Fair Play (44 page)

Moaning, Michael reared up, rolling atop her. Smiling as he pushed the now damp tendrils of hair off her forehead, he looked down into her face lovingly.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Hi,” Theresa whispered back. She let her eyes drift shut, her body's pliancy the perfect foil to his pulsing hardness. Delirium caught her in its fevered grip as Michael's mouth went to her throat, feasting there. She wanted. God, how she wanted. And so, when he raised himself up slightly to begin unfastening the buttons of her blouse, she mouthed no protest. She knew the slow shuddering of her body as she lay beneath him said more than words could ever convey.

Her mind fogged as his fingers, strong and sure, lazily traced the twin swell of her breasts through the lacy cotton of her bra.
More,
she pleaded silently.
Do more.
Reading her mind, Michael allowed his fingers to creep beneath the elastic, his fingertips teasing and circling the erect nipples beneath. Theresa groaned, her pleasure mounting. She thought she heard him chuckle as his free hand reached around to unhook her, but she wasn't sure. Maybe it was delight burbling up in her own throat as his hands continued to exert just the barest touch on her breasts. The sensation was as delicious as it was maddening.

“Michael.” She sighed, his name a prayer as she twined her arms around his neck. He answered with a hard, fierce kiss, his mouth swallowing her gasp of surprise. Peeling away her shirt and bra, the cool night air brought goose bumps to her bare torso.

Tearing his mouth from hers, he drank her in. “Christ, you're beautiful.” Theresa opened her eyes in time to catch the dark, deep look in his. Carefully, he lowered his mouth to her breast, teeth gently tugging as wave after wave of pleasure shot through her. Theresa's body arched to meet each masterful flick of his tongue, each cooling blow of his breath upon her heated skin.
Soon,
she thought.
Soon.

“Is this okay?” Michael asked, pausing to take her romantic pulse.

“Fine.” Theresa gasped. All she wanted was for the touching to go on, for the feel of his body against hers to never, ever stop. She would do anything to prolong this moment, follow him anywhere if he promised to always, always touch her like this. Nothing else in the world mattered. Just the two of them here, now, like this.

Desperate, she yanked hard on the hem of his shirt. Michael got the message and rising up, tugged his shirt off over his head. The sight of his bare chest stole Theresa's breath. His was an athlete's body: The well-defined muscles of his arms complimented perfectly the rock-solid six-pack of his abs.

“You're perfect,” Theresa breathed aloud.

Embarrassment flashed across his face before he lowered himself to her again, burying his face in her neck. Reaching out, her arms encircled his back, drawing him in tight. Words were being whispered. Sweet words. Tender words that made her heart swell. His mouth began a descent down her body, lips and tongue skimming her ribs, then her torso. Theresa had never felt so nakedly alive. Tongue on skin, breath on flesh . . . she was unable to stop herself quivering beneath his touch. He was torturing her, and she loved it. Time stopped as his fingers undid the zipper of her pants, tugging them down gently. Then his hands were there below her belly button, barely brushing her hips before his fingertips started trailing up . . . and back . . . the long, smooth length of her inner thighs.

She was burning now, hips rocking as sensation after glorious sensation drummed through her. Behind her eyes was a kaleidoscope of colors, vibrant and alive. Her body was pure liquid sensation, the longing to merge with him, to lose herself in him, overwhelming.

“Make love to me,” she whispered.

Michael groaned as he tore off the remainder of his clothing.
He's magnificent,
Theresa thought. There was no other word for it. Overwhelmed, she turned her head away, her fevered body waiting for the dip of the mattress that would let her know he was once again on the bed.

Heat bubbled to the surface of her skin as Michael's hands resumed their slow, tantalizing caress. Breathing became difficult as he teased his way along her lower torso, fingers carefully pausing to cup her between the legs. Theresa held her breath, waiting. Would he continue on? Or would he—? The answer came seconds later as his fingers began slowly to circle her heat, the pressure light at first, then heavier, faster, his fingers frantic to match the signals her body gave him as she bucked beneath his touch.

