by Amelia Hart
"Yeah. He's the kind of guy who'd be good for the soul, I think. He's so nice. Like the best sort of medicine for a broken heart."
"Who said my heart was broken?" Felicity asked with a slight edge.
Eleanor's eyes widened and she backed up immediately, her hands half-raised to pat the air between them. "But of course you- I just thought- Don't mind me. I'm just chatting. You know what it's like. And I hate to see you sad. You're good people, too. Someone like you deserves someone like Luke. But not if you're not ready."
Felicity closed her eyes in a slow blink, suddenly feeling exhausted by the evening, by trying to act normal among too many people. She fixed a reassuring smile to her face.
"Thanks. That's kind of you to say." She paused, let Eleanor read her expression and see she had not caused offense, then lowered her gaze to her plate, carving away in determination at the last morsels. It was time to finish it and go home. Enough effort for tonight, and a new, better day tomorrow.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The rest of the weekdays passed slowly. Her routine had settled into its new shape, and she found it disconcerting how little her life actually changed following the end of her marriage. She had less work to do around the house, the meals she cooked were simpler and she had no one but herself to tidy after. Most of her errands were gone, and there were places she simply did not go anymore, like the stadium.
Honestly there was nothing she missed, except maybe the team a little, though she would see quite a few of them socially anyway. It was quietly horrifying how little real impact Dan had had on her world. He really had not added anything. How had she not seen that?
She had been willfully blind. The fact of her marriage had meant more to her than the truth of it. It said something pitiful to her about her need to get things right, to be conventional and proper. She had been obsessed with the outward appearance as if that would make the whole perfect.
It made her doubt her own judgment. Without question, it was the right choice to stay casual, single, emotionally unavailable.
Getting ready to go out dancing on Friday night – dancing with Luke – was odd. She was dressing up the same way she for going out solo, but planning to dance with Luke had her feeling like this was a date. She did not want a date. She wanted an excuse to get physically close to him, not to get to know him better.
He was exactly on time, halfway to the door when she - watching out for his arrival - opened it.
"You look beautiful," he said, wearing a beaming smile and offering her his arm. She felt the trammels of a 'date' snap shut around the evening in an inescapable grip. Obviously that was how he thought of things. It made her uncomfortable. She did not want to raise false expectations. She was not ready for a relationship and even if she had been she would not have picked him: too young for her, a jock, not clever enough.
She wondered if she should explain any of that to him, and decided it would be too rude. For now she let it slide.
He opened the door for her and she slid into the passenger seat of his car, feeling a stir of interest about it. Luke drove an old sedan, similar to the one her parents owned.
"So tell me about this car," she said, inquisitive as always about how people were spending their money. The tale of a person's spending was the tale of how they made their life choices. The overwhelming majority lived for the moment.
He shrugged. "Not much to tell. I bought it at the end of school from my parents when they upgraded to a new one. They serviced it regularly so it was in great condition. I've done the same and it's lasting well."
"You haven't thought of replacing it since you've gone pro?" Every football player she had ever known owned a flashy, powerful car. For many of them it was the first thing they bought with the huge leap in income that came with turning pro.
"No. No way. That money's for my future."
"That's . . ." unexpectedly wise, were the words that popped into her head and she held back. She did not want to sound patronizing. She was well aware delayed gratification was a sign of intelligence, but congratulating him on it was almost a put-down, ". . . unusual," she finished cautiously.
"I figure I only get a few years playing, and if I can stick it all in the bank it'll give me a good start on the rest of my life."
"Hmmm. As a financial analyst. I can tell you that attitude's pretty rare. I bet the other team members hassle you about this car."
"Some do."
"And that doesn't bother you?"
"Nah. I'm the secure type. Don't need a big hunk of metal to assert my machismo."
"Great. So . . . uh . . . what do you do when you're not training or playing?"
He glanced at her, his eyebrows raised. "Hobbies and such?"
"Yes. If you have any."
"I hang out with friends, mostly. Read a bit. Watch sport. Since I came here, that is. My last place I had a garden but here I'm in a condo."
"You like to garden?"
"Yeah."
She inspected him, trying to make this fit with her image of the typical footballer. The sex, drugs, rock-and-roll lifestyle of the professional athlete – especially those who were single. Gardening. That was a surprise. "So you don't get to do that anymore?"
"No. I miss it. I thought it would be a good idea to buy the condo. It's a great building, no maintenance issues and I wanted to work hard when I was at work, then relax when I wasn't. But now I know what I'm doing on the field I miss having my fingers in the soil. Next off-season I think I'll look around, get a place with a bit of land, turn it into something nice."
"So quite a creative process, then?"
"Yeah. I like to make things. Work with my hands."
Directed by the comment, she glanced at his hands where they gripped the steering wheel, broad and capable. They were well-shaped, too. Attractive hands. She remembered the feel of them on her body, strong and gentle, and how his touch had made her wild. Yes, he was good with his hands, and then some.
