Game On

by Snow, Wylie

  But she couldn’t argue with how at peace she felt.

  “Oh, we’re home,” Clara said, disappointed to find her hotel in front of them. “Thank you, Luc, for a most engaging evening.”

  “The pleasure was entirely mine, Clara.”

  He should have left, she should have gone into the hotel, but neither moved. She sensed he didn’t want the night to end any more than she did.

  “I should see you in. I promised Lydia.”

  “Ah yes. Miami is a dangerous place.”

  Luc followed her into the white lobby, lit brighter than the noonday sun to highlight the works of art. As they walked beside the row of busts, Luc whispered, “Notoriously dangerous. You never know what could happen. There could be menace behind every pedestal, peril lurking in shadows.”

  “What do you mean?” she laughed. “There are no shadows in this halogenic gallery!”

  “Mayhem brewing at every turn,” he continued as they rounded the corner to the elevator.

  Clara smiled as she stepped into the waiting, vacant car. She didn’t know what would happen next, but her insides flip-flopped with anticipation as she turned to face the door. He stood on the other side, giving no indication he was going to follow her any further.

  Bugger.

  Chapter 6

  Without thinking, Clara slapped her hand against cold steel frame to prevent the door from coming between them. She recalled that movie with Gwyneth Paltrow—the one where she missed a train, stopped by the sliding doors, changing her life’s path. “Should I not worry from here, then? Has the lift been declared a safe zone?” she asked, forcing a nervous smile.

  Luc couldn’t say goodbye here, like this. Not without a hug or a handshake. They’d forged a friendship, hadn’t they? A flirty, fun bond that surely warranted a kiss, at the very least.

  Clara was about to step back out, but the elevator door jerked forward. Luc slid his foot into its path, holding it there until the door surrendered back into the wall.

  “You’re the most dangerous thing in Miami at the moment.” His tone was light but his eyes were dark, unreadable.

  “Am I? Surely you’re not afraid of a little spanking?” It was a brave attempt at levity on her part. She would quite simply die if this was to be the last time she laid eyes on Luc.

  His mouth, full-lipped and sinfully sexy, quirked up in the corners, but only when he crossed the threshold did Clara release the breath she’d been holding. Relief quickly turned to raw excitement, the kind usually reserved for the first incline on a rollercoaster ride, as she leaned forward to press the number three.

  A hot shiver blasted up her spine, sparking the part of her brain that sent signals to the rest of her, prompting her knees to wobble, her nipples to perk up, her inner muscles to clench. She bit her tongue, scared she’d spontaneously titter.

  They rode in silence, unspoken intentions filling the enclosed space with heat. They were steps from her door before she had the courage to ask, “What made you change your mind?”

  “If you didn’t arrive in your room safely, I’d have to answer to your friend Lydia and, just between us, I’m scared to death of her.”

  Clara giggled. Again. She’d laughed more on this night than any time she could remember. It was freeing and wonderful. Better than champagne.

  Luc took hold of her hand and tugged her to a stop, bringing her around to face him. “You have a delightful laugh.” His voice resonated through her like the bass strings of a cello, making her quiver from head to toe.

  “Thank you.”

  Her cheeks were on fire but weren’t as hot as the fingers that caressed her cheek. It was a slow burn as he trailed the back of his knuckles along the edge of her jaw. He continued up her cheek, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear with gentle deftness before cradling her in his palm. She wanted to turn her lips into his hand like a content kitten. Her eyes drifted shut, just for a moment, just long enough to enjoy the frisson of pleasure. She gave into the slight pressure of his thumb on the underside of her chin and tipped her head up.

  This was it. The moment.

  Her heart pumped a little faster, feeding blood to the gathering warmth in her belly. She swallowed as he took a step closer, forcing her back against the closed door. If God were a woman, she surely would have granted Clara her sense of smell, even for a brief moment, so she could fill her nose with this man. Every other sensory organ revelled in him—her eyes in his gorgeousness, her ears in his strangely accented voice, her skin when he touched her, and finally, finally, she was going to taste him.

