Tangled Up in Love (20 page)

He bit back a grin. Her reaction was so Ronnie-typical, he could have scripted it.

“Yeah, I guess I did. Do you want to hear this, or not?”

The fire in her eyes banked, but only slightly. “Keep going.”

“I want to be a sports reporter. Have since I was a kid. Baseball, basketball, football, hockey, tennis, soccer, golf . . . I love them all. I’ve got stats whipping through my head twelve hours a day.”

“What do you think about the other twelve?” she asked.

“Sex,” he deadpanned.

Her mouth quirked up at the corner and he found himself almost smiling in return.

“I keep interviewing and putting in my résumé for sports positions. The only reason I moved to the
Herald
is because the old sports reporter was set to retire, and I figured if I was there, as soon as his job opened up, I could slip right in and take over.”

He made a face, the annoyance at being shut out once again as fresh as it had been the day it happened.

“Makes sense, right? Except the old guy had a nephew, and they gave him the job instead. This bean-pole geek with flood pants and tape on his glasses, who wouldn’t know a layup from a slam dunk, has my column. Every single time I come close to catching a break and getting the chance to write what I really want, I get knocked on my ass.”

Reaching out, he snatched his glass of soda—generic, of course; after all, he’d gotten it out of Ronnie’s fridge—and took a long gulp. He was just swallowing when his head snapped forward, nearly
causing him to choke
and
break a tooth on the rim of the glass.

Pulling back, he turned to look at Ronnie, who’d leaned forward and was even now pulling back for another slap.

“That’s for stealing my job,” she told him.

Whap!
to the back of his head a second time.

“And that’s for being an idiot.”

“Geez,” he said, rubbing the stinging area. “Thanks for being a sympathetic listener.”

“What’s to sympathize with?” she demanded. “You took a job you didn’t want—that I not only wanted, but needed, you dumb jerk—because you’re too stupid to go after what you really
do
want more directly.”

“Okay,” he said slowly, ticking items off on his fingers. “Idiot, dumb jerk, stupid . . . You forgot dim, dense, slow, moronic, doofus.”

“I didn’t forget them, I just haven’t worked them in yet.”

“What’s so stupid about trying to climb the ladder, trying to get closer to your dream?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. But that’s not what you’re doing.”

She was worked up again, but this time with a passion for her subject rather than shame and upset over her own circumstances.

“You’re hiding. Playing it safe. Rolling over and playing dead just because things haven’t worked out exactly the way you’d hoped.”

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to do?” he charged back, starting to get riled up himself. “Walk into the paper of my choice and demand the sports-writer position at gunpoint?”

“Of course not, but am I the only one who’s noticed that one of your best friends happens to be the star goalie of the Cleveland Rockets?”

He held her gaze for a moment, then blinked. “So?”

Her eyes went wide and she sat up straighter on the sofa, leaning forward to give him another whap. This one wasn’t as hard, though, and caught him on the shoulder because he saw it coming.

“Sooooo,”
she stressed, as though he was, indeed, slow on the mental uptake. “Zack is your best friend. He’s known for being tight-lipped with the press. Imagine the attention you would get if you convinced him to give you an exclusive interview. You could take it to any paper in the city . . . any paper or magazine in the country, and they’d trip over themselves to hire you.”

Feeling like he’d just been smacked between the eyes with a two-by-four, he stared at her, dumbfounded. He’d honest to God never considered such a thing before, but now that she’d verbalized it, it sounded so simple, so sensible, so
obvious
.

If there had been a brick wall nearby, he’d have jumped up and started pounding his brain against it.
Duh, duh, duh.

Ronnie was right, he was an idiot. He’d always planned to get the ideal job,
then
take advantage of his friendships, not the other way around. And though Zack was his closest professional athlete friend, he had others. Some he’d met through Zack, some he’d met on his own simply by virtue of his huge love of all things sports-related.

The idea was so phenomenal, he wanted to rush out, track down Zack, and talk him into doing an interview
right then. But of course it was late, Zack was likely busy with something else—even if it was only heating up the sheets with Grace—and he didn’t have a single question in mind for his friend yet.