The thought made her feel flushed with heat. Perhaps he would touch her again tonight. She hoped he would. That he would use those big hands on her and she could stop thinking and just be young and vital and alive. "So are we going to the same place tonight?"
"I'm happy to, since I guess you like it."
"How can you tell?" she asked dryly.
He slanted a laughing glance at her, obviously seeing the trap she was laying to get him to acknowledge following her. "You were having so much fun on the dance floor. All those college boys."
"College boys! They were older than that."
"I don't think so. Just kids, really."
"Didn't seem very childish to me."
"No? Well perhaps that's in the eye of the beholder."
"Oh, because of course you're so terribly mature yourself."
"I've been around the block a time or two."
"You're only – what? – twenty-five?"
"Twenty-seven."
"Ancient."
"Old enough to know a college boy when I see one."
"Nonsense."
"They were probably there on fake IDs. You made their night. That one in particular."
"I doubt it."
"I saw his face when he was walking away. He was smug. He had reason to be, of course."
"Not that much reason."
"Reason enough."
"Not as much as you," she said impulsively, then blushed as he looked at her again, his eyes warm.
"That's true. I did hold you longer, kiss you longer."
"That's not what I mean." He raised an eyebrow, and after a moment she pushed herself to go on. "More that you were a much better kisser."
"Oh ho. Well, you know, college boys. What do they know about anything?"
"Apparently not enough."
"Apparently not. Of course if you'd kissed me like that when I was that age I'd have learned damned quick."
"Fast learner, then?" she teased him.
"Excellent motivation."
"So you're saying I d
idn't motivate him enough?"
"He was a slow learner."
She laughed softly. "I think your logic is flawed."
"Maybe a little skewed in your direction." He stopped at traffic lights, tilted his head towards her, a small smile of enjoyment curving his lips. "Your ability to be real compelling. If he didn't learn under those conditions there's no hope for him. You've got what's known as natural favoritism."
"Natural favoritism?"
"It's one step further than natural selection. It's when nature selects someone and then bestows an unnatural number of gifts on her."
"Now you're claiming to be nature's gift?"
He gave a startled laugh. "Uh, no, I hadn't gone as far as thinking nature had a hand in bestowing me on you. But I could be yours if you wanted it." His grin made the comment lighthearted. The signal changed and he pulled away.
"Very generous."
"Well that's how it is when you're one of nature's favorites. Everyone wants to give you something."
"You want to give me something?"
"And then some."
"Well." She shifted in her seat, heated and off balance.
"Well indeed."
He started to maneuver his car into a parking space and she realized she had not even noticed the journey. Maybe he was not always as monosyllabic as he had seemed when she first met him. Had she rushed to judge him? Surely not too much. Perhaps he brought his A-game to dates.
As they walked to the club he took her hand in his, casually, and she felt the frisson of awareness all the way through her, making her wide awake and tingling. Such an intense physical reaction she had to him. So strange. So exciting.
The music was pumping at the club, but the dance floor was still empty, though the crowd was building, clustered around the edge of the dance floor, talking and laughing.
Luke was not shy, though. Without hesitation he led her out into the middle of that empty space, already moving to the beat. She took a deep breath and steeled herself to join in, not one of nature's performers. She did not like to be the center of attention and at the moment she was, though it was only seconds before others joined them, dispersed in loose knots across the floor that had been clear. Obviously they had been waiting for the signal the business of the night had begun.
With plenty of space around them, Luke gave her space too. He had a quirky sense of humor when he danced, riffing off what she was doing, going retro and laughing over moves like 'the robot' or 'moonwalk' that made her laugh too because she remembered kids practicing those at school. It was funny watching this big, cool athlete break out the old school stuff. Geeky and appealing. Particularly when underneath it was such a great ability to really dance, to capture the rhythm and make it his, that fission of physical ability and sex appeal.
She relaxed, loosened up, began to enjoy herself, his clowning giving her permission to get it wrong or strange or a bit nerdy. She did not have to impress him. This was delightful. He flirted with her, close then further apart, brushed against her as if by accident, moved away then returned.
She felt each touch far too intensely, frightening and wonderful.
As the club filled and the pack of bodies became dense they came nearer and nearer and the atmosphere began to heat. She watched him under her lashes, how his body moved, how it was put together so beautifully, a magnet for her eyes. She remembered how bold she had been the first time she danced with him, how it had been easy to just let him know she wanted him. The desire to put her hands on him rose up in her again but now she hesitated. His rejection had been humiliating. She knew why he had turned her down. She knew the end of her marriage – mutually acknowledged – made anything possible, but still instinct was difficult to master. As the mood changed she could not make eye contact anymore.
Eventually it was he who stepped forward into her space, so close she had to look at him, there was nowhere else for her eyes to rest. So she did, giving him a sultry smile meant to hide her uncertainty. He wore that intensity she had seen in him before, the look that said she was the only thing he saw, that he was captivated by her.
It was a heady feeling, receiving that look from a man like him, so fit, so healthy, such a supreme male animal. It made her want to sigh and flutter, to be the softest, sweetest cotton candy of a girl, all willing surrender to that masculine power. It said he wanted to possess her, and her body said 'yes. Oh, yes.'
