Catching Hell: A Hot Contemporary Romance (10 page)

“What the hell?” Was she some sort of witch?

“Don’t you read the stuff the press office puts together? It’s all there on the team website. I’m sorry I don’t have any Scotch.”

“Fine,” he said. “But I don’t know any of those things about you.”

“Green. Sushi. Grey Goose on the rocks. Window, but I’ll let you have it. And I’m allergic to dogs and cats, so the only pets I had were fish.”

He laughed despite himself, and she sat up straighter, clearly proud of her reply. That only made him feel more like an asshole when he said, “You’re trying to trade me to Texas.”

She didn’t flinch. But then, he didn’t expect her to. She was a professional, a businesswoman, and she wasn’t going to walk away from the truth just because it was ugly. And hurtful. And made his taking her to bed impossible.

“Gregory Small is the general manager.”

“And your grandfather is the owner,” he said with the same level tone. “Don’t hand me a beer and say it’s champagne. Small may be building the deal, but if you or the old man told him to stop, he would in an instant.”

She swallowed hard, but she never took her eyes off his. “I want my grandfather to know he can trust me to run this team. To make the hard choices and preserve his investment. Gregory has his marching orders, same as he’s had for the past twelve years. His decisions have made the Rockets the team we are today. I’m not going to hobble him now.”

That was it. The awkward truth, spread between them like some Paint By Numbers landscape. No lies. No secrets. She wanted him gone.

No. She
needed
him gone. Or she needed something else, something that would rebuild the team, replace Tucker’s bat, stabilize the Rockets for the long-term success Old Man Benson craved.

Shit. If he could still swing like he had coming up, he’d do that for her. If he could run the bases flat out, steal twenty in a season, he’d hand over certain success without hesitation. If he could play every game—day-night doubleheaders, Sunday afternoon after Saturday nights—he’d do it all in a heartbeat.

But he couldn’t. And some kid from Texas could.

It was too much to ask, for him to go along with the trade without fighting. It was too much for him to give up the farm, his family, the easy rhythms of daily life in the only home he’d ever known. Too much to set aside the uniform he’d worn every single day he’d played in the majors.

She set her beer on the table with a decisive clink and gestured toward the window. “That’s all out there, Zach. Leave it at the ball park, at the negotiating table. What we have here is different.”

She leaned forward and reached for the bottle in his hands. Her fingers were steady on his, capable. Infinitely distracting.

The simple truth was, he didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to leave the Rockets. And didn’t want to leave this room.
 

She knelt above him, waiting for his answer. And he closed his eyes and nodded.

He let her take the bottle. He heard glass on glass when she put it on the table. He stood when she did. He followed her into the bedroom. He watched as she pushed back the jumbled covers, and he let her hands settle on his shoulders, pressing him down, making him sit on the edge of the bed.

Her fingers were nimble. She worked the hooks on his cummerbund as easily as if they were snaps. She slipped his suspenders from his shoulders and tugged his shirt free from his waistband. She made short work of his ruby studs, plucking each one from the fabric, wasting no time setting the jewels on her nightstand.

With the same commanding efficiency, she worked the smooth zipper of his trousers.
 

His cock leaped to attention, throbbing against her hands. He groaned as she cupped his balls, as she scraped the sweet knife-edge of those scarlet fingernails against his short hairs. “Jesus!” he breathed as she knelt before him, guiding him into her mouth. She teased around the rim before she took him deep, and he fell back on the bed, supporting himself with his elbows as his fists clutched at the sheets.

Her strokes were long and steady, and she tightened her fingers around the base of his shaft. His hips bucked, and he fought for control. It had been too long since he’d been with a woman. Too long, and he’d
never
been with a woman like this—someone who read his body like a box score, translating every tiny marker, every morsel of meaning.

“Anna,” he croaked. And she
knew
. She eased back. She ran her tongue along a pulsing vein, measuring every inch of him, but her hands were locked hard at his base, slowing him, steadying him. His ragged breathing eased—until he opened his eyes and saw her looking down at him.

