Player & the Game (16 page)

Dawn raised her chin in defiance. “Well, maybe I will too.”

Except the crawling part,
she silently corrected.

“Bullshit! You don't have what it takes, sweetheart. So you can—”

“Babes!” Razor shouted, stopping Sasha mid-sentence. “I'm ready to go if you are.”

Dawn turned and faced the hallway. When she saw Razor, her mouth fell open in shock.

He was buck naked, wearing only a watch and a smile. He wasn't lying about being “ready to go” either. His hard-on stood at full attention, showing that his artistic skill wasn't the only thing he could be proud of.

“Be right there, Razor,” Sasha called back.

Dawn watched—stunned—as Sasha began to disrobe. Sasha lowered the zipper on her bustier before letting the garment fall to the hardwood floor. Despite her continual insistence that she had never been to a plastic surgeon in her life, Sasha had obviously had
some
work done. Her boobs were perky, but rock hard and her nipples looked as if they could poke someone's eye out. She tugged off her skirt next and kicked it aside. The gallery director stood in Razor's living room in nothing but her red lace panties and kitten heels. She slowly walked toward him. When she drew near, they shared another slobbery kiss. Sasha grinded her pelvis against his erection and Razor cupped her saggy, dimpled bottom, pulling her closer.

Despite her disgust, Dawn couldn't look away. She suddenly sympathized with people who slowed down to look at car accidents. Something this disturbing was hard to peel your eyes away from.

The couple finally came up for air long enough for Razor to look over Sasha's shoulder at Dawn.

“You coming?” he asked breathlessly.

Dawn blinked, snapping out of her malaise. “Uh . . . yeah, I'm . . . I'm coming. You guys . . . go ahead and start. I'll meet you in the bedroom in a couple of minutes.”

Razor nodded before kissing Sasha again. The woman looped her bony arms around his neck and he lifted her and carried her into his bedroom, making her squeal.

Dawn lowered her eyes. She looked down at her hands. They were shaking.

She rushed toward the end table where she had left her drink and grabbed her glass. She finished what was left of her scotch, coughing when the hot liquid burned her throat, hoping the alcohol would calm her nerves, but the feeling of unease didn't go away. Neither did her trembling.

“This doesn't mean anything!” the voice in her head argued. “It's just sex! You've done it plenty of times before with men you've felt nothing for. This isn't any different! You can't let Sasha win.”

“Right. It's just sex,” she muttered, unbuttoning her blouse. “It's just sex. It's just sex,” she repeated over and over again as she walked toward the bedroom.

When Dawn neared the doorway, she heard Razor moan and Sasha whimper. She paused.

But it's not just sex,
she thought.

This was about her
and
her body and if she used it to get something . . . then damn it, she wanted to use it on
her
terms for what
she
wanted! Not because she was being bullied by her boss. Not because some rich little asshole was trying to manipulate her. Dawn Gibbons didn't go out like that.

“To hell with this,” she whispered.

She then turned around, walked back toward the living room, and grabbed her jacket. Dawn heard Sasha's cries of orgasmic delight just as she walked out. She ignored them and shut the front door behind her with a slam.

S
tephanie gazed listlessly at the television screen. She had changed into one of her silk teddies and a pair of shorts and was now under the stiff motel bedsheets with her knees to her chest and her arms wrapped around her legs. She was huddled against the headboard. It was well after ten o'clock and Keith still wasn't back yet.

“Asshole,” she muttered yet again.

Stephanie reached for her cell phone and began to call her sisters, hoping that a conversation with one of them would be a good distraction. She tried dialing Lauren first and of course got her voice mail. In retrospect, that wasn't much of a surprise since Lauren usually worked late at her restaurant on weekdays. That would probably end soon as her pregnancy got further along. Stephanie tried Cynthia next and finally hung up when she was sent to her voicemail too. Knowing Cynthia, she was probably on a date. Then she tried Dawn's cell.

“Hello,” her older sister answered tiredly after the third ring.

“Hey, sis!” Stephanie said, instantly perking up. “How are you? What are you up to?”

“Hey, Steph. I'm fine, just . . . exhausted.”

“
Exhausted?
Why? What's wrong?”

“Don't get me started. It's just been a rough night. I'll share all the gory details another day. For now, I just want to put on my facial mask, close my eyes, and go to sleep.”

“Oh.” Stephanie's shoulders slumped. “Well, maybe I'll talk to you in the morning then.”

“Sure.” Dawn yawned on the other end of the line. “Talk to you in the morning. Good night.”

Dawn hung up and Stephanie followed suit before placing her cell phone back on her adjacent night table. Stephanie stared at her phone, wondering what gory details Dawn was talking about.

Guess she'll tell me later like she said,
Stephanie thought with a shrug. She grabbed the television remote again and started to flip channels. She finally settled on watching the eleven o'clock news. She glanced at the digital alarm clock on the night table in between the double beds, telling herself that she wasn't checking the time yet again because she was waiting for Keith. He obviously couldn't care less about her. Why should she have any concern for him?

