Crossing Hearts

by Rebecca Crowley

  He flicked on the light switch.

  She shot him an accusatory look.

  “I want to see you,” he said simply.

  “Just give me a minute.” She glanced around the room, frantically thinking about how she could MacGyver herself and her surroundings into something sexy. And considering she was too young to have ever watched an episode of MacGyver, she wasn’t off to a great start.

  She snatched up her brush with one hand and tugged it through her hair while she used the other to sling errant pieces of clothing into a vague pile in one corner. She straightened the bottles on her vanity, stacked the papers strewn across the top of her dresser, and kicked a pair of shoes under the bed. She was fighting with a particularly stubborn knot in her hair when Rio’s laughter drew her attention.

  “Querida, what are you doing? You’re not hiding anything—I’ve already seen it all.”

  She chucked the brush onto her vanity with a sigh. “This is not how things would’ve looked if I knew you were coming over.”

  He moved to where she stood and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Do you really think I’m the type of guy who’d pass up a night with you because you had some clothes on the floor?”

  He was already hard. She could feel it through his jeans. Suddenly the tidiness of her bedroom was the last thing on her mind.

  “Show me what type of guy you are, then.” She leaned up on her toes to kiss him.

  The fierceness of his response took her breath away. No man had ever kissed her with so much need, his tongue seeking hers, his hand cupping her jaw as if their joined mouths weren’t enough.

  To be fair, they weren’t. Not nearly enough.

  She pulled away from him and stepped back. He grinned, starting toward the bed, but she put a palm against his chest to stop him.

  “I want to undress you.”

  His eyes brightened. “I’m all yours.”

  She started with his shoes, unlacing what she was sure were expensive sneakers and tugging them off his million-dollar feet.

  “Your socks don’t match,” she observed, pulling off one, and then the other.

  “No, they don’t,” he replied, sounding as if it was news to him.

  She straightened and rolled the hem of his sweater up his chest, then up and off his obligingly raised arms. He wore a cotton undershirt beneath and she took a moment to admire its bright white contrast against his dark-olive complexion before slipping it over his head and piling it on top of his sweater.

  Then she stepped back to admire the view.

  He let her look her fill, his posture relaxed and unself-conscious. Then again, with a body like his, what was there to be self-conscious about?

  He was, in a word, perfect.

  Suddenly giddy with the realization that he was hers, she began her exploration of his flawless torso.

  She knew the trend among soccer players was to wax, but the fine, soft hair on Rio’s forearms suggested his smooth chest was entirely natural. She pressed her palms against the hard planes of his pecs, then slid them down to his taut six-pack. His jeans bulged tellingly a few inches below but he stood still, giving her what she wanted.

  She moved her hands to his wrists and swept them upward, taking in his corded forearms, rock-hard biceps, and the chiseled muscles of his shoulders.

  She slung her arms around his neck, marveling that he was the smallest player at Skyline and probably one of the shortest in the league. To her, he seemed like a giant.

  She kissed him once, lightly, and without dropping his gaze she reached between them and unzipped his jeans. Although he said nothing his jaw tightened, and her smile grew.

  In one motion she dragged his jeans down to his ankles, and he stepped out of the bunched garment. Kneeling, she worked her way back up his long, powerful legs, smoothing her palms over his calves, gently squeezing his rock-hard thighs. He wore tight, black briefs, his erection distorting the designer name printed across the waistband.

  She trailed her thumbs along his inner thighs, lingering, enjoying the anticipation. Then she yanked down his briefs, exposing his manhood in all its vital, unapologetic glory.

  When she could tear her gaze away she raised it to his face, expecting to find his trademark back-teeth grin.

  The concentrated desire she saw instead tripled the pace of her heartbeat.

  He leaned down and tugged her to her feet, the force of his grip stating that it was his turn to take control. Normally she bristled when men became too alpha in the bedroom, but she trusted Rio. She knew he would follow her lead and never try to push her somewhere she didn’t want to go.

  She was motionless as he raised the hem of her sweatshirt, luxuriating in the way his eyes widened when he realized she wore no bra beneath the T-shirt he found underneath. He wasted no time removing that as well, and it was her turn to stand proudly as he drank his fill.

  For several moments he simply looked, eyes bright and eager, unconsciously running his tongue along his lower lip.

  He moved as if to touch her, then changed his mind as his gaze drifted to her shorts. She smiled to herself, knowing what he didn’t as he hooked his thumbs beneath the waistband.

  He tugged the shorts down her thighs, his hands faltering when he realized she wore nothing underneath.

  “Eva,” he growled, hooking his arm around her waist and dragging her backward to the bed. He pulled her shorts past her ankles and eased on top of her, his mouth devouring hers as one hand cradled the back of her head and the other explored the rounded terrain of her breasts.

  She moaned against his lips as his firm, confident fingers kneaded her flesh, his thumb finding her nipple and coaxing it into a taut peak. She squirmed beneath him, her body colliding with what felt like a wall of solid muscle as she tried to soundlessly encourage him and slow him down at the same time, torn between her urgent need and her longing to make this experience last forever.