She had such a look of satisfaction. Such a look of knowing confidence. And he knew exactly what he wanted to do about that.

She yelped as he pulled her up, as he rolled with her onto the firm mattress. She thrashed beneath him, automatically grabbing at the folds of her ocean-colored robe. He eased a knee between her legs, leaning forward and kissing her deeply.

He caught the tang of his own salt on her lips, and possessing that taste made him throb. Desperate for distraction, he tugged at her hair, sending a shower of diamond pins onto her shoulders. She reached for one, but he caught her wrist, closing his fingers as tight as cuffs.

Her squeal of surprise only fed him. He caught her other hand, raised them both above her head. Her wrists were so fragile, so thin; he could easily hold them with one hand. He ran the other through her hair, stretching it, tangling it around his knuckles. She arched her throat, looking up at him through heavy eyelids.

“God, Anna,” he said. “You’re gorgeous.”
 

She reached toward him, seeking his lips with hers. He drank deeply, using his tongue to repeat his message. She met him enthusiastically, a laugh trembling in the back of her throat.

With his free hand, he traced the length of her side. He found the silk sash, tested the loose knot, worked it free with a single impatient tug. It was easy enough to loop the cloth, to draw it over her clenched fists. She gasped as he pulled it tight, as he slipped a quick loop around the carved teak headboard. “Too much?” he whispered against the corner of her mouth.

“Never.” And to emphasize her reply, she shifted beneath him, raising her hips so that her gown slipped completely open.

She was naked beneath the robe—no bra, no panties, nothing blocking access. He caught his breath, surprised—he’d expected to find some scrap of lace, something to preserve the myth that she was proper and pure.
 

But she
was
proper—properly choosing what she wanted and when she wanted it. And she was pure, too—pure desire, pure temptation that he couldn’t look away from. Not now. Not when she was eyeing him with that perfect glint of defiance.

He moved slowly, because he knew he could. He spread his hand across her belly and felt her muscles contract even as the fire leaped higher in her eyes. With his thumb, he traced the line her fingers had traveled on him, working an imaginary zipper from her waist to the top of her thighs. He hovered there, feeling the damp heat between her legs.

She watched him, eyes shining. Her arms were stretched over her head, lengthening the line of her body, hollowing out her belly as her breath came in short, sharp pants. He cupped her, and she gasped, arching to meet him.

Slipping his index finger inside, he was amazed by her slick heat, by the ready need that waited for him. The heel of his hand brushed against her clit and her knees slipped open wider. He laughed as she whispered his name.

“Not yet, Anna. Definitely not yet.”

* * *

She wanted to pull her arms down then. She wanted to slip free from the sash of her robe, close her fingers over his, drive him deep inside her. She wanted to be filled, to be released, to slip over the edge of the cliff that was rushing closer with every ragged breath she drew.

But she didn’t take back control.
 

Instead, she moaned his name again. She begged him, “Please…”

He added another finger, curling both deep inside her. He found a hidden place, a pulse point as sensitive as the spot behind her ear. He teased it, teased
her
, coaxing her hips higher and tighter, until he slipped a pillow beneath her. His thumb found her clit, and he stroked it in counterpoint to the rhythm of his fingers.

“Zach…”

This was insane. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t feel anything except the music he was playing on her body.

Except she
could
see. She could see his slow smile. Could see his glowing eyes, inviting her to trust him, to let him give her more.
 

She stretched her arms higher over her head, clutching her hands together as if she were suspended beneath a waterfall. He shifted, changed his pattern, and she started to cry out in protest. But then she realized he had three fingers deep inside her. The swell of his knuckles was tight against her flesh, adding to the pressure, adding to the need.
 

She caught her breath and bore down to heighten the sensation, to unhinge her release. She tightened her shoulders, her forearms, her fingers as they tangled inside her silken sash. And his thumb stroked her clit—once, twice, a third glorious time.

She shattered.