“Please,” she begged as his fingers danced on, white hot pressure building within her. Just when she thought she couldn't endure any more, it happened: blinding, molten release. Roaring filled her head as she convulsed against him, screaming her joy, no longer conscious of time or space or even her own body. There was only this glorious heat pouring through her, new as the creation of the world.

She had barely returned to herself before it started all over again, Michael's forehead pressed to hers as he whispered, “Hold on.” Then they were one, bodies locked together as Theresa wrapped herself around him like a second skin and he began moving inside her. Pressure began building within her again; faint at first, then sharp, concentrated. Barely clinging to the edge of reality, she cried out as her body once more broke into a million shimmering pieces. Her screams of pleasure pushed Michael toward oblivion.

Moaning, he plunged hard, his body shuddering with release as she arched up to meet him, and he filled her.

 

 

Michael couldn
'
t believ
e
how beautiful Theresa looked, even in sleep. Propped up on one elbow, he'd been watching her slumber for a while now. The slow, steady rise and fall of her breath was more soothing to him than any piece of music. Her face was a mask of contentment, the soft curve of her right arm as it reached up and beneath the pillow utterly alluring to him. Reaching out to make sure she was real, Michael's fingers barely alighted on the velvet softness of her cheek. Theresa murmured, sighed deeply, and slumbered on. She was dreaming.

He lay back down, watching the lights of passing cars crawl slowly across the ceiling. He'd call Gemma in the morning to thank her. Under other circumstances, Gemma taking matters into her own hands would have pissed him off. But in this case, he was grateful. Christ knew he would have dragged his heels, waiting for the “perfect” opportunity to approach Theresa.

Thank God for Gemma and her Dante pushiness.

Theresa murmured again, only louder. Michael glanced at her, amused. Obviously, she talked in her sleep. It charmed him. Everything she did was endearing to him, even the way she hogged the covers. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this happy. Maybe never. He had no complaints, only dreams.

He listened to her breath slowly rise, then fall. Rise, then fall. He had an overwhelming desire to wake her and tell her how much he loved her but he resisted. She looked so peaceful lying there, so content. No, he'd let her rest. He had the rest of their lives to tell her.

Worried his restlessness might disturb her, he quietly slipped out of bed and padded downstairs into the dim living room. His eyes instinctively trained on Gemma's red and white candles sitting like two squat tree trunks on his coffee table. Time to throw them out? He reached for them, then thought better of it, sentimentality and superstition prompting a decision to keep them. He'd tell Theresa about them in the morning. She'd get a kick out of it, especially the stuff with the tarot cards and Gemma giving the same love prescription to Anthony.

Sitting on the couch, Michael took stock of his living room. Was his place big enough for the two of them? Maybe she'd want him to move into her place? They'd have to talk about it. There was so much to think about, so much to do. More awake than ever, he went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of decaf. A quick check revealed he didn't have any food in the house. He'd run to the bakery early before she woke up and buy an assortment of pastries, which he'd serve to her in bed. He loved the idea of surprising and pampering her. She deserved it. She deserved the best of everything. He was pouring his coffee into a mug when he heard a scream and froze. Was someone being attacked on the street? But then he realized . . . the scream had come from his bedroom.

Racing back upstairs he grabbed a hockey stick, bracing himself for an intruder. But no one was there except Theresa, weeping as she sat in his bed, clutching the sheet to her chest.

“Theresa?”

She seemed not to hear. He approached gingerly, not wanting to startle her. He switched on the bedside light, both of them blinking furiously against the lamp's sudden, harsh glow. Theresa slowly turned to look at him, and the fear in her face broke Michael's heart. Slowly, as she became fully conscious, the look faded and she realized where she was.

“Michael,” she gasped with relief. “Thank God.”

“C'mere.” He gathered her up into his arms. “What happened? You have a nightmare?”

Theresa nodded, her lashes wetting his chest. She seemed to be struggling. “It was—”

“I know what it was. You don't have to tell me.”

