The Game of Love (14 page)

“Noodle.” He licked his lips and grinned.

“I feel like a buffet.” She let her head thump back down to the ground.

“Would it make you feel any better if I reassured you that you would make one hell of a dessert table?” he asked.

He kissed her again, both soothing her impatience and heating her body. Her skin felt too tight, and there was a tingling sensation between her thighs that wouldn’t let her stay still. As if he realized that, his hand crept down, tugging on the drawstring of her pants until they were loose enough for his finger to slip inside.

“You’re not wearing panties,” he murmured against her lips, and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

“If you recall, I was just supposed to hang out with Katie anyway.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining. Doesn’t bother me one bit.” And he illustrated just how unbothered he was as the heel of his hand rested on the juncture of her thighs, fingers tracing her damp lips in feather-light strokes.

Not enough. Not nearly freaking enough. Her hips shot up, hoping to force more contact, but the only thing it did was make him chuckle. Then he granted her wish and one large finger pushed inside.

Those firing neurons stalled for a hundredth of a second, then burst into frenzied hysteria as she climaxed. She managed a strangled cry before his mouth clamped down on hers. Her hips bucked, but under his weight she barely moved. Finally, his hand slid out of her waistband, and he raised his head to look at her.

“Holy shit.”

He could say that again.

He panted like a marathon runner who just sprinted the last mile. His forehead dropped to touch hers. “Chris, I swear I’m a patient guy, and I have good moves in the bedroom. I can be that cool guy.” He was gasping for air, but his words weren’t coming out. “But I swear to God, if I don’t have you right now, I’m probably going to explode.”

Jackpot.
“Luckily we’re outside, otherwise the clean up could be a bitch.” She teased him just because she could.

“Christina,” he growled.

Realizing he had let her wrists go at some point, she brought her hands to either side of his face, tilted it to the side and whispered in his ear, “What are you waiting for?”

The look on his face alone was worth every minute of uncertainty she had felt about him since the moment they met. That look that said he wanted her more than a Super Bowl ring and his own action figure combined.

He reached once more for the waistband of her capris, pulling them down until they caught on her thighs. “Help here, please?” His voice strained in an almost comical way. But then again, she’d already had one orgasm. Poor guy.

Her fingers made quick work of his belt buckle as she bent one knee to help him slide the pants off. His zipper was rasping down before he moaned.

“Oh fuck. Fuckshitfuck.”

Chris dropped her hands away from the one area of a male’s body that could force such a reaction. “What? What’d I do?”

Brett’s eyes were closed, and a pained look crossed his face. “I didn’t exactly plan for this.”

She could have guessed that. How many guy start out their pre-coochie seduction with a food fight? “I know. I’m not worried that you tried to trick me or something. It’s okay.”

“No, no it’s not. I don’t have a condom. And as much as I want you—oh God, I want you—I can’t.”

“Oh.” Well, he had a point there. Her heart dropped to her almost-bare knees, but rebounded just as fast when she realized that he cared more about taking care of her than following his little quarterback through life. “Well, hmm.”

“No, no ‘hmm’ about it. Get up.” He launched himself off her, grabbed her forearm and yanked her upright before she had time to respond. Her body crashed against his chest. “Let’s go.” Taking her hand, he set a record pace back through the trees, stumbling in his haste.

“Brett, uh…Brett.” She could barely catch her breath and he was practically running. She stepped on the hem of her capri pants.
“Brett!”

He stopped as suddenly as he’d started, turning to look at her. “What?”

The look in his eyes almost had her saying “never mind,” but she spoke anyway. “I can’t keep up. My pants are falling down.” Looking at his waist, she noticed his own were sagging more than a fourteen-year-old with an attitude problem. “And so are yours. Plus, we left a lot of food and stuff back there.”

“Food? Fuck the food, the squirrels can have it.”

With one hand in Brett’s and the other holding up her loose pants, Chris let herself be dragged through the tree line, up the hill of a backyard and in through the back door.

“Brett, we’re going to get food all over the place!”

“Do you think I care right now?” He didn’t look back.

He had a point. Honestly, she’d mostly mentioned it because it seemed like the polite thing to do. But hey, if he wasn’t worried…his mess, his problem.

Dripping sauce and dressing, they worked their way through the bland house. Brett flung a door open and she stumbled through.

Shocker, more blah-tones in the bedroom.

“Bed. Now.” Neither his tone nor his face brooked any arguments.

She took one look at the smooth, cream-colored comforter spread over the bed and shook her head. “Nope. Not before we clean up.”

He opened his mouth—presumably to argue with her for talking back—but shut it again with a snap. Then a calculating glint entered his eyes, and one corner of his mouth tilted up. He shrugged a shoulder. “Fine. Bathroom’s right there. Go ahead, hop in the shower if you want.”

As Chris went into the cavernous, tiled room, she thought,
Oh, I want.
She walked to the shower standing in the corner of the room, a massive enclosure with two sides of complete glass and two sides cool tile. You could probably fit an entire defensive line in there.

