Bound Hearts (12 page)

A veteran of numerous relationships of varied lengths, intensity, and commitment levels, and here she was, utterly captivated by a man who’d piqued her interest the first time her eyes ever rested on him across a muddy soccer field. What was he doing tonight? Did he think about her? Wonder what she was up to? Had he thought about her at all during the day? Wonder whether she was having dinner with anyone? Was she one in a stable of women craving everything he promised them? Willing to wait around for any little sexual favors he’d throw their way? Was that what she was doing?

Her soreness from the last couple of nights hadn’t interfered with her daily activities or her workout. Although, tonight, she’d opted for forty-five minutes on the elliptical rather than the sixty minute spin class for fear the bike seat would rub her the wrong way, so maybe David’s sex effectuated some long lingering after effects.

As if on cue, her phone jingled, letting her know that she’d received a text.

I’m still stuck in the office. Are you around tonight? I could pick up some late take out and come over if you’re up for it.

David.

In response, she texted back,
I thought you had to be the one ‘up’ for it. LOL.

Five seconds later.
Don’t you wo
rry about me being up for anything. And everything. 8:30?

Sounds good. See you then.

Crap
. That left only about an hour before he arrived. She jumped in the shower, washed her hair, dried off, blew out her hair and selected her outfit. Boot cut jeans with a cranberry v-neck sweater, an emphasis on a deep vie. And black heels. The man had a serious fetish for heels. Which she enjoyed indulging him in. The additional height boosted her to almost his level, which evened out the playing field. Sort of.

Right on the dot, the building’s entrance buzzer sounded, letting her know he’d arrived. Ringing him up, she quickly checked her lip gloss, and opened the door.

He stood, silhouetted against the hallway’s lighting, a man in black carrying a large plastic bag.

Indicating the bag, he said, “I wasn’t sure what you preferred, so I picked out a little bit of everything. I hope you like Thai.”

She smiled at him. “I love Thai.”

He leaned into her, placing a quick kiss on her cheek before marching to her kitchen and placing the bag on the center island before removing its contents. As he opened the various boxes, the sweet and spicy aromas tantalized her nose and her taste buds.

“You want something to drink?” she offered.

“I don’t suppose you have a beer.”

“Of course I have beer. Blue Moon okay?” She’d picked up a sixer that evening specifically for this occasion.

“Perfect.”

Cracking open two bottles, she covertly studied him from the corner of her eye as he continued opening what appeared to be no less than six separate containers. No doubt, the man loved to eat.

“Is someone joining us?” she asked.

He looked up at her before responding. “Not anyone I invited. Look, I eat a lot and like I said, I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I took a gamble and ordered several options in the hopes that
something
will please your palate. If not, I’ll scramble you an egg.

“We’ve got some salad rolls with chicken and peanut sauce, pad see ewe with beef, panang curry with pork, the red dragon, which is basically chicken stir fried with a bunch of vegetables in some sauce, and pad thai with chicken.”

“Everyone eats pad thai,” she offered, savoring the view of him and relishing his culinary accomplishments. Alright, accomplishments was too strong a word, but she couldn’t recall the last time a man concerned himself with what pleased her to eat. Most of them took her at her word that eating wasn’t that important. Which it wasn’t. However, a man who ordered a variety of dishes in the hope one of them would appeal to her on his way home after a long day of work pleased her.

“I hope that includes you.”

“It does,” she assured him.

He piled two plates high and carried them into her living room where they sat down in opposite corners of the couch and dug in. The flavors exploded on her tongue while the dishes themselves warmed her up. They chewed in companionable silence. Several minutes passed before either of them spoke.

“You look tired,” she observed. Bags under his eyes aged him while a general air of weariness surrounded him.

Taking a substantial pull on his bottle, he paused before responding. “You wore me out last night. You’re a wildcat in bed.”

She was tickled pink. No one had ever called her wild in bed. Ever. Coming from this man, it was pretty much like the Pope telling a Catholic she was the most pious of the devoted.

