by Mel Curtis
Jack dragged his wet fingers down her chin, along her throat, between her breasts, which were heavy with wanting. He made a trail with his fingers across her belly and to the gold mine between her legs. Then his hand turned to cup her mound. He slid his fingers into her wetness, teasing her, filling her, making her knees buck with greedy need.
He bodied up to Cora, pushing her inside, slamming the door behind them, ridding her of the robe, which pooled on the floor at her feet.
The air conditioner was trying to make up for all that heat he’d let in, but it wasn’t working. Jack’s hands kneaded her flesh, he nipped at the cords of her neck, heating her body, priming her to go up in flames.
She unfastened his belt and pants, slid her hands beneath the band of his boxers, and came up with a long, hard treasure. Her five inch heels guaranteed his gold could slip into her gold mine, right there in the hallway.
“Condom,” she whispered, snatching it from him when he withdrew it from his pocket. Once protection was in place, she wrapped a leg around his waist.
Jack gathered her up, while she guided him in, sheathing him where he most needed to be, where she’d get maximum pleasure.
He shoved her against the wall, not hard enough to hurt, but with enough enthusiasm to excite her.
She dug her nails into his shoulders, willing him to look her in the eyes, letting the tension build with each of his powerful strokes.
Look at me. Kiss me.
Words she’d never say, as he might take them as a weakness. And Cora wasn’t weak, would never make herself vulnerable to a man. But she could demand. “Touch me.”
He didn’t look at her. He didn’t kiss her. He’d never been that intimate when he was inside her. It was an unspoken condition of their affair. No intimacy. No pillow talk. Just damn good sex.
His hand slipped around as she’d commanded, applying just the right amount of pressure on her bud, bringing her up-up-up, until she was practically crawling up his body, crying out in pleasure.
After her release, his hips bunched one last time.
Cora clung to him, to that one moment of completion, where she felt loved.
He raised his face to the ceiling. “Damn it.” He always spoiled the afterglow with regret. She never knew if his regret came from their disparity in age, his perception of her as his weakness, or – worse – a lingering affection for his wife.
Regardless, he carried Cora into the kitchen, set her on the counter, and grabbed a bunch of paper towels. He wet them in the sink and cleaned them both off with efficient, gentle ministrations.
His gaze turned remorseful. He was thinking about leaving.
She reached for the strategically placed remote on the counter and turned the television to ESPN. Distraction, she’d learned, kept him there for at least another round.
Lord, have mercy, they were showing a college basketball scouting report.
Cora hopped down and, still naked except for the stilettos, poured him a whiskey on the rocks.
He accepted the drink almost absent-mindedly, and went to sit in the living room on the couch.
Cora debated. She could put on her robe, but he wouldn’t notice. His mind was spinning around possibilities for his team, value calculations, playing statistics, fit with the players he had. Not that he said any of this to her. Since her father had introduced them last year, Cora had studied the game and what information Jack needed as owner and general manager of the team. In case Jack ever asked her opinion.
He’d never asked her opinion.
Intellectually, she knew what this relationship was–a dead end. He was separated from his wife. Cora was available. He didn’t ask her out. He didn’t take her to dinner. He just fucked her. And she liked it that way. Or she would have if he’d just look her in the eyes during sex.
It wasn’t worth arguing over. It gave her a rush to have been chosen by Jack–a rich and powerful man–and to have him return to her, again and again. She’d come into this taking just as much as he had, but somewhere over the course of the past few months, the power had shifted from being equal to her feeling as if he was in control.
Cora didn’t like it.
She opened a container of white whipped frosting she’d bought the other day, along with other inventive items she’d purchased to entice him to stay for a second round. She didn’t want anything about his time here to be short or boring.
Her heels clacked with slow purpose across the kitchen tile to the hardwood in the living room. She knew on some level he could hear her, but he wouldn’t look up. He wouldn’t smile. He wouldn’t reach for her.