The thought of how horrified Brett would be to hear she was debating how many football players she could cram in his shower had her fighting back a case of the giggles. A twist of her wrist had the showerheads—yes, plural—shooting down water at an incredible pressure level. Steam filled the glass, spilling into the bathroom, and she left her clothes in a pile on the floor, determined to wash them later.

A sigh of pure bliss escaped her lips as she walked under the streams of hot water. Within seconds, the remnants of their food fight washed down the drain. She looked around for shampoo and snorted as she lathered up. “Figures. Two-in-One shampoo and conditioner. Just like a man…”

“And if it were expensive hair crap from France, you’d be calling me gay.”

She gasped, turned and automatically covered herself. Although really, there was no way he could see much through the steam. She sure as hell couldn’t see much of anything past his waist—darn it—as he climbed in the shower with her.

“I thought we were washing up first.” Was her voice trembling?

“No. You said we couldn’t get in the bed before we cleaned up. You never said we had to wait for this.” The
this
was obvious as his mouth crushed down on hers, his heavy erection pressing against her hip.

She’d never had a man who wanted her so much, so badly. It thrilled her, and she didn’t want to lose that buzz. The girly part of her lectured, said she should slow down, not get ahead of herself.

But he bit down on the tendon connecting her neck to her shoulder and the sexual side that had lain dormant inside her for—well, how old was she again?—anyway, that sexual side screamed for her girly side to “get over it, you idiot!” as warmth pooled low in her belly and her fingers started to tingle.

Waiting was overrated anyway.

Her hands ran down his taut back, slick and sleek from the water, until she reached his butt. Wanting him inside her more than she’d ever wanted a Grand Slam title, she let her fingers walk down the tight muscles until she could get a good handful of each cheek, then squeezed. Hard.

He growled, then grabbed her thighs and lifted her against the cold tile with ease. She’d never been a small girl. Toned, but at her height she would never be petite. That he could pick her up so easily was exciting, and she reveled in it while wrapping her legs around his waist.

She felt the blunt head of his penis searching for her entrance, and she gasped, “Wait. Condom.” It’s why they’d made the ridiculous pants-sagging trek inside to begin with. Otherwise they would still be outside communing with nature.

“Already got one on, baby,” he said against her skin.

Well, then. “Aren’t you the Boy Scout, being prepared?”

“Honey, I want you so much there is no way I was getting in this shower without all systems go.”

She reached between them and guided him to the right angle. He slipped in just an inch, and she almost died with pleasure. Oh God, she was never going to survive.

He slid in until she settled fully against him. This wasn’t such a bad way to go. Pretty damn nice, really.

Their breathing and the hiss of the shower were the only sounds as Brett moved slowly in and out, his speed almost in savor-mode. She was so full she wanted to cry at the rightness, but didn’t dare because she knew a tear from her would make Brett stop. Damn his consideration.

The climb was quick, given she’d just come no more than ten minutes before, and soon she panted for release. One look at his face, though, showed he’d been ready since before he got in the shower and was one blink away from a meltdown.

“Brett…Brett, seriously.” When his desperate eyes met hers, the only thing she could think of to say was, “Harder.”

He thrust in so hard she slammed against the tile in a delicious moment of sexual rawness. She squeaked out, “Brett, Brett, I’m, oh God…” and convulsed around him.

He grunted and she felt the pulse of his release, the jerk of his limbs, the way his back stiffened. Then all at once, he slumped over her, his weight holding her up against the wall. Neither of them moved.

When she finally had control over her limbs, she raised a hand and patted Brett on the shoulder. “Good work, Wallace. It didn’t suck.”

His head snapped up, but her smile had him putting the breaks on any retort. He let her feet touch the floor and then he shut off the water. “Are we clean enough for the bed yet?”

“Yeah. I’d say so.”

Chris swallowed another bite, wiped her mouth with her wrist before saying, “Okay, next question. What’s the one thing you’ve always wanted to buy for yourself, but never have?”

It was just one of several queries they’d bombarded each other with in the past hour. He couldn’t remember what started the odd game of twenty questions, but soon they were taking turns asking completely off-the-wall, yet oddly revealing, questions.

They sat in bed, a large pizza between them. His side plain cheese, hers with everything but anchovies and olives. Her stomach had rumbled right as they dozed off after another round of mind-blowing sex…this time in the bed. Her clothes were in the washer—and neither of them was jazzed about her walking around town naked—so delivery it was.

He watched her pick up another slice of pizza—her fourth. Man, the lady could put it away. And he loved it. Loved that she didn’t care about pigging out in front of him. Didn’t care that she had to dodge and weave to keep the melted cheese in her mouth, or that sauce dribbled down her chin at one point, forcing her to wipe it away with her wrist in the most indelicate, but highly erotic, move he’d seen in a long time.

He grabbed another slice and made a quick mental note to run an extra mile the next day to make up for it. “A jet? I hate travel, hate being gone from home for any length of time. And airports are a bitch. It was always nice when the team chartered planes and we were on our own schedule.”