  “You scare me, too,” he whispered.

  “Why ever so?” she asked, breathless and fluttery.

  “At how badly I want to kiss you.”

  Clara’s lips parted ever so slightly as she leaned into his solid length. She stole a glance toward his mouth, saw his tongue dart out, saw his nostrils flare, heard his breath quicken. She watched his sooty lashes drift down before her own fell, before his exquisite mouth pressed against hers.

  His fingers wove into her hair, his tongue glided over her bottom lip before probing deeper. Heavenly bliss, the man could kiss. Deprived of his scent, Clara eagerly welcomed him into her hungry mouth, instantly intoxicated. She whimpered when it hit her—honey, cinnamon with berry undertones, and a finish of mocha. Her palate was as fulfilled as her libido. Luc’s kisses were an enthralling combination of teasing, pressure, and finesse.

  Breathless and light-headed, she feared she would collapse if she didn’t hold on. She grasped the silk collar of his shirt and surrendered into him, kissing him back with fervor. She wasn’t exactly sure her feet were on the ground but didn’t dare break the connection to check.

  She wanted more of him, to feel his flesh beneath her fingers. Skin. Clara tugged his shirt from his belted trousers and ran her palms up his hard torso, fingering the planes and ridges of his muscled abdomen. He tore his mouth from hers with a husky moan, snaked his fingers into her hair, and tugged her head back. A day’s growth of whiskers scraped her cheek as he trailed hungry kisses along the underside of her jaw, stopping on the pulse point, quickening it with his tongue.

  The pain-pleasure barrier was an interesting concept. If one had sandpaper rubbed across one’s face, one would presumably feel discomfort, but when preceded by the pressure of warm, full lips, hot breath, and muttered sentiments like so beautiful… so sweet… God, what are you doing to me? one derives only the purest form of pleasure. And Luc’s beard was one hundred percent unadulterated pleasure.

  He travelled to a tender point just below her ear and nibbled, his teeth grazing her flesh. Clara’s eyes rolled back in ecstasy and she let out a shameless moan. He seemed to hone in on the exact points that would bring her the most pleasure, as if they’d been marked with fat red Xs.

  She wanted him—his touch, his mouth, his body. Overwhelmed with raw need, she lost the good sense to plan her moves, her reactions, and blindly ran her palms across his chest, grasping indelicately at his unyielding muscle. She wanted to touch him everywhere, wanted to lick him everywhere, but she could do little more than keep her knees locked and herself upright.

  Luc’s mouth travelled lower, leaving a trail of whispered kisses down her neck and over the blade of her collarbone. He ran his hands down her bare arms and slid them around her rib cage. Her nipples pebbled, strained against the fabric of her dress. But he continued to play with her, moving only his thumb to skim the swollen, sensitive underside. An eternity later—or maybe seconds, who could tell—he brushed her with the palm of his hand.

  Clara cried out, desperately wishing he’d rip her dress off, dispose of all the barriers. Instead, he rolled the hardened bud between thumb and forefinger through the thin material, squeezing with an achingly delicate touch. At the same time, he licked the shell of her ear, then caught the lobe betwe
en his teeth and nibbled as if his mouth were on her breast, as if he were teasing the throbbing peak with his tongue, devouring her. Her shoulders gave an involuntary shudder as a wave of desire flooded her core. She arched into him, pressed into his hand, sighed his name.

  Luc cupped her bottom and pulled her against him so she could feel exactly what she was doing to him. His erection, bold and unapologetic, pressed against her.

  Raw lust ripped through her. She wanted him, God she wanted him, on her, in her, all over her. Whatever bounds of propriety she possessed completely shattered. Shamelessly, she bracketed his face in her hands and brought his mouth back to hers, except this time she was leading the dance. Insatiable, she thrust her tongue between his parted lips and daringly explored.

