Playing Hard

by Melanie Scott

  She shrugged out of her jacket and turned on the shower. Her apartment wasn’t anywhere as big as Oliver’s but the bathroom was big enough for two people and the shower wasn’t over the bath. It should be easy enough for Oliver to step into.

  Fingers moving down her shirt, she opened the buttons and let it join the jacket on the floor.

  “Amelia, you’re spoiling all my fun.”

  “Oh, you’ll get your fun,” she said, smiling as she shimmied out of her skirt then her stockings. At least she’d worn a decent bra and underwear under her suit. Not her sexiest but lacy and pretty. Judging by Oliver’s expression he approved. But he stayed where he was, half resting against the vanity just watching her. She lit the candles she had in the little niche in the tile at the end of her bath, straightened as the flames flared to life and then flicked off the light switch.

  The candles gave just enough light. Enough to stop either of them from killing themselves in the darkness, but not enough to ruin the intimacy wrapping around them.

  Oliver sucked in a breath as she turned back to him, and her pulse started to pound.

  He was very still. Only the movement of his chest up and down with each breath showed him to be a real live man rather than a figment of her overheated imagination.

  She still wasn’t used to the fact that she could do this. Could walk over there and touch him. Take off his clothes. Put her hands on his body. That he wanted her to. It was dizzying and she was glad of the candlelight, hoping it hid the flush on her face. Oliver’s skin had turned a deeper golden shade in the light, almost the color of the palest part of a flame itself.

  Tempting her to move to the light.

  Tempting her to embrace the heat.

  Tempting her to burn.

  She was so giving in to temptation.

  She moved in, stopping when she was just out of reach. Gave herself another moment to take him in. Then she looked up at him and smiled.

  “Amelia?” he said, the sound more breath than voice.

  “Sssh. Ladies’ choice, remember? Stand there and let me do what I want.”

  “Oh, I’m not moving. Not even if the building catches on fire.”

  She moved closer, put her palm flat on his chest. Felt how warm the cotton of his shirt was, heated by his skin underneath. Felt the vibration of his heartbeat beneath her touch. A little too fast. She did that to him.

  Her.

  Plain old Amelia Graham.

  She made Oliver Shields’s heart race.

  The knowledge made her own heart race, blood rushing through her like hot wine, making her dizzy. Making her want. She wanted to put her hands on him. More than her hands.

  His buttons were faster to open than hers had been. And she knew how his cuff links worked. Sliding the shirt off him had to go a little more slowly because of his right hand, but it still didn’t take long.

  Naked from the waist up, he looked even more like a fantasy. Like every ridiculous male-model pose come to life. Only on him it wasn’t ridiculous. On him, it was delicious.

  Tantalizing.

  Appetizing.

  He hadn’t worn a belt and hell, she didn’t need him fully undressed for this part anyway.

  She let her hands slide down his chest, down his abdomen, tracing the muscles like the contours of a map. Resting them for a moment on the vee of muscle that arrowed down from each hip like a signpost. She had no idea what that muscle was called, but it had always been one of her favorite parts of male anatomy.

  Part of the temptation of the jocks she’d been attracted to but never let herself date.

  If that made her shallow, then screw it. Tonight she was going to be shallow. Tonight she would have her way with him. Hopefully he would return the favor.

  Her hands drifted to the button at his waistband. His muscles tensed beneath her hand, but apart from that she wasn’t sure he was moving. If he was breathing.

  Until she flicked open the button and dragged her fingers down the hard length of cock imprisoned by his straining boxer briefs. That drew a groan from him that made her toes curl.

  The sound was need, pure and simple. Male and raw. Hungry. For her.

  “So impatient,” she said. And repeated the movement. The second noise torn from his lips made the heat bloom so quickly between her own legs that she forgot about teasing him and just yanked the trousers down off his hips before shoving his briefs down to free him.

  His erection sprang free. Hard. Eager.

  Well, she was pretty eager, too.