“Please. Maybe you can’t keep up due to your advanced age,” she teased.

His affronted look almost wounded her until the light glinting in his eyes assured her his wounded pride was false and all for show.

“How old do you think I am?”

Chewing the delicious egg noodles ladled with broccoli and beef, she thought about it for a second before she answered. “I don’t know. Thirty-six? Thirty-eight? Forty?”

“Close,” he grinned.

“How close?”

“Close enough.”

She huffed. “You’re not going to tell me?”

“You go first.”

“Didn’t your mother teach you it’s never polite to ask a lady her age?”

“My mother taught me a lot of things I’ve chosen to overlook. Give it up. Unless you’re embarrassed. You’re closing in on forty, right? I just want you to know I’m an equal opportunity boyfriend. I have no problem dating an older woman.”

“Oh for the love of God,” she groaned, moving her plate to the table and sipping on her beer. Despite her words, the banter delighted her down to her toes.

“Unlike you, I’m nowhere near forty. I’m not even approaching forty.”

“Me neither.”

“Will you just tell me how old you are?”

“I’m thirty-five.”

“Thirty-five’s a great age. One I look forward to reaching
in three years.”

He grinned at her emphasizing the difference in their ages and the fact that he was, indisputably, older than she was.

“You’re pretty much a cradle robber, Shalvington.”

He glimpsed at her from under his brows, his eyes alight with mischief. Motioning to her half full plate with his beer bottle, he said, “You need to finish your dinner.”

“I am finished. I’m full.”

“There’s no way the amount you ate could have filled you up unless you loaded up before I arrived. Eat.”

What was it with people always attempting to control the food she put into her mouth? First Lauren. Now David.

“I said I was full,” she persisted.

“Did you eat dinner before I arrived?”

“Of course not.”

“Then there’s no way an athletic woman like you, after working all day and unless I’m wrong, working out tonight, could have been satisfied by the few bites that traveled from your fork to your mouth.”

“Maybe I ate a huge lunch with pasta and bread and sausage,” she argued.

“And maybe I’m a chick.”

She couldn’t help herself. She laughed.

“Why don’t you believe I ate that today for lunch?”

“If you ate that, then I ate some tofu with a side of zucchini. Give me a break, Calleigh. The first night I made pasta for you, I thought you were practically going to keel over on the spot at the sight of all those carbs.”

Figured he’d correctly interpret the nuances of her expression and actions.

“I think you ate about two bites before declaring yourself finished,” he said.

“Maybe given my company, I lost my appetite.” Her smile removed the bite from her words.

“It didn’t have anything to do with my company and you and I both know it. Although I appreciate you trying to deflect attention from your insufficient appetite.”

“My appetite’s plenty sufficient.” It so totally was. If she was a four year old.

“Insufficient appetite’s the wrong phrase. What I should have said was your insufficient caloric intake.”

“Are you trying to make me fat? Is that another one of your sicko fetishes?”

At her words, all the humor immediately drained from his face. He shot up from the couch and headed for the kitchen.

Shit.
Why was it she always said exactly the wrong thing at the most inopportune time? Time and time again her mouth landed her in hot water. Following him into the kitchen, she started, “David, I - ” before he interrupted her.

“You know, for a grown woman, you completely lack the ability to maintain an adult conversation about any subject of substance that implicates any remote possibility of you being less than perfect like the rest of us.” He shrugged into his suit jacket, his movements jerky and frustrated. “I’m going to go home now and take my sicko fetishes with me. Don’t bother contacting me unless you’re ready to be real with me and have gotten over your little head case about what you like in bed including my quote on quote ‘sicko fetishes.’ Which, as my cock can attest to, you seemed to enjoy a whole helluva lot last night.”

He stormed out of her loft and off into the night, leaving her alone and embarrassed.

