Holm, Stef Ann (43 page)

Then
he lifted his head and stood before her, his feet planted apart on the floor...
and he slipped his ribbed drawers from his legs. She looked at him without
flinching, without worry.

He
was beautiful to her. Large and full and hard. She didn't know what to expect,
what to feel, when she saw him. But she knew she wasn't making a mistake. She
wasn't afraid.

The
very sight of him made her need rise another notch. This was a place that she
hadn't gone before. A joining of need that put them both in the same place and
same moment together.

Alex
braced his arms on either side of her, his hair falling away from his brows.
The strands had dried to a glossy block that ruffled as the air stream passed
over them. He gave her a kiss that was surprisingly tender.

The
low rasp in his voice brought out her goose-flesh as he spoke. "If
we..." He cleared his throat. "Tomorrow, you can't go back to today
and wish this away."

That
he would give her every opportunity to change her mind made her love him all
the more. She shook her head. Tomorrow didn't matter to her. "I want to go
with you... right now."

Moving
his mouth to her ear, he teased its outline with the moist tip of his tongue.
"Then let yourself come, honey. Don't hold back."

Then
he was against her, the long smooth length of himself that was hot at her
entry, probing and so full she thought she might have to say she couldn't. Her
hands lifted to hold him by his shoulders; she needed to feel him, connect to
him. Her legs came up to lock around his hips. Gradually he slid inside her.
Slowly. The pain was sharp and she flinched, her breath a wounded cry.

Disoriented,
she felt tears threaten.

"That's
the worst, honey." He kissed her lips, pulling her back to his world where
kisses and mouths and hands on her body were the things she longed for,
desired.

He
pushed into her tender skin until she thought she'd taken him. But he pulled
back, not all the way, then pushed in. He continued this slow way of entry, in
and out, until the apex between her legs felt thick and warm and beyond the
initial pain she'd experienced.

When
at last he pushed into her all the way, she was ready. A strange thrill
consumed her. Her fingers bit into his skin, her hands grasped his biceps
tightly. She was intimidated to look at him as he looked at her. She didn't
want to imagine what she looked like with her braid over her shoulder, her
breasts jiggling. She didn't want to confront the wanton in herself. So she
watched where they joined. How he fit into her so perfectly. How this dance
between man and woman was joy on earth. A lovely torment made more lovely when
they reached that edge of the plateau and their bodies sang.

With
each slick stroke that moved within her, he kindled flames in her, a hot ember
that built and grew. Hotter. To a field of wildfire that nothing could put out
other than Alex himself as he brought her to a new crescendo of fiery
explosions. They began small—first a spark, tiny embers that grew. Then rolling
heat that covered her skin, made her damp with perspiration. The wiry feel of
the hair on Alex's legs abraded the sensitive skin of her thighs, stimulating
her more than she thought possible.

Sounds
vibrated in her throat, nothing coherent—a lingering moan, a whimper, the soft
utterance of his name.

"Come
with me, Camille." His whisper was like kerosene on a matchstick. An
instant torch of fire. He moved harder and faster, his arms on either side of
her shoulders, his head down. A droplet of water rolled off his nose and onto
her lips. She licked it, as if she had kissed him.

In
those seconds of floating time, she knew she'd been fooling herself. She would
never be satisfied with just this one time. Heaven help her, she wanted him
forever.

Then
he took her with him, in one deep thrust, and she shattered. He filled her,
made her drift on a cloud in heaven. The intense heat cooled to a rush of
liquid warmth that she could feel quivering and pulsing. Was that her or him?
Or both? His rapid motions slowed to a final strain as he swelled inside her
and a low moan of ecstacy escaped his throat.

She
held onto him as he collapsed over her. His chin burrowed in the moist hollow
of her neck, his nostrils next to her skin. Their breath came together in
ragged pants, mingling like mists on morning roses.

There
were a great many things she wanted to say, but they would have been too
poetic, and in her present state, she probably would botch all the words
anyway. So she simply said the one thing that she knew would matter to him.

"I'm
not sorry," she said, her hands cupping his head, fingers sinking into his
hair. "I'm not sorry."

He
held her close, so close that she could feel the pounding of his heart. "I
only hope you still feel the same way tomorrow."

Somebody
sabotaged
the jockstraps with Doctor Schmaenkmen's Gold Seal itching powder.

It
hit Specs first. One minute he was joking with the guys; the next, horror
flashed across his face and his hand inched its way to his cup. The maneuver
was subtle; he appeared only to be engineering a minor adjustment, but in
reality, it was a scratch. Specs, who had devoutly avoided scratching that
particular location on his body, looked left and right to see if he was being
observed doing the unthinkable.

"Uh-oh,"
Specs mouthed as the men around him fit pants up their legs and jerseys over
their heads. He gave himself another scratch, a vigorous scratch. Then some
more scratches, and still some more.

Alex
narrowed his eyes and gave Specs a hard stare, a niggling sense of foul play at
the back of his mind. Having been in a professional league before, he never
took anything for granted and supplied his own jockey. Always had. Always
would. And a time like this proved him right in his dis- trust of how low one
team would go to disable another.

"Everyone
stop dressing!" Alex yelled just as Specs moaned.

"Did
the regular laundry do the uniforms and jockeys?" Specs's tone was
high-pitched as he sat on his locker trunk; he crossed his legs so tightly, he
looked like he was going to crack his kneecaps. His cheeks colored pink as he
tried desperately to refrain from scratching.

"What's
going on?" Duke asked, absently scratching his parts.

"Something's
wrong," Specs snapped, "that's what!"

"The
jockstraps aren't pure cotton," Alex said, stepping into his pants.

Specs
wailed, "Itching powder?"