  He propped himself on his elbows and smiled down at her. “Tell me what you want.”

  “You.”

  “Be specific.”

  “You,” she repeated, guiding his hand between her legs. “Here.”

  His erection pulsed where it pressed against her hip. He slipped one finger inside of her, pressing the heel of his hand against her clit.

  The sound that wrenched from her throat was so primal it took her several seconds to realize it had come from her.

  The movement of his chest against hers betrayed the quickened pace of Rio’s normally slow breathing. He shifted onto his side, using his free hand to stroke her face while the other worked her into a throbbing frenzy.

  He brushed his lips over hers. “Ready?”

  “What do you think?”

  He plunged a second finger into her slick heat. Then he grinned.

  She flopped back on the pillows as he bent over the edge of the bed, rummaged for his jeans and produced a foil-wrapped condom. He tore it open with his teeth and then she plucked it from his fingers, and took her time rolling the thin latex over his hard length.

  By the time she finished a sheen of sweat covered his forehead. He urged her back down on the bed, shifting her onto her side and then, to her surprise, moving into position behind her.

  “What are you doing?” she asked over her shoulder.

  He nodded to the full-length mirror on the wall opposite the bed. “I told you, I want to see you.”

  She cringed as she caught a glimpse of the two of them, of the Latino equivalent of a Greek god sliding his hand over her decidedly not-flat stomach. She wasn’t usually self-conscious about her appearance, but Rio’s perfection seemed to illuminate and multiply all the ways she wasn’t.

  “I can’t, it’s too embarrassing,” she muttered, squeezing her eyes closed.

  “You’re beautiful. Look,” he insisted.

  She did. She saw him part her knees and raise her leg, tucking her calf behind his thigh. She saw him smile as he touched her
sodden core one more time, his fingers wet when they came away. She saw him line himself up, felt the head of him just begin to part her folds, watched him push inside her with a single, smooth thrust.

  Then she saw stars.

  He was big, bigger than she expected, and he stretched and filled her with his hot length. Once inside he paused, his lips pressed against her temple, and she could tell he was gathering his self-control, fighting his completion and working to make this last.

  The eroticism of the moment—their naked bodies joined in the mirror, his brow furrowed in concentration—nearly overcame her, and her internal muscles clenched him inadvertently. He groaned, closed his eyes, and began to move within her.

  His first stroke sent her to heaven, and when his fingers found her clit she plummeted into hell.

  She fought to hold on to what little restraint she had left, but soon she was powerless against the runaway train of her desire. She met each of his thrusts hard, driving herself down on his shaft, alternately opening her eyes to soak in the image of them in the mirror and then slamming them shut when the sight nearly sent her over the edge.

  He muttered a string of filthy, sexy Chilean slang, only half of which she understood, but that half was more than enough to have her writhing against him. She ached for release yet dreaded it, doubtful she could ever feel this good, this whole, again.

  Rio moaned her name and began to tremble against her. She knew he was close, and she knew she wanted them to finish together.

  She bucked her hips and arched her back, drawing him in as deeply as she could. He swore vehemently, his fingers working her clit, his lips on her neck, and as she raised one arm to bury her fingers in his hair she looked into the mirror.

  Their reflected gazes met and locked. Rio’s brown eyes were wide open, round with excitement, and shimmering with an emotion so intense she didn’t dare give it a name. It was honest, and sincere, and made her feel so cherished she nearly burst into tears.

  The moment passed and he squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth as he held his breath and throbbed within her.

  Watching his release, knowing she’d driven him to that point was the final push she needed. Her entire body went rigid with her orgasm, her legs straightening and her back arching. As waves of pleasure rolled up and down her flesh she called out to no one in particular, shouting her joy, sharing her triumph, sighing her bone-deep happiness.

  * * * *

  “Your turn.”

  “Let me think.” Eva propped herself on one elbow, idly trailing her fingers through Rio’s hair as she considered. He was pleased to see she was taking their post-coital question-and-answer game fairly seriously. There was so much more he wanted to learn about her, and in the afterglow of one of the most mind-blowing sexual experiences of his life she was finally opening up.

  “I’ve got it. What’s the best purchase you’ve ever made?”

  “Easy.” He bared his teeth.

  She frowned. “You bought your teeth?”

  “I paid to have them fixed,” he explained. “And my mom’s, and my siblings’. I was seventeen the first time I went to the dentist.”

  Her expression seemed too neutral. “Is dentistry expensive in Chile?”

  “You already had your question. Now it’s my turn.”

  He stared up at the ceiling, eyes narrowed in thought. Then he turned to her with a smile. “Here’s something I’ve wondered about. How did you get interested in soccer?”

  “Good question. I can’t give you the exact moment I fell in love with the game—it was gradual, throughout my childhood. It started with living in an immigrant community, where most kids’ parents were from Mexico or Central America. There was always a match on someone’s TV, or on a Spanish-language radio station, and the boys played in the courtyard of our apartment complex. In junior high I tried out for the team but I was cut pretty much immediately, so I guess my interest shifted from playing to watching.”