  He welcomed her, encouraged her with his throaty moans. Tongues clashed, fought for power, for satisfaction. There was no gentle choreography, no timing, no rhythm, just need. Demanding need.

  Heat and need coursed through her veins. Clara wanted him. Now.

  She hooked her ankle around his and rubbed her calf up the back of his leg. She pressed into the back of his knee, drawing his thigh against her, there, and practically exploded on the spot.

  Luc reached under her skirt and stroked up the length of her thigh.

  Clara’s skin felt hot and cold at the same time. Goosebumps spread over the surface of her arms, her back, anywhere Luc wasn’t touching, while the rest of her flamed. Her hips quivered, longing to thrust against him, but it wasn’t his thigh she wanted between her legs.

  As if reading her thoughts, he removed his leg from between hers and replaced it with his hand. Clara gasped against his mouth as he cupped her mound. Dizzy and afraid her legs would give out, she snaked her arms around his shoulders and held on.

  Clara’s knees trembled as Luc rubbed her with gentle pressure. She tore her mouth from his and buried her face against the taut muscles of his neck. “Oh yes. God, yes.”

  It was all the permission he needed to slip his fingers into her damp folds.

  His touch was electric. Whiter, hotter, and infinitely more intense than she’d ever experienced. His deft strokes sent searing flames straight from her core to the tips of her toes.

  “I want you,” he growled against her ear.

  “Yes,” she breathed, reaching down to tug at his belt.

  “I need to be inside you.”

  “Yes, Luc, yes.”

  She tried to manipulate the buckle but her motor skills failed her as the coiled heat grew tighter, tighter, tighter—

  “Now, Clara. Now.”

  Every muscle in Clara’s body tensed and shuddered as a blinding orgasm ripped through her. “Yes, yes, God yes.”

  If the elevator hadn’t dinged its arrival, Luc undoubtedly would’ve have taken her right there, in the corridor of the Sagamore Hotel.

  And she would have let him.

  Chapter 7

  Clara couldn’t quell the little tremors that continued to zing through her nervous system as Luc quickly smoothed down her skirt. For the sake of her dignity, or perhaps give her a moment to recover from a body-racking orgasm, he positioned himself between her and the lift.

  “I’m so sorry, ma belle. I was so completely lost in you I forgot where we were.” Luc nosed her ear, whispering over her breathy panting.

  They remained so completely still, they might have been mistaken for a Rodin. Only their labored breaths betrayed them as a horny couple who hadn’t made it to the bedroom. Clara prayed the intruders couldn’t hear the erratic pounding of her heart.

  They were stumbling, obviously drunk, their uneven footsteps muffled by the carpeting, and one let out a belch as he walked by.

  “Hmm, beer, body odor, and fish. There’s a winning combination.”

  Clara inhaled deeply, still fighting for clarity from the passionate haze. “I guess we should take this inside,” she whispered, and gave Luc a wicked smile. She traced a thin trickle of sweat from his temple, across his cheekbone—

  Sweat. Sweat!

  He was sweating, she was sweating. Sweat smelled. He mentioned body odor. And fish. She probably reeked! The long walk, the humidity, the cream between her legs…

  Her cheeks burned with humiliation. She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back. “I need five minutes,” she squeaked.

  “What?”

  “Alone. In my room. Wait here.”

  Clara slid her key card, once, twice, three times before it finally opened and pushed her door in without looking back at Luc. She rushed to the vanity, opened her makeup bag, pulled out lipstick, deodorant—which she uncapped and applied with one hand—wee bottles of shampoo, conditioner, mousse—but where the hell was her body spray? No, it didn’t matter. Body spray wouldn’t begin to help. She needed a shower. A quick one. She’d keep her hair dry and her makeup intact so he’d never know. She’d be no more than two minutes. Two more minutes to towel off, slip into her robe, and open the door for Luc.

  Luc!

  Her heart raced at the thought of him standing in the hall. She mustn’t keep him waiting.