  She sank to her knees.

  Oliver’s breath was a rasp. She stared up at him, saw the wild black of his eyes burning down at her, then closed her hand around him and bent her head to taste him.

  He was hot against her tongue. Hot and male, the first taste of him, only making her want more.

  She pressed her thighs together, but that only intensified the ache.

  So she focused on him. On the slide of his skin under her tongue. On the subtle curves and hollows of him. On learning the sensitive places that made him shiver when she licked or sucked or blew.

  His hand came down in her hair, tangling in it, urging her closer. She didn’t need the urging. She loved doing this. Loved having him in her power.

  Loved the sounds and the shudders that ran through him and the way he grew harder and hotter against her lips with each passing second.

  It had to almost hurt to be that hard, that ready. The way it almost hurt now that she wasn’t lying with him inside her, easing the ache between her legs. Her nipples were rock-hard, the slight friction from the silk of her bra almost unbearable.

  She didn’t know how much longer she could take it, let alone him. But she wanted to make him come this way. Wanted to make him come apart. She added her hands to the game, one hand holding him to take the rest of him into her mouth, the other gripping his butt to make sure he stayed where she wanted. He arched into her, the movement rough now, but she didn’t care.

  Just kept going. Took the thrusts as deep as she could and urged him on until finally he shouted her name and she tasted salt as he came hard.

  When his grip in her hair eased and he slumped back against the vanity, she rose, reached past him, and filled the glass she used for brushing her teeth with water.

  “Amelia, you really need to warn a guy before you do that,” he said.

  She tilted her head. “You asking for a time-out?” She took a quick gulp of water.

  His eyes narrowed. “No,” he growled. “It’s my turn.” He held out his right hand, and she knew what he was asking. She tried to be careful as she removed the splint and unwound the bandage but her hands were shaking, the longing scorching her skin now that he was focused on her again.

  The dressing on his hand crossed the width of his palm but hid the exact extent of his injury from her view.

  Still, it was odd seeing both his hands free. She pressed a kiss to his fingertips then bent to loosen the walking boot and his shoe so he could step out of his pants.

  “A little water won’t hurt that,” he said as she put her hand to the bandage on his ankle. “And it’s my turn now.”

  “I thought anticipation was a good thing?” She slipped off her bra. Stripped out of her underwear. Took a little extra time with it just to see his expression go even more intent.

  “Only within reasonable limits. And you blew past my reasonable limits when you put your mouth on me.” He moved to the shower, turned the water on. Waited for it to warm then crooked his finger. “Ladies first.”

  “I thought it was ladies’ choice?” But she wasn’t a masochist so she went into the shower willingly, stepped through the cascading water—thankful for the excellent water pressure as always—and turned, moving back until her spine hit the tiles so there was room for him to follow her into the heat and steam.

  “Are you sure shower sex is a good idea?” she said. “Slippery. Hard to balance.”

  In reply, he just grinned. Then unhooked the handheld shower a
ttachment from its clip. “Oh, I think we can manage,” he said. “I’m inventive.”

  She looked at the showerhead, gulped. She had, on occasion, gotten inventive with the showerhead herself. It had made her think fondly of whichever past inhabitant of the apartment had installed the sybaritic device. It made a nice change from fingers or her favorite vibrator. It got the job done but it had never made her knees wobble at the sight of it before. Oliver’s fingers wrapped around the chrome, however, made her lose her breath. She braced a hand against the tile, unsure whether she was going to be able to stay upright. And here she’d thought that he was the one who needed to be cautious. Oliver moved closer then flicked the lever on the shower that changed it from the overhead stream to the handheld one.

  “Like I said, my turn now.” He kissed her then, doing nothing more with the water than letting it play over both of them while he took her mouth. Fierce kisses. Nothing gentle or cautious about them. Kisses designed for one thing. To make her hotter and wetter and needier than she already was.