“I'm so sorry, Michael. I didn't mean to wake you up.”

“Sshh, you didn't wake me up.” He began stroking her hair. “It's okay. You're with me now. You're safe.”

Theresa's voice was muffled against his chest. “Tell my subconscious that.”

“Your subconscious will figure it out in time. The question is: Does your conscious mind know it?”

“Yes,” Theresa answered in a tiny voice.

Aching to take her pain away, he tilted her tear-stained face up to look into his. “Do you know how much I love you?” he asked tenderly, wiping away the wetness beneath her eyes.

“Yes,” Theresa choked out with a sob.

“Sshh,
it's okay.” Drawing her even tighter to him, he began rocking her. He didn't care how long it took: He would sit here, rocking and comforting her until she knew, deep down in her soul, that she was safe. An image of Lubov flashed in his mind and his heart hardened.
That little son of a bitch.
The Russian had been sidelined for most of the season with an injury. Michael couldn't wait to see him on the ice next year. He'd kill him.

“Michael?”

“Mmm?”

“I love you,” Theresa whispered. She lifted her head to look in his eyes. What Michael saw there made the angry clouds in his heart burst then blaze: It was adoration, pure and simple. No woman had ever looked at him like this.

Michael closed his eyes, rapturous. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” Theresa repeated.

“I thought that's what you said.”

“I mean it,” she emphasized quietly. Calm now, she moved her arms out from his rocking embrace and framed his face in her hands. “I still have some stuff to work out, but as long as I have you, I'm not afraid to deal with it. I'm not afraid of anything anymore. You're my rock, Michael.”

“And you're mine,
cara,
” he whispered. He lowered his mouth to hers, longing to kiss away her sadness. Her mouth tasted sweet, so sweet his pulse quickened. He couldn't believe how a simple kiss could send him reeling.

“Go back to sleep,” he soothed.

Theresa looked shy, almost embarrassed. “Will you hold me?”

“Always,” he swore, squeezing her tightly as they lay back down together. It was a vow he intended to keep for as long as he lived.

 

 

Theresa awoke to
the intoxicating aroma of coffee brewing and the sound of Michael humming to himself somewhere in the outer reaches of the apartment. She had no idea what time it was, only that it was light and it was morning. She felt more rested than she had in months. Though shaken by her Lubov nightmare, she had meant what she'd said to Michael. She wasn't afraid anymore, not of the past or of what the future would bring. As long as she had Michael, all would be well.

“Good, you're up.”

Michael appeared in the doorway, bearing a tray of pastries and a coffee carafe. He was wearing sweats and nothing else.

“When was the last time you had breakfast in bed?” he asked, approaching her.

Theresa thought. “I've never had breakfast in bed,” she said, snuggling into the covers.

“You're kidding me! Well, you're in for a real treat.”

Carefully laying the tray down, he slipped into bed beside her. “We've got coffee, croissants, muffins, cinnamon buns and doughnuts,” Michael announced, pouring her a cup of coffee.

“Michael.” Theresa was touched. “You didn't have to do this.”

“I wanted to,” he replied. “I want to spoil you. I want to pamper you.”

“And when do I get to pamper you?” she teased.

He smiled at her, handing her a cup. “Anytime.”

Theresa took a sip of coffee. “What time is it?”

“Close to ten.”

“Ten!” Theresa exclaimed in disbelief. “I never sleep till ten!”

“Well, you did this morning.” Michael's hand reached up to caress the back of her neck. “You must have needed it.”

“I guess.” Suddenly ravenous, Theresa reached out and broke off the top of a blueberry muffin. “So what do you want to do today?”

“Make love to you.”

“And after that?”

“Anything you want.”

“Want to go see my family?” Theresa asked hesitantly as she nibbled on her muffin.

Michael's face lit up. “Great idea! Will Phil, Debbie and the kids be there?”

“They always are.”

“Let's do it. We'll surprise them. Make their day.”