That was the demoralizing part of his booty calls. He looked at her body. He didn’t see her. She was a distraction and if she wasn’t careful he’d treat her the same as he did when he saw her in public – like he barely knew she existed. She resented being dismissible. If any of her other bed-buddies tried to dismiss her, she’d dismiss them. Permanently.
She didn’t want to think about why.
Standing in front of Jack, but not blocking the big screen, she knelt before him, undoing his zipper. She slid his boxers to his thighs, pleased to find he was erect once more. She dipped her fingers into the small cup of whipped frosting and slathered it over his penis. It jerked and trembled, as if it couldn’t wait for what she planned next.
He swore, sparing her a glance that held a hint of reluctance.
“I’m not bothering you, am I?” And then she began to lick the frosting from him.
His large hand fisted in her hair, guiding, encouraging, controlling.
She resented his control. She wanted the power.
Cora yanked his hand out of her hair and toward her breast. She was half in his lap now and in a strong rhythm. The frosting was gone, leaving her with nothing but silken skin over hardened flesh.
He swore again, coming in her mouth, squeezing her breast. His expression was fierce, no hint of remorse.
Triumph cascaded through her.
She reached for the frosting, crawled onto the couch next to him, and lay back. She dug one heel into his thigh and the other into his shoulder, parting her legs so he could see every inch of what heaven looked like. And then she spread frosting on each nipple, and made a frosting arrow down to the gold mine between her legs.
This time when he cursed it wasn’t with reluctance.
This time when he cursed she knew she wasn’t dismissible.
You can tell Cora wants to be loved. But once you earn a bad reputation, it’s hard to be anything else. So she decides to take a sabbatical from sex and, of course, that’s when Coach Trent Parker, aka The Reverend, lands in her path.
Cora knew better than to kiss in anger. She always regretted it in spades.
In the history of Cora’s spades, kissing Trent Parker had to rank in the top three.
First was her loss of virginity to Robby Reevus in high school. She should have taken her mother’s advice and paid a professional. But Lucia just wouldn’t let up when Cora came home from a date with a hickey on her neck. Five seconds after Cora shut her bedroom door that night, she’d slipped out the window, tracked down Robby, and experienced the most disappointing thirty seconds of her life.
Second would have to be kissing Cy Maxwell when she was twenty-one. The talent agent had just asked Cora to be exclusive the day before she saw him at a bar with a pop star in his lap. She’d waited on shaky, angry legs in a dark corner until the blonde got up to use the restroom. Then Cora took her place–straddling Cy, locking lips, and dry humping him until they were both breathless and the pop princess left in disgust. Cora followed her out the door shortly thereafter, trying to convince herself she’d shown Cy who was boss. She should have gone with the classic drink in the face move.
And now she was kissing a man who didn’t need trouble any more than she did. A man who was wrapping his arms around Cora. A man who knew how to kiss with indecent intent.
This man was the Reverend?
Her fingertips teased the r
uff of short, brown hair at his neck. His tongue stroked against hers, hot and urgent and demanding.
She’d been angry–at her father, at Jack, at the world.
Now she was turned on.
By a man who was one of her clients.
In name only.
It wasn’t like Trent wanted to be her client. What he wanted was clearly communicated by the hard-on pressed against her abdomen. What her body wanted was telegraphed to him by the arch of her back, and the seal of her hips against his.
I’m corrupting the Reverend.
Luck bicycled past, ringing its bell and laughing.
This had disaster written all over it.
“Whoa, big fella.” She pushed him back and tried to catch her breath, tried to remember that guys like Trent were only interested in women like her for one reason. “Clearly, I’ve had too much alcohol.”
In a heartbeat, his gaze went from hot and needy to cool and contained. “Why is it I think two shots wouldn’t faze you?”
Normally, they didn’t. She realized her hands were resting on Trent’s shoulders, on that ill-fitting jacket, and withdrew them. “I’m not a tease. I have temper issues.”