  He didn’t touch her with his injured hand, which meant, with his good hand holding the shower, that he didn’t touch her at all. And oh, she wanted to be touched. She arched herself against him, wanting friction. Wanting skin on skin. The hair on his chest scraped against her nipples. Good. Very good but not yet enough.

  “Please,” she said, writhing harder. “I want—”

  He stepped back and she felt the spray change to a heavier stream of water. It moved across her body, making her flesh pulse and tingle everywhere it hit, as though it was his hand sliding across her. She closed her eyes, rested her head against the tile, sure the heat was going to consume her.

  The water moved lower. “Open,” he said.

  She didn’t think he meant her eyes. She wasn’t sure she could have opened her eyes if she’d tried. But her body knew what it wanted and she moved her thighs farther apart.

  “If only you could see how good you look right now,” he said. “God, Amelia—”

  “Please,” she interrupted. “I need to come. Please.”

  He groaned and kissed her again. And then the water hit her between her legs. The hot rush of pressure against her clit made light pinwheels across her closed eyelids and she heard herself gasping. The pressure didn’t move, didn’t relent, didn’t let her get away from the pleasure that rushed to answer it. Not even when she started to arch and tremble as the orgasm exploded through her. Oliver swallowed her cry of pleasure with his mouth. Moved the water away, let her tangle her arms around his neck to hold herself upright as the aftershocks moved through her, made her boneless.

  When she finally lifted her head and blinked up at him, smiling like she was drunk, he grinned. “Very good, Amelia,” he said. “Now, how do you feel about an encore?”

  * * *

  When they made it back to the bed, Oliver pulled her close to his chest and she snuggled up gratefully, the combination of a very long day and several mind-blowing orgasms making her very, very sleepy. The shower had chased away the tired ache of a long day but replaced it with a desire to melt into a happy puddle of oblivion for a while. She didn’t want to think about the way-too-few hours between now and when her alarm was set to shriek.

  There wasn’t going to be enough coffee in the world to make tomorrow pleasant. She might as well enjoy this moment of pleasure while she could.

  “Finn didn’t look happy to see you talking to me,” Oliver said, out of the blue.

  She craned her neck back. “You know he’s not a fan of yours.”

  “That feeling is mutual. Particularly after the way he talked to you tonight.”

  “He was pissed off about losing.”

  “I’m pissed off about losing,” Oliver said. “I’m not taking it out on you.”

  Well, not in the same way as Finn had. If bathroom sex was Oliver’s way of distracting himself, then she was on board.

  “It’s not quite the same, though, is it?” she asked. “I mean, tell me if I’m being dumb, but you didn’t play tonight.”

  He stiffened underneath her. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but that is dumb. I’ve played for the Saints for fifteen years. It doesn’t matter if I’m on the field or not. They’re like my—”

  “Family?” she said softly.

  “I guess,” he said. “I mean, I have a great family of my own. I love them all to death but I never quite fit in with them.”

  What? She’d seen the pictures. He hadn’t looked like the outsider kid in any of them. Her confusion must have shown on her face because Oliver shook his head.

  “I don’t mean they don’t love me,” he said. “Or that they were anything less than supportive. But people in my family are lawyers and doctors and engineers and business barons. Everyone is big on brains and using your mind to make a success of life. Whereas me, well, I fell in love with baseball the first time I picked up a ball and threw it. I need to move. Need to play. Need to use my body. I’m not stupid, I had early acceptance to colleges when Tom Jameson recruited me. But the thought of being cooped up at a desk all day … well, that’s not me.”

  “You’re an athlete,” she said. She ran a hand down his chest, feeling the ridges of muscle that proved her words true. His body was finely tuned. Hard-earned. “I can understand that.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not sure my family ever has. They love me and they’re proud of me but I’m pretty sure there’s a part of my mom and dad just counting down the days until I retire and get a real job.”

  “Even after all this time?”

