Playing By Her Rules (Sydney Smoke Rugby Series) (9 page)

He strode over and separated them, then crouched down and inspected each of the one-meter square watercolours. “Nice,” he said appreciatively. “Do they have some kind of personal meaning?”

“A friend I roomed with painted them. They’re different aspects of the Stanford campus.”

“Oh.” A strange kind of stillness settled over him. “It looks great.” But his voice was flatter now.

“It was. It…is.”

“You pleased you went?” he asked, still staring at the paintings.

Matilda remembered how she’d been all set to turn down the scholarship and follow Tanner on his journey. Just as well she’d found out about his predilection to infidelity in the nick of time.

The turmoil of that time reached right into the present day and wrapped its hands around her gut. Her mellowing attitude toward him hardened again as a familiar ache took up residence in the middle of her chest. It seemed important in this moment to show him she’d had no regrets about walking away from him.

She raised her chin. “Best decision of my life.”

He nodded, slowly. “Good.” He dragged his gaze off the watercolours, pushing to his feet, all efficiency again. “Where do you want them?”

Matilda felt absurdly like crying. Or fleeing. He could have been here for the last five years. They could have made a home together. She’d managed to forget the pain of their history this afternoon, or at least the full force of it, but it was back with a vengeance. Matilda’s hand trembled as she pointed to the expanse of wall behind her television. “I thought in two rows of three. They’re numbered one through six so…in order left to right?”

He pulled his newly acquired tape measure out of his pocket as he strode over to the wall, planting the end of the retractable tape on the floor and running it vertically up the wall to a point about a foot above his head.

“About this height for the top row?” he asked, not turning around.

Matilda sucked in a breath, her lungs filling with the chemical fumes of turpentine still lingering in her clothes. “Whatever looks good,” she said dismissively. She needed to get away from him doing manly things in her apartment and the sudden crippling sensation of loss, of what could have been. “Do you mind starting without me? I really need a shower. I smell like a chemical factory.”

“Go ahead,” he said, measuring horizontally now, obviously preoccupied enough not to make some quip about joining her or coming to scrub her back.

Matilda fled to her room on unsteady legs. She sank down onto her bed when she was close enough, sucking in chemical-laden breaths as the ache beneath her sternum grew bigger. This was the kind of life she’d always envisioned with Tanner. Living together. Marrying at some point. Having kids.

Over the years she’d told herself it didn’t matter. That she’d find that connection with someone else. But she hadn’t been able to let a man close enough emotionally after Tanner’s betrayal. And that had been fine, too. She wasn’t the kind of woman who felt her life was over because she didn’t have a guy in it.

Until tonight. Until Tanner was walking around in her apartment with his tools, measuring her walls, being all handy, giving the space an overwhelming masculine air.

A maelstrom of anger, bitterness, and regret churned in her gut. He’d not only broken her heart eight years ago, but he’d stolen a future from her.

And that cut the deepest.

Chapter Nine

The shower helped. Or at least the time away from him to collect herself helped, as did the stern, silent lecture she’d delivered as she’d scrubbed away the turpentine. About no regrets. About looking forward, not back. About things happening for a reason.

Matilda heard hammering as she stepped out into the lounge area. The first two paintings on the top row had been hung and Tanner was banging in the third nail. He was standing on the low display cabinet that usually housed the television, which he’d moved to the floor.

It showcased his calves, and despite the heaviness of her emotional state, she totally checked them out. Again. The muscle definition was awesome, delineated perfectly, popping out from the back of his leg, big as grapefruits. They were clearly the powerhouses for Tanner’s fearsome sprinting technique.

“That looks good,” she said, walking toward him, determined not to betray her inner turmoil or how much his freaking
calves
affected her.

He looked over his shoulder, one of those easy smiles of his hovering on his mouth. It died pretty quickly, though, as his gaze took in her usual sleeping attire—loose silky boxer shorts and baggy T-shirt.

There was nothing sexy about what she wore to bed, which was one of the advantages of not having a guy in her life, and exactly why she hadn’t thought twice about putting it on. But Tanner seemed to find her legs endlessly fascinating, and when he was done with them his gaze moved slowly north, zeroing in on her unfettered breasts, which he couldn’t possibly know, as their meagre proportions were totally lost beneath her voluminous T-shirt.

Regardless, her nipples ruched into tight peaks, as if they were completely bare to him, and heat flared down deep and low. Maybe it was his even-more-than-usual height advantage? His gaze seemed extra intense towering over her like he was.

“You’re wearing your glasses,” he said, smiling suddenly, returning his attention to her face.

Matilda reached for them absently, the retro horn-rimmed frames that she knew suited the gamine features of her face. “Oh…yes.” She usually took her contacts out and wore her glasses around home. Gran kept on about getting laser correction, but Matilda couldn’t bear the thought of someone poking around with her eyes. “The turpentine fumes were irritating my contacts.”

He dropped his gaze to her breasts again, and the heat coalescing in her pelvis pulsed between her legs and ran in molten rivulets like hot wax down her inner thighs.

“Cool shirt.”