“You control your temper by kissing men you just met? That’s hazardous to your reputation.” The condemnation in his voice contradicted the bulge in his zipper.
“Hey, I didn’t frisk you for a condom, did I?” She took a step back, her nether regions still protesting a halt to the proceedings. “I’m not a sex addict. It’s just that you’re attractive, it’s been a crap day, and…Wow, I’m not making this any better, am I?”
“No.” He put his hands behind his back and leaned against the door, still bulging.
There’s always one man a plucky heroine can’t avoid. And Trent is Cora’s.
Trent shot Cora with that wicked grin that had a direct line to her libido. “I have so many decisions waiting to be made, so much on my mind, that when you enter my radar, my brain goes a little haywire.” His smile was a beacon. It sent out a signal. That signal said he was interested. In sex. With her.
Whoa.
“There’s not going to be a bump and grind tonight,” Cora said, when what she wanted to say was, “How many times are we going to do the bump and grind tonight?” She tugged down her shorts. “I’m not that experienced in dating, but I don’t think people have sex on the first date and expect to have a second date.”
“I wouldn’t know, being newly divorced and not having dated in a decade.” Discarding his flip-flops, Trent lifted his legs onto the couch, stretching them toward her. “Don’t tell Evan, but his workouts are killing me. My body feels like an over-used rubber band, from my toes to my neck.”
Another come on, an invitation to give him a massage. Her pulse was pounding between her legs, begging her to submit. But she wasn’t going down that easily. “You could have soaked in a hot tub. I’m sure your hotel has one.”
“I have a Jacuzzi tub in my room.” The ball of his foot pressed into her hip. “It’s not the same as your magical touch, sugar.”
Sugar. No man had ever called her something so sweet.
Cora stared at the television and the game film they should be studying. Evan cut through the defenders and scored. She held herself very still. Catholic schoolgirl, scared virgin, Gemma-would-be-proud still. “What makes you so sure the Reverend won’t show up?”
“That responsible side of me is still here. It’ll still be here tomorrow.” His voice was as quiet and solemn as if he was making confession. “But I don’t have to be serious all the time.”
Cora nearly fell back and said, “Take me.” But there was the question of her own morality, who she wanted to be, and his respect for her in the morning.
“No sex.” She plucked Brutus out of Trent’s lap and set him on the floor, then stretched her legs across the couch, resting them in his lap. She lifted his foot into her lap.
Brutus retreated to his bed in the corner.
Trent had big, strong feet. For several minutes, they massaged each other instead of watching the game. It was nice to be touched without the obligation of sex. Maybe Amber was right. She should know somebody before she let somebody know her body. But it seemed as if she did know Trent. She’d read his history online, and watched film of him coaching. She’d seen firsthand what kind of man he was while he interacted with the team. He’d listened to a few of her secrets and shared a few of his own.
It’s not enough. The voice in her head sounded a lot like Amber’s.
“Antoine didn’t set up a screen for Evan,” Trent noted. He must have been sneaking glances at the screen. “That was bad.”
“Take a drink.”
He left his whiskey untouched on the coffee table. “I have a different game in mind.” He lifted her foot and placed her arch over his balls. “Every time someone makes a mistake, you make a move on me.”
“Someone? Anyone?” Desire pole danced around her veins and landed center stage between her legs, hot and wet. “Uh…When do you make a move on me?” She almost didn’t recognize her own voice. Husky, needy, unsure. She was used to sex on her terms. Foreplay? Seduction? They weren’t part of her regular repertoire.
“I’ve been thinking. As team coach, I have first dibs on Evan. And this was one of his better games. But when he makes a mistake, like he’s about to, I’ll make a move on you.”
“How do you know–”
Evan set a moving screen and was called for a foul.
Of course, Trent knew. He hadn’t worked his way up to the NBA because he was lackadaisical. He studied the game, his players, and his opponents. He planned ahead, like the new offense he was adding to the Flash’s tool box.
“Slow down, cowboy. We barely know each other.”