  He shrugged, which felt distinctly weird from her current position. “Families are strange. But it’s okay. Because the Saints are my family, too. They understand the part of me that my own family doesn’t. Understand what it means to love baseball. They get me.” He hesitated. “Is that how it is with the Castros for you?”

  She turned in his arms, propping herself up. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re obviously close. You told me what they did for you and your mom. And your mom isn’t here tonight.”

  “My mom hates to fly,” Amelia said. “I offered her a train ticket but I think she thought the series was going to be over quickly and it wasn’t worth the time. She’s not really into sports. She’s never had much spare time, so she always made sure she did stuff she enjoyed when she wasn’t doing stuff with me.”

  “She worked a lot?”

  Amelia nodded. “It was just her. It probably would have made more sense for her to leave Chicago, move back to her hometown—she’s from a little place down in southern Illinois. It would have been cheaper, for one thing.”

  “So why didn’t she?”

  “I never asked. If I had to guess, I’d say it was part stubbornness, part embarrassment that her marriage had failed. She always said the schools were better in Chicago. I’m not sure she fit in herself back home. She married my dad while she was still in college. Dropped out.” Because she was knocked up with me. She didn’t say that part.

  “Tough woman to bring you up on her own,” he said. “I’m glad you had the Castros.”

  “Me too.”

  His arm tightened around her. “We’re going to have to tell Finn sooner or later, you know. Unless you’re planning on just using me for sex for a few weeks and then breaking my heart.”

  She sucked in a breath. Breaking his heart? His tone was light, but something about his face made her think he’d just admitted something. Something maybe he didn’t quite realize himself yet. “Not planning to, no,” she said. “So yes, we can tell Finn. But maybe let’s give him a few more days.”

  “You know, you don’t have to tiptoe around his feelings. He’s a big boy. I’m sure he can handle it. Eventually. And if he doesn’t, screw it. You don’t owe him your happiness.”

  She hesitated. “Maybe not. But his sister is my best friend. If there’s a way to do this with minimal fallout, then I’d like to try that way first.”

  He tilted his head. “Why do I get the feeling
you’re not telling me everything? Finn was a flat-out dick to you tonight and yet you’re cutting him slack. I have to confess, I really don’t get it. You seem to spend a lot of time worrying about his feelings but does he worry about yours? What’s Finn ever done for you?”

  “He saved my mom’s life,” she said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.

  Oliver’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “He saved her life. My mom’s cancer, well, it was bad. She had a lumpectomy at first. Chemo. They thought it was all fine. But then it came back. This time she had a double mastectomy. More chemo. It knocked her around. She seemed to be getting better. But about a year later, she was tired all the time, not feeling well. They thought the cancer was back but it was aplastic anemia—that’s a blood thing where your body stops making enough new blood cells. In her case because of all the chemo. It did a number on her immune system. Lots of people recover from it but she wasn’t getting any better, no matter what they tried. So they decided she needed a bone marrow transplant. We all got tested—Finn was too young so he couldn’t, but no one was a match. She was on the registry for a donor but no match. The day Finn turned eighteen, he went to her doctor and got tested. And he was a match. So he donated. Missed a couple of his high school championship games to do it and everyone tried to talk him out of it because of that. But he insisted. And it worked. Finn saved her, Ollie. I can’t ever repay that.”

  Oliver didn’t say anything. He just watched her, an expression that wasn’t quite a frown drawing his brows together. The silence started to make her nervous. “Say something.”

  His frown deepened. “I’m not sure what to say.”

  “Why? Because you can’t imagine Finn being a good guy?”

  “Maybe. He doesn’t exactly play the white knight around me. But no, that’s not it.”

  “Then what?”

  “Not sure I know how to say it … I understand you must feel grateful to him—that’s a hell of a thing Finn did—and I know the Castros have done a lot for you. But have you ever thought that maybe you don’t have to repay it? That they don’t expect it. Or at the very least, you don’t have to let gratitude outweigh the fact that you deserve to be happy. And treated well.”