She had to fight a mental battle to allow herself, though. The hint of dominance awoke her new defenses. She was not willing to be ruled by a man again, to lose herself.
But it was only sex. Not a contract for more. Not ownership of any sort. It would be okay to be herself sexually, to yield, so long as she kept her boundaries in place. Just sex, just fun, casual sex.
So she fluttered her eyelashes, sashayed a little, deliberately, delicately provocative. He put his hand in the small of her back, his other hand between her shoulder blades, stepped in close and dipped her in a way that owed much more to Latin dancing than their more modern moves. She gasped and clung to him, came up laughing with a 'Wow’ on her lips.
He spun her around in a tight circle, careful not to knock her into anyone. It was dark and crowded and no one was watching them play. No one saw the way he welded them together from thigh to chest, and only she knew about that hidden response of his body pressed between them, already becoming familiar. Only she knew how her heart raced in response, caught breathless between fading laughter and the urgency of desire.
She took a sobbing breath and wanted quite suddenly to be alone with him. She wanted his clothes off, wanted his skin on hers, to feel the male roughness of it. She wanted to wrap her hand around his erection, feel the silky hot length of it, all for her. She eased a hand between them, sucking in her stomach, rubbed against the denim of his pants and saw his eyes open wide in shocked pleasure.
Yes, this was how it should be: that reckless wildness, freedom to touch and the boldness to do so. To do what she wanted when she wanted and not be ruled by caution. Yes! This was it. She grinned in delight, rubbed him in a firm, knowing stroke until he closed his eyes and tilted his head back. When he focused on her a long moment later, pressed his big hand over her smaller one and held it in place with the broad ridge of his response in her palm, he was breathing hard. His eyes were half-lidded and there was a dazed look on his face.
"God," he said fervently. "What you do to me, woman!" He brought his mouth down close to her ear, she tilted her head to give him better access and felt the brush of his lips against the tender flesh there as he said: "I want to touch you. I want to touch you all over." His free hand cupped her flank, his thumb rubbed the side of her breast. "I want to send you to heaven. Will you let me put my mouth on you?"
He reared back to look at her face, and for a moment she thought he meant he wanted to kiss her mouth. But he was not looking at her mouth, he was looking her in the eye, waiting for an answer to what she suddenly realized was a much more intimate question.
Her own mouth dropped open and she felt the heat of a massive blush suffuse her to be spoken to like this on the middle of a dance floor, to be asked outright if she would let him serve her so intimately. Let him, as if it was an honor she might bestow.
'No' would be the wrong answer, but 'yes' was a huge declaration of intent, the naming of her desire and the will to wield it. She paused, and her hand crept to her face, the tip of her index finger pressing into the flesh of her lower lip.
His gaze dropped to her mouth now, and the look he gave that finger was hot enough to scorch it, his chest visibly rising and falling. She felt a twitch under her other hand as he became even more engorged. Still he waited for her answer, not releasing her from the tension of the moment.
She nodded and said: "Yes," and he cupped the back of her head with one hand and with the other he brought that finger of hers to his mouth and sucked on it fiercely, briefly. Then he put his mouth over hers in possession hot as a brand, his tongue plunging between her lips, fin
ding hers to stroke it, lure it to him to suck. She could barely think, her perceptions of the room, the music, the crowd all whirled away, lost under the lust that rose in her at his passionate onslaught. He had been careful with her before, gentle and controlled, and now he was not, as if some line had been crossed in his mind.
It made her burn to feel how much he wanted her, so he shook with the force of it, so she shook within the hard circle of his arms, moved by him. So hungry. He was curved around her and she yearned to be closer still.
"Take me home," she said, breaking away, said it a second time, louder, in his ear. Now, while her desire was stronger than her caution, her inhibitions. Now, while her whole body thrilled to the power and passion of him.
He did not hesitate. He lifted her up so her sternum was pressed onto one shoulder, his forearm a bar under her bottom, and with his other shoulder he cleared a path through the mass of heaving bodies, barely polite. She laughed and blushed, putting one hand up against her hot cheek as he forged his way past strangers who glanced upwards at her in surprise. This was crazy. He was crazy.
He was crazy for her.
She had been neglected for a decade, and it had taught her how to measure her own worth. This was so different it left her struggling to keep up.
When they were at clear of the scrum at the dance floor he put her down and held her hand, towing her as she trotted on her toes, moving too fast in her high-heeled boots.
"Slow down, what's the hurry?" she asked, a little breathless.
He turned back to flash her a grin. "I don't want you to change your mind."
"Why would I do that?"
"For no earthly reason I can think of, but you've caught me by surprise before." The teasing was a thin veneer of humor over the excitement she saw sparkling in his eyes, the steely resolve. This was important to him, she could sense it, and she felt guilty to be using him this way, wondered if she should warn him, decided not to. He was an adult, he knew her situation, and she did not want to break the mood with a conversation about how they were wrong for each other in every way except for this, where it seemed they were just right.