  “You wanted to play?”

  “That’s another question,” she chided teasingly. “But yeah, although I genuinely wasn’t any good—the coach was right not to let me on the team. I joined an intramural team in college and I think they would’ve benched me every match if they hadn’t been desperate to make up the numbers, but I had fun anyway.”

  “Intramural?” He carefully repeated the unfamiliar word.

  “All the teams are students at the same university, as opposed to competing against teams from other universities.”

  “Oh. What position did you play?”

  “Defensive midfield. I was terrible.” She nudged him. “My turn.”

  “Go for it.”

  “Before your neighbors bought you that first pair of cleats, what did you play in?”

  “Nothing. I played barefoot.”

  She winced. “Seriously?”

  “When my agent was negotiating my first professional contract in Chile, he told the manager my quick, tight style came from playing barefoot on the street. That I had to navigate around rocks and pieces of broken glass.” He smiled fondly. “That guy is so full of shit.”

  “Good at his job, though.”

  “The best. After all, he got me to Atlanta.” He pulled her against his chest and raked his fingers through her hair. “Are you ready for my question?”

  “Sure.”

  “What kind of guy was your last boyfriend?”

  She tried to jerk away but he held her tightly, not letting her run from him this time.

  “You didn’t tell me we were getting heavy with these questions.” She laughed unconvincingly. He said nothing, waiting for her answer.

  She exhaled and flopped back down. “It’s been a long time since I called anyone my boyfriend, since that’s a word that implies mutual commitment. But I guess the last one was in grad school, about five years ago.”

  “And? What was he like?”

  “He was all right.” She raised one bare shoulder. “Boring. Safe. Punching above his weight to the point I figured he wouldn’t dare leave me.”

  “What happened?”

  She smiled bitterly. “He left me.”

  “Idiot.”

  “It’s my curse.” She sighed. “Some women attract bad boys, some can never learn what’s good for them—you know the usual stories. Mine is always being left. No matter how well things go or how serious things get, in the end they always leave. For a long time I gave up on asking them to stay, but I’m trying to turn that around.”

  “Good. Their loss, my gain. And I’m not going anywhere.”

  She murmured something that sounded like “we’ll see,” but before he could protest she asked, “How was Miami?”

  “Is that your question?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  Because he was hoping to keep talking at the level they were only just beginning to explore, but the rules were the rules. “It was okay. We drew, one-one. I got the assist, but I screwed up an attempt on goal in the second half. The keeper was nowhere but it went wide about six inches.” He shook his head in disgust, recalling the moment he realized the ball was on the wrong side of the bar.

  “They’re a good side. One-one is not a bad result.”

  “Anything other than a win is a bad result.”

  “Spoken like a true professional.” She rolled onto her back and examined her nails, which he’d learned was a telltale sign that she was worried or uncomfortable about something. “What did you do after the match?”

  He scooped her into his side. “Went back to the hotel, why?”

  “Miami’s usually a big party destination for Skyline. For some reason the fixture keeps falling ahead of the break for the international schedule, plus the weather’s good. The players typically like to blow off some steam in the clubs.”

  “I think a bunch of guys did go out, but I ordered room service and watched Telemundo. I was tired.”

  “What did Chelsea do?”

 
He rolled his eyes. “How many questions have you had in a row, now?”

  “Does that mean you don’t want to answer?”

  “I don’t know what Chelsea did. We said goodnight in the lobby and I didn’t see her again until breakfast.”

  “Do you like her?”

  “Not as much as I like you.”

  The way her face lit at his simple, obvious praise tore at his heart. Who were these morons who’d walked away from her in the past?

  “I know. I’m being immature and jealous. It’s just that Chelsea is so tall and blond and skinny, and—”

  “And her language skills aren’t as good as yours, and her sense of humor isn’t as quick as yours, and she doesn’t know as much about soccer as you do. And the truth is I spent most of Saturday night worrying about you, deciding to turn up here tonight and praying you didn’t slam the door in my face.”

  “I would never do that,” she admonished, brushing a welcome kiss over his lips. “I would call the police, have you arrested for harassment and then sell my story to the tabloids, though.”

  “Thanks, that’s good to know.”

  She smiled sweetly. “No problem.”

  “If you’re done taking way more turns than you’re due, I have a question.”

  “I’m listening.”

  He braced himself, having been turning over this request in his mind for days. “Will you come with me to the international qualifier on Friday?”

  “The international qualifier?” she echoed, half-laughing. “But that’s in Chile.”

  “I know.”

  “You want me to go with you to Chile,” she repeated.

  “The flight leaves tomorrow night. The plan is to go straight to Antofagasta, spend a couple of days with my family, then fly down to Santiago on Thursday morning. We’ll be back in Atlanta by Monday afternoon.”

  She shook her head, scoffing, “I don’t think you need an interpreter in a Spanish-speaking country, Rio.”

  “This is not a professional invitation. I’ll pay for your flights personally. You’re already booked off with Skyline anyway, right?”