  “I’ll be right there,” she yelled, hoping he could hear her through the closed door.

  She stripped, leaving her sundress in a puddle on the bathroom floor, and jumped under the spray before it had a chance to warm up.

  She reached for the soap. Bugger! She’d left it next to the sink, out of reach. No worries, there was another bar on top of the toilet tank. Clara ripped the paper off the miniscule rectangle and ran it over it over her arms. Before she could get to the nether regions, it flew from her wet fingers. Bugger, bugger, bugger! She reached down to pick it up from the bottom of the tub, inadvertently sticking her head under the spray.

  “Bloody hell!” She carefully blotted the water from around her eyes so her mascara wouldn’t run. She had one foot out of the tub when she realized her neck and breasts were still soapy.

  “Don’t—” Bugger! The water bounced off her shoulders right into her face, “—go away!” she shouted.

  Luc pressed his forehead against the door and tried not to concentrate on the uncomfortable throbbing between his legs. He hadn’t felt this horny since Tracey Vanderboom let him get to second base after junior prom. Ah, Racy VanderBomb, they used to call her. Back then, it was adolescent hormones. What was his excuse tonight? Merde! He’d almost screwed Clara in a public hallway. She was so sweet, so fucking tasty and beautiful, he wasn’t thinking of anything else but what he was doing to her. What she was doing to him.

  Five minutes had to be up. He looked at his watch, surprised to see it was five in the morning. He’d been so entranced by her, so completely swept away that he didn’t notice the hours passing. It was almost morning.

  Morning! He had a meeting with Bartel in three hours. He still had to shave, shower, and read those newspapers he’d stuck in the backseat of his car. He didn’t care about sleep… that he could do without if it meant another hour with Clara.

  “Clara? Are you okay?” He took his impatience out on the door, slapping his palm against the wood. “I don’t care if your room is a mess.”

  There was no answer from inside. What was she doing? His stomach twisted when he came to the only viable conclusion.

  She’d had second thoughts. Regrets.

  From the moment he set eyes on her, he knew she was classy, a real lady, and clearly shy. And he had ravished her like some kind of wild beast, a rutting animal.

  Disgusted with himself, he dropped his forehead against the door. “Clara?” he called, his throat sore and tight.

  He thought he heard a muffled voice, could almost picture her, crying into a pillow, embarrassed over what happened in the hallway.

  “I’m sorry, Clara,” he said, trying to sound calm and understanding. “Please, just open the door.
”

  Another barely audible reply. The sweat on his brow turned cold. It sounded an awful lot like, “Just go away.”

  Luc stood in hall, disbelieving. He stared, trancelike, as the second hand made three full rotations around the face of his sports watch, desperately hoping he’d heard wrong, desperately wishing the door would swing open.

  It didn’t.

  Chapter 8

  Clara watched the sky grow brighter and tried to ignore the empty, hollow feeling in her gut. This was why she avoided one-night stands, this is why she took care never to have casual, throw-away sex. Because it made you feel discarded and cheap.

  Especially when they didn’t even stick around to complete the act.

  She was usually quite good at reading people, but Luc had her head on spin cycle. She really thought they’d hit it off, shared a connection, a combustible chemistry. Clearly, he didn’t agree.

  She may have been a few minutes past the five she’d begged for, but surely it hadn’t been that long. Had he even bothered to stick around or had he bolted the moment she shut the door? The worst of it was she’d never see him again to even ask. Not that she would ask…preserving one’s dignity and all that. Still, she’d like to know if her odor drove him to flee.

  Or perhaps he never had any intention of completing the act. She didn’t think she’d been acting too slutty, though all that talk of spankings may have turned him off and he’d just hidden his shock. Who knew what went on in the mind of an American male?

  Lydia!

  But she was somewhere over the middle of the Atlantic by now.

  Clara reached for her phone on the bedside table, prepared to text message her sorrow but there was already a message waiting for her: Were you good? Or was he? See you back home, lots to tell! xoxo LT