Matilda was relieved to glance down and give her neck a break. Bold black print proclaiming her to be “a superhero disguised as a reporter” stood out against the snowy white fabric.

She shrugged. “It was a present from Gran.”

He laughed, and damned if her ovaries didn’t twang a little. His gaze slid back to her face. “Of course.”

Matilda desperately needed to claw back some control. Having him here all large and sexy in her apartment was confusing her resolve. She couldn’t let her ovaries have
any
say in
any
thing.

They’d been Team Tanner since the locker room that first day.

“Shall I pass you number three?” she asked, not waiting for an answer, but stalking over to the opposite wall to pick it up and give herself time to get her shit together.

She took some deep, controlled breaths and headed back his way, handing it over, grateful when he took it and turned his attention to something other than her clothes.

An hour later, all the nails had been banged in, and the last painting had been hung. Tanner had been surprisingly thorough. He had been at Gran’s today, too, but he seemed extra fussy here, making sure all the measurements were right so the paintings were all evenly spaced and level.

They chatted about Stanford as they’d worked, and the tension in Matilda eased as she talked a little about her time in the U.S. It really had been am amazing time in her life.

“Yup. They look straight to me,” he said, his arms crossed as they both stood back a few feet on her shagpile rug and admired his work. “Whaddya reckon?”

Matilda angled her head from side to side, frowning. “I think the bottom middle is a little crooked.”

He shook his head. “It’s straight. The level doesn’t lie.”

“Yeah, but I reckon…” Matilda strode toward them, not breaking stride as she stepped up onto the low cabinet with relative ease to get a closer look. “I reckon this one definitely needs just a titch this way.”

She fingered the bottom right-hand corner of the frame and gave it a slight tap. The painting moved a whisker, and she leaned back a little to check the position. “That’s better.” She nodded, looking over her shoulder at him. “Don’t you think?”

She caught his gaze on her legs before he switched his attention to the wall. He narrowed his eyes as he moved closer. “I think it needs to go over a little bit more.”

Matilda turned quickly back to the painting as he pulled up about a foot behind and to one side of her. It was insane that she could be standing on a piece of furniture, a head above him for a change, and still feel dwarfed.

She was hyperaware of how close he was. He could reach out and touch her. If he wanted.

She gave the painting another tap to hide the leap in her pulse he’d caused with just his nearness. She went too far the other way, however, grimacing to herself as she switched sides and tried to compensate in the other direction.

“Yup, stop,” he said. “I think that’s it.”

She stopped at his instruction, inspecting her work. It looked better, but she leaned back a little to be sure. She was too close, though, for an accurate assessment so she half turned to climb down from the cabinet. Unfortunately, she had her eye on the painting and not her feet, and she misjudged the edge.

She cried out, her heart rate spiking as her foot slipped and she pitched inelegantly sideways, flailing her arms as she went down, groping madly for some purchase.

She found it in the form of Tanner Stone.

“Tilly!”

Tanner reached for her as she toppled into his chest, her feet tangling with his, tripping them both up, her glasses flying off her face as they landed in a heap on her thick rug. The landing was a lot softer than it would have been had it been her hardwood floors, but it still knocked the breath out of her. And even if it hadn’t, Tanner, who had done his best to avoid landing on her with his full weight, still added to the jolt. He ended up partially sprawled on top of her, half of his torso and one muscled thigh pinning her to the floor as they both lay in stunned silence for long moments.

Matilda hauled air into her lungs, staring at the ceiling, too winded to do anything other than try and breathe. Tanner, his forehead pressed into the rug beside her head, seemed to be having difficulty catching his breath, too. She didn’t try to push him away or protest his position. She just lay there gradually recovering her ability to oxygenate her body.

It probably wasn’t longer than ten or fifteen seconds before her breathing came easier, but that was soon secondary to other things. The solid wall of his chest. The hard heat of his thigh. The granite jut of his erection pressing into the bony crest of her hip.

Fuck.
Matilda sucked in a ragged breath. He had a hard-on.
For her.
He was lying on top of her and he was…aroused. She could reach for him right now. Touch him. Reacquaint herself with that particular part of his anatomy.

Heat flooded her pelvis at the realisation, spreading south to tingle between her legs and burgeoning north to her breasts, her nipples hardening in their own blatant arousal.

Her heart thumped erratically—surely he could feel it? Every breath felt like soup, thick and laden with the scent of Tanner.

More
chemistry
than
chemical
now.

She remembered this. Her
body
remembered this. The glorious weight of him.

He’d always worried about how heavy he was compared to her but she’d revelled in the feel of him on top of her. The wild, feminine power of it. The sweet craving to feel his skin on hers. The drive to open up to him, to grant him possession, to take possession of him.

Apparently, as her heart practically punched out of her chest, and her body melted to liquid beneath him, not much had changed.

He shifted slightly and Matilda stiffened, dragging herself back from the abyss. She should be pushing him away. She should be objecting instead of lying here wallowing in the long lost feel of him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, easing back, holding the weight of his torso off her.

Matilda’s body lamented the absence, the urge to draw him down again a living, breathing demon on her shoulder. “Just a bit…winded.”