But still,
she thought, staring at the neon numbers,
it is getting late.

Keith had disappeared hours ago and he still hadn't come back yet. It was a small town. There weren't too many places where he could go.

At around midnight, she turned off the television and turned off the lights. She tugged the sheets up to her chin, closed her eyes, and tried to fall asleep, but failed miserably. Instead, she opened her eyes again and gazed at the closed motel-room door, waiting to see when Keith would finally return.

Why hadn't he come back yet? Would he honestly let her drift off to sleep without giving her an apology?

“Maybe he doesn't feel he needs to apologize,” a voice in her head countered.

But he had hurt her feelings. Surely, he could see that! His words had cut deeper than she would have thought. She still couldn't get them out of her mind. He thought she was a spoiled princess. He said she was a prima donna.

“Nothing you haven't heard before,” the voice argued. “Your family tells you that all the time.”

That was true, but coming from Keith, she took those insults very personally.

He crept into the bedroom less than an hour later, smelling like beer and cigarettes. The instant the door opened, she sat bolt upright in the bed. She turned on one of the brass lamps on the night table.

“Where were you? Where the hell did you go?” she asked, unable to hide her anxiousness in her voice.

He stiffened instantly. She watched as he walked toward his bed. He took off his jacket and tossed it on the worn, brown paisley comforter. “I just went to a bar and had a few drinks. That's all. I was coming back. You didn't have to worry.”

Easier said than done,
she thought angrily.

She hesitated and watched as he sat down on the edge of his bed with his back to her. He tugged off his shoes then his socks. She wanted tell him the thoughts she had been muddling over all night. She wanted to have a conversation with him. It would be a
real
conversation with a man—something that was virtually unheard of in her family, but she had some stuff she wanted to get off her chest. She opened her mouth to speak.

“We should get some rest,” he said and then yawned. “We both need to get up early. We'll head back to the garage near Wilson to see how your car is faring. Maybe it'll be finished by tomorrow.” He turned to her. “If it's ready, you could even be back in Virginia by tomorrow night.”

“Keith,” she said quietly. “I don't—”

“Good night, Stephanie.”

He then turned off the light, summarily ending the conversation.

She slumped back into her bed and raised the sheets again. She watched him prepare for bed in the dim light of the motel room. He began to remove his clothes in the dark. When he had finally stripped down to his boxer briefs, he walked past her bed to the bathroom and turned on the bathroom light. She tried not to stare, but it was hard not to. He was a well-built man who seemed to be made almost entirely of hard muscle. His arms, broad back, and legs looked like they could have been chiseled out of black onyx.

She watched him brush his teeth then extinguish the bathroom light. He walked in the dark back to his bed. He pulled back his bedsheets, collapsed on the mattress, and closed his eyes. Within minutes, he was fast asleep.

But an hour later, Stephanie still lay silently in the dark, gazing up at the bedroom ceiling as he slept soundly. She could hear the steady drip of the faucet in the motel bathroom and the chug of the air conditioning unit. She could feel the cheap bedsheets scratching her delicate skin. An occasional kaleidoscope of light would decorate the room when the headlights from the cars on the roadway or the parking lot pierced the half-opened window blinds, revealing the water stains on the ceiling. When the car drove farther down the road or the headlights were turned off, the room would sink into murky darkness again.

She glanced at the glowing alarm clock and saw that it was already three a.m. She had been lying awake for hours.

Stephanie turned on her side and faced the bathroom, closed her eyes, and tried yet again to get some shut-eye. But minutes later she opened her eyes. Her mind wouldn't let her sleep.

She flopped onto her back, grumbling to herself. Another beam pierced the blinds. She turned her head to look at Keith. He was on his side, facing the window and he was still asleep. His shoulder and rib cage went up and down with each breath he took.

He
was the one who had hurt her feelings.
He
was the one who dealt the blow. Why wasn't he agonizing over this? Why was she the one tossing and turning in bed?

Stephanie didn't know why she even cared what Keith Hendricks thought about her. He was just some detective, some cocky asshole her brother-in-law was paying to find Isaac for her. He had no right to judge her!

Stephanie blinked back tears and sniffed. She couldn't believe it. She was actually crying over this shit!

She hadn't used any of her usual tricks on him. She had tried to rationalize with him, like Lauren had suggested. She had treated him like a human being. She had thought that eventually it would earn his respect and that he would see her as a
real
person—but she had thought wrong.

Stephanie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and tossed back the threadbare covers. She walked into the bathroom and quietly shut the door behind her. She then turned on the lights and the faucet, grabbed one of the paper cups near the soap dish, and filled it with cold water. She drank and gazed at her reflection in the mirror, examining her tired face and her reddened eyes.