Too late. Trent’s legs were longer than Cora’s. His toes inched beneath the edge of her camisole. With a stretch of his leg, his foot was beneath her top. His heel rested on her waistband. His toes drummed over her bare nipple.
Air became a precious commodity. It took Cora more than a moment to fill her lungs and repeat, “We’re not having sex.”
“We’re not having sex.” He might just as well have added, “Yet.” His eyes darkened to a deep, dangerous brown. “And I do know you, sugar. I know you regret not making peace with your father. I know you like to work independently and that your sister is a demanding boss.” He curled his toes into her breast, wreaking all kinds of havoc with her lung function. “I know you’ve earned the players’ trust and respect.”
Her mouth was dry, anticipating his kiss and other things she’d like him to do to her body. “What about you? Do you respect me?” Here came the damper on the evening.
“I respect you. It’s who you work for that makes me nervous.” He wasn’t nervous. His smile was too confident, as were his toes. They teased her nipple. “What you should be asking about is trust. Trust is important to me.” His thumbs made small circles on the pad beneath her big toe. Cora felt a corresponding circle of heat in the area of her crotch. “Do you trust me?”
She wasn’t sure. But there was something in his eyes that wouldn’t allow her to admit it. Or maybe it was lust racing through her veins that wouldn’t allow her to admit it. “I let you in, didn’t I?”
He glanced at the television. “Oops. Your brother-in-law just got called for a foul.” Trent’s attention returned to her. His toes slipped down to curl against her abdomen.
He was as hot as a homemade biscuit and oh, so tempting. But she was laying off carbs. “Maybe we should watch something else.”
“Why?” He brought out that wicked smile. “Neither one of us has dated in awhile. You said we aren’t having sex. We’re practicing our moves. And you seem a bit rusty to me.”
I could show you how good rusty can be.
“What happened to unwanted distractions?” she asked, clinging to reason. “What happened to just talking?”
His eyes crinkled with warmth, his lips turned up with humor. Tangled with his body, ca
ught up in his easy presence, she felt safe and warm. Trent wasn’t giving her the hard come-on like Cal. He wasn’t showing up for a quick fuck. He seemed to…He seemed to…like her.
Cora couldn’t move.
Trent had no such limitations. He lifted her foot and ran his tongue over the pad beneath her toes. “I still can’t afford distractions, sugar, but I can’t seem to ignore my fascination with you.”
“Oh.” Little Miss Distraction was in trouble. Heart melting, resolve melting trouble.
“Oh, Ren, double-dribble. Turnover.” Trent tsked. His gaze sharpened to a dare. His thumbs pressed into the arch of her foot, much as she imagined he wanted to press inside her. “Your move.”
She relented. “We’re only going to explore some bases.” First base was already taken.
Cora repositioned his foot from her stomach to her mound. He let her set the pace, let her move his foot in a circular motion that was dizzying.
Bless his heart, Antoine was sulking because he’d been open when Ren made a mistake. Antoine didn’t move his feet to block the opposing player’s drive. Instead, he pushed his opponent to the ground.
“Antoine can be too emotional on the court.” She arched against Trent’s foot, eliciting an endearing groan from him.
Trent folded his knees on the outside of hers, gliding his big hands down her inner thighs until his thumbs rested beneath the hem of her shorts on either side of her silky thong. Any move she made would encourage a more intimate touch. “We won’t do anything you don’t want to do.”
Stop, while there’s still time, Cora, the life coach, whispered in her head.
But I’ve been good for so long, Cora, the reluctant abstainer, whispered in her head.
He pressed his thumbs into the hollow of her thighs. She couldn’t breathe. Too many things clogged her throat – indecision, desire, indecision, the promise of an orgasm. If only she’d kept extra batteries on-hand for her vibrator.
There was a huge player pile-up on the court.
“Whose mistake was that?” Cora breathed raggedly.
“Everyone’s.” With a tug, Trent snugged her hips next to his, pressing his hard length against her.