She clutched her knees close, trapping his hand. She curled forward, folded upward, tore herself free from her blue-green bonds. She needed to feel him, to be covered by him, pinned by him. His arms folded around her and she rode out the rest of her orgasm clutching his damp shirt tighter with every shuddering breath.

When the fog began to clear, when she could see his night-dark eyes, when she could make out the satisfied smile on his lips, she forced herself to sit up.

“Hush,” he said, reaching out to smooth her hair.

But she didn’t want to be soothed. She wasn’t ready to sleep. Instead, she twisted toward her nightstand and slipped the drawer open, reaching deep inside, to the very back. A foil packet was waiting for her, and she displayed it as if it were a trophy.

He chuckled, but he shook his head. “You don’t have to,” he said, pulling her down beside him.

“I
want
to.”
 

She put the foil square on the corner of the nightstand before she turned her attention back to his body. Slipping her fingers inside the pleated folds of his shirt, she eased the once-starched cotton off his shoulders. He wore a white cotton undershirt, tight enough to hint at every muscle underneath. She took her time, working him free from the garment, edging her fingertips over each of his ribs in turn.

A bruise blossomed over his right shoulder—purple shading to green at the edges. She gasped when she saw it, then realized that it was part of the game. She’d seen the foul tip crash into his clavicle two nights before, the last game he’d played before starting his suspension.
 

She brushed her lips over the discoloration, trying to be gentle, but he sucked in his breath between clenched teeth. She evaded his hands, his reaching for her, his trying to distract her.
 

Instead, she turned her attention to his trousers. They were still caught on the jutting bones of his hips, despite his earlier exertions. She eased the waistband of his boxers over his cock, taking care to brush its full length with her palm, and she laughed at his sharp-caught breath. She slipped her palms around to his ass and started to slide the cotton free.

“Anna,” he said, and this time his hands were firm around her wrists.
 

She stopped, confused. There was no question that he wanted her—his cock still stood at full attention. But there was equally no doubt about the sharp message in his voice. She pulled her hands back to her sides. “What?” she said. “Why won’t you let me give you what you just gave me?”

He started to say something. Stopped. Looked away, as if he wanted to be anywhere else in the world but in her home, in her bed. He started again, but then fell back on the sheets, his forearm covering his eyes. “Christ,” he muttered. “Just turn out the light.”

He turned his face away, and she hurried to comply.
 

The room wasn’t completely dark. She’d never turned off the foyer light, and the golden glow leaked into the bedroom. Silent now, drawn deeper into the intensity of his silent emotion, she eased his shorts and trousers down, freeing his legs completely.

The scar was obvious in the dim light. It cut across his left knee like a massive silver centipede, ravenous even after all those years. He twisted on the mattress, turning onto his side, but she reached out before he could complete the maneuver.

She traced the seam in his flesh, the permanent reminder that the game he loved had carved into his body. He trembled as if her fingers were icicles, but she knew her hands were warm. Before he could catch her wrists, before he could push her away, she leaned down and touched her lips to his scar.

The strip didn’t feel very different from the rest of him. It was a little smoother. A little cooler. But there was nothing dangerous there, nothing hideous, nothing destroyed. She kissed his scar softly, then leaned her forehead against his knee.

The only sound in the room was their breathing—his harsh and ragged, as if he’d just dug deep for a triple. Hers was soft, even, as calm as an executive in a boardroom.

She could let him go. She could gather up her old silk robe, step into the bathroom, close the door and wait long enough for him to dress himself and leave. She could climb over his still body to the other side of the bed, pull up the sheet and blanket, fumble for the coverlet on the floor, pull it up between them like a castle wall. She could let him disappear forever.

Or she could accept the true message he was sending her.

Because despite everything, despite his fists clutched in the sheets around her, despite his face turned resolutely toward the bookshelves and the living room, his cock still stood at attention. He wanted her—whether he thought he should, whether he believed she would accept him, whether he accepted that she wanted him to be there.