Admit it, Steph,
she told herself. He wasn't just some cocky asshole. She was falling for him, just like Lauren had warned her that she would. That's why what Keith said had hurt her so badly. That's why she had been lying awake for hours. She paused at the realization, finding it scary and exciting all at the same time.

For years, Stephanie had chased men for their money and prestige. Keith had neither and yet she still wanted him and in more than just a carnal way. It didn't make sense, but she felt the attraction all the same—and she wanted him to feel it for her too. She had to talk to him, to finally get this stuff off her chest.

Stephanie turned off the bathroom light and opened the door. Another ray of light filled the room. She used it to find her way across the worn carpet to Keith's bed, creeping silently along the length of his mattress, stopping near his head. She hesitated, unsure of what to do next.

Stephanie loudly cleared her throat, but he didn't budge.

“Keith?” she whispered. “Keith?”

Keith slowly opened his eyes. When he saw the outline of her body hovering over him, he jumped and stared at her in amazement.

“
Stephanie?
What's . . . What's wrong?” he croaked groggily, pushing himself up. He reclined on his elbows as another beam of light entered the room. The bedsheets fell from his shoulders, revealing his toned arms and chiseled stomach and chest. He squinted, wiping the sleep out of his eyes.

Stephanie sat on the edge of the bed. She hesitated again.

You've got me all wrong, Keith,
she thought.
I'm more than just a spoiled princess. I'm not the person you think I am,
she wanted to say. But she was so nervous, too tongue-tied.

He gazed at her expectantly and she felt her temperature rise in the room. Her resolve was faltering. She felt cornered to say something, to
do
something. So she leaned forward and did what she really wanted to do: she kissed him. The light in the room faded again as their lips met.

He didn't respond to her kiss at first, keeping his lips firmly fixed like the onyx statue he resembled, keeping his arms stiffly at his sides.

He doesn't want me,
she thought with alarm. Desperate, Stephanie pressed her warm body against his and teased his full lips with her mouth and teeth. She slid her hands along his chest then wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him.

Keith began to respond then. He opened his mouth. He kissed her back tentatively then more voraciously. He shoved his fingers into her hair, tilting back her head so that the kiss could deepen. She moaned with relief.

The next thing she knew she was lying flat on her back against the bed and he was on top of her. He removed her silk top first, then her shorts with his deft hands. Her clothes went flying into some far-off corner of the motel room. Within seconds, they were both panting and naked.

Stephanie couldn't see Keith clearly in the dark, but she could feel him. His weight kept her pinned against the mattress. His fingers left electric tingles along her skin as he trailed his hands up and down the length of her body. His mouth was searing hot and wet, and she met it hungrily with kisses and responded to it with moans.

They both reached for each other blindly. She felt a phantom hand run along her neck, then her chest, before cradling one of her breasts. Keith then followed the path of his hand and lowered his mouth to one of her nipples. The hair of his goatee tickled her skin, making it gooseflesh. She started to giggle, but her laughter died in her throat when he licked the taut nub, took it between his teeth, and tugged it gently. She cried out in surprise and pleasure.

Stephanie could feel him easing her legs apart. She obeyed those phantom hands and wantonly spread her thighs wider, inviting his touch, feeling heady with anticipation. His fingers parted the slick wetness between her thighs and she breathed in sharply before biting down hard on her bottom lip. He began to massage her clit tenderly then more vigorously, coaxing her body to respond to him. He returned his mouth to her breasts, sharing equal attention between the two parts of her body that made her groan. He slid his fingers inside her wetness and Stephanie cried out again. Her thighs began to tremble. Her hips began to buck rhythmically, meeting each stroke of his sensual touch. She closed her eyes, enjoying luscious sensations that he was giving her. Her trembling only increased.

He continued to massage her between her thighs—making her wetter and hotter.

“Oh, God, Keith,” she whimpered, fisting the bedsheets in her hands. “Don't stop. Please, don't stop!”

And she wasn't faking it. Keith wasn't getting one of the stellar performances that she often gave for other men. Her panting and moans were real . . . oh, so real. She bucked her hips even more, raising her pelvis from the mattress. She could feel her body quickly losing control. When the first spasms rocked her, she threw back her head and shouted in the dark. She grabbed his hand as her back and hips arched in a yoga-like pose, then she collapsed back to the bed. She had no idea how long she lay there trembling beneath him. But when she finally opened her eyes, she felt like she had just stepped off the world's wildest roller coaster.

Where's my souvenir picture,
she thought with a laugh.

Now it was his turn. He reached blindly for her again, tracing the length of her arm. He then held her right hand and guided it downward. Her fingers rubbed the muscular contours of his stomach, then the telltale patch of rough curly hair, and stopped at his rigid manhood. He firmly wrapped her hand around it, urging her to stroke him. She smiled against his lips, figuring she could do one better.