He would have to go back through past articles and interviews with Zack. There weren’t many, but if he could hit on some questions and areas that hadn’t been covered by anyone else, it really would be exclusive enough to garner major media interest. And as long as he didn’t print anything too personal, he was almost certain Zack would agree.

It wasn’t until he came back down to earth that he realized Ronnie hadn’t moved. He hadn’t, either, actually; he’d been too busy mapping out his future now that he was no longer burdened by Dumb Fuck Syndrome.

A slow smile spread across his face and he started to lean forward. He couldn’t help himself. Even when she pulled back and wariness crept into her eyes, he didn’t stop.

Reaching out, he cupped the back of her head in the palm of his hand, his fingers weaving into the silky strands of her chestnut hair. He pulled her toward him, and despite the guardedness in her expression, she didn’t balk.

His lips brushed hers, feather-light, once, twice, three times. Her lashes fluttered closed and a breath of surrender rushed from her lungs.

He was pretty close to surrendering himself. She tasted of the Chinese buffet they’d gobbled down earlier, and the gentle mix of sweet and spicy made him hungry all over again—but not for food.

“Thank you,” he whispered against her mouth.

His words must have surprised her because she went slack beneath him. Silently and with great reverence, he opened his mouth over hers, slid his tongue between her warm lips, and kissed her until steam poured out both their ears.

Ronnie couldn’t decide if she was more shocked by Dylan’s whispered thank-you or by the unexpected kiss that was even now turning from soft and easy to firm and intense.

It felt so peculiar going from being completely distraught over having lost this latest job opportunity to having her pulse kick up and all pertinent hormones make a run for the southern border, but that seemed to be the effect he had on her.

One minute, tears and fury, next minute,
Ride me, cowboy!

She moaned beneath his mouth, letting her arms wrap more securely around his shoulders and unlocking her ankles from their crossed position to open wider and invite him into the cradle of her thighs.

This was a bad idea. She knew it. Her brain was telling her to stop, to shut him down and hustle him out the door before things went any farther.

But her body . . . oh, her body was a weak, treacherous bitch. It wanted more of exactly what Dylan was giving her. What she knew from delightful experience
that he could give her again and again all through the night.

His hand crept up to cup her breast and fondle the swelling point of her nipple through the soft cotton material of her pajama top.

And there went all of that nice, rational lucidity. Blip, bloop, blam, gone were all of her lovely sense and sensibilities, flying right out the window.

So what did it matter? One more night. One more bout of rock-my-world, trip-the-light-fantastic sex. She could totally put her foot down tomorrow and call a stop to any further intimate relations with the man she loved to hate.

She could.

She would.

But for now . . .

“Mmm, that feels good,” she murmured as he released her mouth and began kissing a path down the side of her throat. At the same time, his fingers continued to flutter and tweak the tips of her breasts.

“How about this?” he asked, sliding the hand that had been at the back of her head down between her legs. He cupped her mound and applied a gentle pressure that had her wiggling in place.

It felt better than good . . . amazing, fantastic, phenomenal would have been a better description . . . and she wished for magical forces that would have allowed her to blink or snap or wiggle her nose and render both their clothes nonexistent.

But he’d done this to her before . . . stroked and caressed, kissed and enticed. Basically swept in, stunned her with his astounding powers of foreplay, and left her dazed, sated, and confused.

Time for a little payback.

It wasn’t easy, what with his hand buried in her crotch and his fingers starting to dance in a way she
really
wanted to beg him to stick with until the bitter end, but she took a deep breath, pulled back as far as the arm of the couch would allow, and said, “Wait.”

The speed with which he stopped was almost amusing. It was like one of those “sex on campus” instructional videos where they showed examples of green-light/red-light behavior.

“Something wrong?” he asked, and only the heaving of his chest and tautly defined muscles of his throat belied just how much control he was exerting to
not
continue touching her.

Oh, she was going to enjoy this.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is,” she told him, straining not to grin, even though one was struggling to get loose.