He nodded but didn’t move, his gaze drifting to her mouth then lower to her T-shirt. Her nipples were hard points against fabric that was now pulled taut against her, thanks to the fall. He stared for long moments, and Matilda’s insides quivered as if he’d lowered his head to one and sucked.

She shut her eyes to block out the image. This was all kinds of madness. “
Tanner.
”

Matilda opened her eyes at the sound of her voice. It was deep and ragged, almost a growl. Maybe a plea.

“Tanner, what?” he asked, his voice as husky as hers as he flicked his gaze to her face. “Tanner, stop? Tanner, leave?” He slid a hand low on her stomach, the muscles beneath tensing in anticipation. “Tanner, touch me?” A lazy finger stroked the skin just above the waistband of her boxers, the sensation coursing white-hot need straight between her legs.

“Tell me what you want, Tilly,” he murmured, his blue gaze earnest. “What you
really
want.”

Matilda couldn’t blame him for the confusion. She wasn’t sure if she’d said his name as a deterrent or an encouragement. All she knew was he was hard for her and she wanted to touch him.

She shouldn’t be feeling any of it. Wanting any of it. But she did. Her body remembered.

It
craved.

She was at war with herself, her heartbeat pounding through her pulse points, roaring in her ears, driving lust and sex to every part of her body.

“This?” he demanded huskily, his hand finding the hem of her T-shirt and pushing under, sliding up her belly, coming to rest high on her rib cage, precariously close to a nipple screaming for attention.

Matilda sucked in a breath. “Tanner.”

“This?” He dropped his mouth to her neck and nuzzled all the way down her throat. “This?” His voice was muffled as his tongue teased the hollow at the base of her throat and his hand slid the last inch or so to claim her breast.

Matilda gasped, her eyes fluttering shut and her back arching as his fingers clamped around her nipple. It wasn’t painful, but it streaked like a burning arrow straight to her clit, hitting the target with an accuracy that stole the air from her lungs.

He was breathing hard when he lifted his head, his gaze roving her face, looking for God knew what.

Certainty? Permission? Surrender?

She didn’t know if he found it, only that he groaned, “
Matilda
,” all thick and needy, his control snapping, and he didn’t ask her anything more, just pushed her shirt all the way up to her neck and swooped his head down to claim the nipple his fingers were torturing.

She arched her back again, still too stunned, too overwhelmed by the hot rush of lust to compute anything other than the pleasure coursing through her body. She didn’t care that her breasts were too small, or that they were on her floor, or that she shouldn’t be doing this.

With Tanner
.

All she cared about was the hot suck of his mouth on her breast and the corresponding tug at her clit as if he was down there instead, as if there was a direct line from one to the other.

“
Christ
, you smell good,” he groaned as he switched sides, and Matilda’s whole body shuddered in response, muscles deep inside clenching and unclenching at the potent stimulus. His teeth grazed the hard tip and she cried out.

It hurt
so damn good
.

But then he was gone, her taut, wet nipples left to air dry as he headed down, tracing a wet path with his tongue, inching lower and lower, stopping to swirl around her belly button a few times before heading relentlessly south. He didn’t even stop when he reached the band of her boxers. He simply tore them down, stripping them off her legs with his two big hands.

Matilda, who’d been somewhere out of her body, suddenly came back to it, her eyes flashing open, her head lifting to watch him as his hands spread her thighs, looking at her with complete carnal intent, his chest heaving in and out.

She was conscious of the fact that he was fully clothed and she was lying mostly naked spread before him. Conscious of the fact they’d never done this before. Not that he hadn’t wanted to. He had. But at seventeen, Matilda had found it kinda gross and hadn’t let him.

She hadn’t understood why anyone would
want
to.

Thankfully, with maturity, she’d let other lovers take her further, and she was a fully paid up, card-carrying member of the cunnilingus club. And even though tongue action alone generally wasn’t a consistent way to get her over the line, it felt fucking amazing and she never said no.

But she was acutely aware—shy even—that this was a first for them.

She needn’t have worried, Tanner barely drew breath before he muttered, “Oh, yes,” and settled himself between her legs, his tongue hitting the jackpot immediately.

“
Tanner!
”

With her clit already fully aroused from the nipple stimulation, it was excruciatingly sensitive. In fact, it was almost too much and she tried to buck and twist away from the relentless action of his tongue but he just clamped a big hand down on the stretch of skin between her hip bones and held her there, held her to his tongue.

“
Jesus,
Tilly,” he groaned, lifting his head briefly. “You taste good.”

And then he went back to it, his hands sliding to her nipples, lightly pinching and twisting their ruched peaks in time with every flick of his tongue against the hard nub of her clit, not deviating from his intent, not exploring anywhere else, just applying hard, unyielding pressure, both stimuli working in tandem to build her quickly, to push her over, ripples of pleasure swelling up from deep inside her belly, her buttocks, her thighs, pulsing hot and all-consuming from her clitoris, breaking over her in waves of intense release, ripping a cry from her throat and wringing the air from her lungs.