads of sweat, moisture collecting on his forehead, between his pecs, in the hollow of his lower back.
For a second she closed her eyes, and in her mind her tongue swept the damp skin on his chest, the tip of her nose preceding its lazy trail. He would taste like salt. Sun. Heat. And beneath it, just Brendan. A flavor all his own.
She opened her eyes, licked her lips. Ready to make him sweat.
Finally she let her gaze drift below his waist. She was used to scanning designer labels on men’s briefs, but Brendan wore plaid cotton boxers. She bet he bought them in packs of five for twenty dollars, tossed them in the car with blank notebooks and that cheap ground coffee he drank, then drove everything home in his Aston Martin.
Fuck, he was weird.
And unbelievably sexy.
She crooked a finger to summon him closer to the bed. When he came within reach she stuck that same finger in the waistband of his boxers, pulling it away from his body to assess what was beneath.
She couldn’t stop her smile. He was all she remembered—maybe even more.
“These shorts don’t fit you right,” she murmured, brushing her fingertips over his skin, tracing the slight indentations made by the elastic. “You should buy some that do.”
“I like these.”
“I like this.” She closed her hand around his length so suddenly that he flinched, giving her exactly the reaction she wanted. He was hot and hard in her fist and she tugged him mercilessly, tightening her grip at his base, then shimmying it up over his tip.
She watched his jaw tighten, saw him close his eyes for a split second before swearing under his breath and closing his hand on her wrist, stopping her mid-pull.
“Slow down,” he said hoarsely. “You’re not even undressed yet.”
“Fix that.” She released him abruptly and stretched out on the bed on her stomach, lowering her chin to folded hands.
Saving Hearts Page 18