Giving his chest a little shove, she pushed him away, then swung out from under him and got to her feet beside the couch. Dylan’s face fell, and he turned to collapse against the sofa back.

He perked up, though, when she crossed her arms in front of her and tugged the hem of her pajama top straight up over her head. A second later, she shrugged out of the bottoms and kicked them aside, too.

Completely naked, she stood in front of him, watching his eyes darken with desire and the already impressive tenting behind the zipper of his jeans swell even larger.

“I thought . . .” His voice cracked and he had to stop, swallow, and start again. “I thought you weren’t interested.”

“What gave you that idea?” she asked cheekily, resting a hand at her waist and cocking her hip to one side.

His brows rose. “You. You said stop.”

“No,” she corrected him, striding the step or two forward to reach him and climbing onto the couch, straddling him with one knee on either side of his thighs. Her fingers tunneled through his hair as he lifted his head slightly to meet her gaze. “I said wait. There’s a difference.”

He sat motionless, obviously viewing her as a predator and himself as the prey. The image—a lioness stalking a gazelle—amused her, bringing a smile to her lips.

“Okay, what are we waiting for?”

“Nothing now.” She tugged his head back, leaning forward to press her bare breasts to his chest while her mouth began to gently peruse the strong, masculine lines of his face.

“I wanted you to wait because it’s not fair for you to be in the driver’s seat a second time in a row. If we’re going to do this again—” She wiggled her hips, grinding herself over the solid ridge of his trapped erection. “—and it certainly feels like we’re going to, unless you have some objection, then I want to be in charge for a change. I want the chance to make you come twelve or thirteen times in one night.”

A huff of stale air burst from his lungs. “Sorry, babe, I can pretty much guarantee that’s an objective you’re not going to reach, no matter how hard you try. The mind is willing, believe me, but the body is far from able. I may be as young and randy as the next guy, but even I can’t get it up a dozen times in one night.”

She slipped a hand down between their bodies and
rubbed him suggestively and with great purpose. “Mind if I give it a try?”

The muscles in his arms, thighs, and abdomen all went tight as elevator cables. “Be my guest.”

She grinned. He sounded nonchalant, but she could feel the heat and tension rolling off him in waves.

She could leave him now, worked up, desperate, ready to chew nails for the chance to get off. It would be such poetic justice in so many ways.

And a few weeks ago, she would have done it. She would have gloried in the ability to get him all lathered up, then walk away, leaving him hard and aching, panting for more.

Now, though, her vindictive streak when it came to Dylan Stone seemed to have disappeared. Or at least taken a short jaunt down to Jamaica while the rest of her stayed behind to get her groove on.

And just like the last time she’d been naked with him, she decided to block out any pesky everyday concerns. Her underlying hatred for him, their ongoing battle of one-upmanship, whatever realities might come crashing down in the bright light of day.

She was like a junkie jonesing for a fix. Just one more hit and she’d be okay. Just one more hit and she’d quit, give it up forever, check herself into rehab. Honest. Just one more hit . . .

She only hoped that after tonight, after she’d let herself chase down this one last high, she would have the strength to say no from now on. Because he was a bit like a drug: slowly but surely becoming addictive and necessary to keep her body functioning. To stave off the tremors and anxiety and sickness of withdrawal.

But call her a junkie, an addict, a glutton for punishment. Like Dylan, sitting immobilized beneath her, she was more than willing to go with the moment and follow where her raging hormones were leading. And like Scarlett O’Hara, she would think about the consequences tomorrow.

Sliding her palms down the long, sleek line of his chest, she curled her fingers into the material of his shirt and tugged it from the waistband of his jeans. He moved slightly to help her pull the fabric free, but otherwise let her do all the work.

She was fine with that . . . after all, she was the one who’d insisted on taking the reins this time around . . . but still she took her time releasing the row of tiny white buttons running down the front. Slipping her hands inside to caress his warm, smooth skin, she pushed the edges of fabric away, revealing more of his chest inch by glorious inch.