She knew exactly how much one wrong word could wound. Despite that, she’d hurt him deeply tonight. She’d intended to be funny, but her attempt at humor had utterly failed. Was it because she struggled to come to terms with the lovemaking they’d shared? The things he said to her? The things he
did
to her? And the fact that she couldn’t wait for more?

Evidently the wait became a whole lot longer tonight.
Her excitement at seeing him tonight seemed to have overwhelmed her brain, causing her to say something she didn’t mean. Or had she? Did she consider him to enjoy weird, unacceptable fetishes? If she did, what did it say about her and the fact she’d shared his enjoyment? Not one thing that they had done did she object to. Or not derive at least multiple orgasms from.

She’d wronged him tonight and she knew it. The question was how to remedy it?

Chapter 8

Driving home, anger, disappointment and regret battled for supremacy as David fought to maintain his concentration on the road and not on the blistering blonde who’d just pissed him off as much as he could remember any woman angering him. His truck was practically on auto pilot, maneuvering through the roads as though it itself knew the extent of his distraction and was intent on making sure its owner arrived home safe in body, if not sound in mind.

This was the last time he ignored his instincts and the reasons for doing so eluded him. He’d always considered himself an excellent judge of character. He could smell an agent’s bullshit when negotiating a contract a mile away and could sniff out fear and desperation in equal measures with agents, players and any member of the coaching staff. He relied on his instincts in hiring his staff, making management decisions, and had never been let down by his instincts in his personal life.

Until now.

Until Calleigh.

All along, his intuition buzzed with incessant, persistent warnings that Calleigh was a whole lot of trouble, a novice female unschooled in the ins and outs of BDSM sex, even if she demonstrated some preliminary interest. Someone who was unfamiliar with the universe of expectations and requirements and wouldn’t ultimately be willing to completely surrender to him in every way that mattered, and perhaps, the only way that mattered to him.

Despite his initial misgivings, his apprehension eventually gave way to hope after their first night together. Hope spread through his chest that she could ultimately accept him, accept her desires, accept what they could share and stand a chance at a true partnership. A real relationship founded on attraction, lust, and sincere affection. She’d been on fire for him, so hot, sexy and enthusiastic. Never once did she indicate any hesitation once they’d really started in earnest. Never a whisper of her safe word. She never displayed any body language that even remotely suggested everything he did to her was anything less than fully satisfying or that she was second-guessing herself or him. While hesitant, she seemed to take pleasure in his hands, his mouth, his cock, his clamps, and his restraints. At no point had she ever uttered her safe word or indicated in any way she wanted to stop, or showed anything other than enjoyment. In spite of this, she still couldn’t accept who and what he was. Without that acceptance, no future could find them.

Tonight, she confirmed that any fantasies he harbored of their relationship ever progressing to anything meaningful were destined to stay in the fantasy realm. Forever. Served him right for not listening to his original observations about her. Never again would he make the same mistake.

Exhaustion practically overwhelmed him. His attempt at having a quasi-normal night complete with dinner and conversation proved disastrous. As well as eye-opening. He’d been called a lot of things by a variety of women over the years – cold, heartless bastard; a mean son of a bitch; controlling mother fucker. Yet, never once had any of his choices been judged so harshly by any of his partners.

Disappointment threatened to swallow him whole as he pulled into his driveway and contemplated the night ahead. A night ending very differently than the way he’d envisioned when he’d called Calleigh up, picked up dinner, and showed up on her doorstep like a hopeless romantic.

§ § §

Friday morning, Calleigh trudged in to Walker, feeling as though she’d euthanized her favorite puppy. On any other day, she would have actively engaged all of the students that she passed on her way to her classroom. Teased those who needed and responded well to humor. Complimented those who received little to no praise at home, but who preened when offered by her or any other adult in their lives. Reprimanded the couples who thought the entire student and faculty body needed to know how in love they were and displayed their devotion by enthusiastically making out against the lockers. Chided those students whose iPods were destroying not only their owners’ hearing, but that of those around them.

This morning, she kept her eyes downcast and did her best to make it to her room with minimal greetings.