"Charlie."
Noodles motioned to the centerfielder with his chin. "You were the first
one in here—anything different about the laundry?"

Charlie
paused in putting on his pants. "The uniforms were on the desk, paper-wrapped
like they always are. Along with a new box of Spalding jockstraps. I figured
Kennison sprang for them, so I doled them out."

"Well,
whoever sprang for them sprinkled itching powder in the cups!" Specs shot
up as if somebody had given him a hotfoot. "These jockstraps," he
said while scratching, "have been sabotaged!"

The
players stared at one other. Some of them had been in midscratch. Because
they'd always had relaxed manners in that department, it had gone without
saying that scratching was regular part of getting dressed. But now that Specs
had brought it to their attention, their hands suddenly became restrained—as if
they were testing Spec's theory. But the no-scratch concept didn't last long.
Soon, the Keystones were scratching en masse.

Everyone
except Alex.

And
that's how Camille came into the clubhouse and discovered them. At first, she
didn't see anything out of the ordinary—she'd been looking right at him as she
walked to her desk.

Their
eyes met, then her gold-tipped lashes cast shadows on her cheeks as she looked
down. Her face turned as pale as the ivory shirtwaist she wore and he thought
she might cry. It stabbed at him to be the cause of her tears.

Since
the afternoon they spent together a week ago, he hadn't been alone with her. He
wanted to talk to her, badly. Because in spite of what he'd told her, he had
found himself going to her house the next night. The night after. And the
following night. But he'd made it only as far as her gate before he stopped
himself. He stood there, in the darkness of the sidewalk, and stared at the
house. He watched lights turn on and wondered what she was doing, what she was
thinking. Sometimes he'd catch a glimpse of her moving in the front room, then
into the dining room. Then later, the lights would dim, and like a slow-fading
haze, they would diminish from one riser to the next on the stairwell as she
climbed the stairs to her bedroom. Alone.

Each
time he put his hand on the latch of that gate so he could follow her, the
realities of his life prevented him from opening it, from walking up the path
to her door, taking her into his arms, and telling her that he—

But
there was no point to buying into the dream that he could have a life with this
woman. That he could live in a house with her, be her husband, be the father of
her children. That he could have a family of his own and live happily ever
after. He'd only be pretending, deluding himself and Camille.

Because
his obligation was to Captain. Always. Or until Captain was well, which could
take months, years. He had no right to ask Camille to wait.

There
were days when he believed Cap was getting better, days when hope wound through
his soul. But last night hope had been snatched away so quickly, and so
cruelly, that he wished he had never felt hope at all.

He'd
gone to her house, and this time, his fingers had snagged the lock on the gate
and flicked it open. He hadn't thought about it; he'd just done it. He had gone
halfway up the walkway when Captain's voice called out to him.

"Alex..."
His tone was shaky, giving Alex pause. He looked up at the house, and as much
as he wanted to keep walking to those steps, he couldn't. He knew that tone in
Cap's voice.

He
turned away and went out the gate. It quietly fell back into place, the way it
had been—the way he should have left it to begin with.

"I've
been looking for you, Alex." The dark night washed over Captain. All but a
quarter moon was in the sky—but it was enough for Alex to see his face just as
Cap said the obvious. "A guy bit me in the mouth."

Alex's
muscles went taut. Shock quickly yielded to anger as Alex viewed the blood
smeared on Cap's swollen lips. Cap had tried to stop the flow; he held onto a
bloodied handkerchief and raised the cloth to his mouth once more to press at
the cut in his swollen lower lip. The offender's fist had really packed a
wallop.

Alex's
nostrils flared with fury. "Who hit you?"

"I
don't know."

"What
do you mean you don't know?" He felt his temper rise. "Did he jump
you?"

"No...
we were sitting down. He looked right at me and—
bam!
—gave me one in the
chops."

"Have
you seen the guy in town? Think hard. Where can I find him?" Violence
coiled in Alex, like a deadly snake ready to strike. Whoever had hit Cap was
going to be damned sorry.

Captain
looked at the blood on the handkerchief. "I know where you can find him,
but you're going to be mad at me."

"I
won't get mad," Alex assured Cap, his words tightly spoken.

"He's
at Dr. Porter's office getting
his
chops sewed up." His eyes rose
to meet Alex's. Disquiet marked his brows and the corners of his mouth, as if
he were troubled by his actions. "I hit him, Alex. A good one. You know I
never hit people, but something got into me tonight and I felt like he had it
coming. So after he belted me, I said, 'Damn sorry about this' and sent him
some knuckles right back." Moonlight caught in his eyes. "But I lied.
I wasn't sorry about it. Are you sure you're not mad?"

Alex
wasn't sure what his response was—more like surprise that Cap had slugged a
guy. But he wasn't angry with him for doing it. "I'm not mad."

"I
worried that you'd be mad at me." Cap lowered his gaze in apparent
confusion. "I shouldn't have hit him back. I don't know why I did."
Then his voice faded to a hush. "You said that new medicine was supposed
to make me feel better. Well, I don't feel like myself anymore. Sometimes I
think I'm somebody else thinking things and doing things." His eyes moved
upward, glittering with emotion. "It scares me.

Captain
stood before him with quiet power in his body and an innate pride to his
stance.
It scares me.
It was a confession Alex had never expected to
hear from him. He wished he could give him an answer that would be reassuring.
But Alex didn't have answers.

The
chirp of crickets played, their songs of summer surrounding the men.

Alex
ran his fingertips over his mouth in thought "What happened to make this
guy hit you in the first place?"

Cap's
strong white teeth flashed in the darkness, with a vague hint of a smile. And a
wince from the cut "I kicked his ass at poker."