“You probably could get one.” She spoke around a mouthful of crust. “Economy’s in the tank, I’m sure there’s some unemployed CEO somewhere willing to unload the expense.” She wiped her hands on the shirt she was wearing. After tossing her clothing in the dryer, she’d grabbed one of his old gray undershirts and a pair of baggy sweatpants.

Ah, yes. A delicate rose she was not. He couldn’t contain a grin as he leaned over and gave her a quick peck, glad she wasn’t one of those women who always wanted to wear his old Liberties jersey.

“Yeah, I probably could. But I won’t. Now,” he went on before she could ask why, “same question to you.”

“A stringer.” No hesitation there.

“You want a journalist? You want your own personal journalist?”

She flicked a mushroom at him. “No, smarty-pants. A stringer. A machine to string rackets. It would be great to be able to do it myself instead of relying on the guy the next town over. And string the team’s rackets when they need it.”

He thought about that. “Couldn’t cost that much, could it?”

“Ha.” She gave him a look. “I guess if you’ve got money still rolling in from showing off your tush in the latest boxer-brief campaign, then no. But those of us on a more modest salary have to watch our spending.” She picked off an olive and popped it in her mouth. “So, exactly how did you get your mom to pack you the picnic?”

“I just swung by and told her I was starving, but I didn’t have time to stay for lunch. So she packed me food.”

“That was all for you? For one meal?” Her mouth gaped open. “There was enough food for five!”

He shrugged. “My mom’s one of those ‘If my son’s not married he’s probably starving’ kind of mothers. She’s always dropping food by or asking if I’ve had a decent meal recently.” He gave her a wink. “I can’t complain though, can I? Worked for me.”

“Guess it did.” She tore off another bite.

“What’s the matter? I thought you liked it.”

“I did,” she confessed, then a mischievous glint took over her face. “I’m just wondering what your mother would have to say if she found out her spaghetti and meatballs were used as messy foreplay.”

“Doubt she’d say much,” he said with a grin. “She’d mostly let a wooden spoon do the talking.”

“And when she asks how you liked the lunch she packed?” she asked with a raised brow.

“I’ll just tell her it was delicious. Because it was…even if it was served in a less-than-orthodox way.” And with that he shoved the pizza box off the bed and concentrated his efforts on reminding her just how fun lunch had been.

At nine the next morning, his cell phone’s alarm chirped softly on his bedside, warning him he needed to get his ass out of bed and get ready to head over to his mother’s for Sunday brunch.

He glanced down at the huddled mass of blankets beside him and didn’t even bother fighting the smile that overtook his face.

He had used the ruse of washing her clothes to keep her there at first, then they needed to dry. But after their post-pizza loving, they were both just too exhausted to even contemplate getting her home. He had expected her to curl up beside him, melt her body to his, rest her head on his shoulder. In fact, he had been looking forward to it.

Instead, right before sleep claimed them, she’d grunted, rolled over so her back was to him, and pulled the sheet and cover up and over her head. She’d effectively cocooned herself in and kept him out.

All right, so she wasn’t a cuddler. Not a requirement.

She was, however, a sheet hog.

He did his best to slip out without shaking the bed, although it didn’t seem to matter because to Chris, sleep was equal to a coma. She hadn’t moved at all.

Deciding she would want to sleep for a little longer—and smirking about why she needed her rest—he chose to use the bathroom down the hall to shower so he didn’t wake her up with the noise.

Besides, the master bath was still a mess from their food-tastic fuck fest.

Stepping out of the shower, he dried off and slipped on an old pair of workout shorts. Should he wake up Chris? A noise in the hallway told him he probably didn’t have to, though, because she was already awake. As he walked in that direction, he wondered if she’d be pleased with an invitation to brunch or if it would freak her out.

He’d play it by ear. Mention the brunch, see how she reacted.

Before he opened that can of worms, he made a U-turn and headed down the back stairs to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water and turn on the coffee. The large kitchen windows let in plenty of light, and he admired the view of the backyard while he guzzled half the bottle. Maybe he was being ridiculous but everything just seemed brighter. He turned to face the living room. Everything seemed—

He stood up straight and peered through the windows in the living room. No, he was seeing things. But he had to check. He walked into the living room. Nope, not seeing things.

Chance’s car. In his driveway. Empty.

Which meant that the odds were, Chance was in the house somewhere.

And Chris was naked in his bed.

Shitfuckshit.
He dropped the water bottle on the floor and sprinted back up the stairs to the bedroom. He’d almost made it to the top step when an über-feminine blood-curdling scream blasted his eardrum, followed closely by a masculine, “What the hell?”

Shitfuckshit
didn’t cover it.

“Chance! Get your ass out of there!” He kept up full speed to the bedroom only to find his brother running out of it, bent in half and clutching his abdomen. A tennis shoe flew through the open bedroom door and came within inches of hitting his head. The shoe bounced off the wall and fell with a harmless thump instead.

Sensing his brother was about to race right past him without stopping, Brett waited until they were parallel before tackling him into the wall, halting the poor excuse for a getaway.

“Ow! What the hell is going on here?” Now that Chance wasn’t moving, Brett could see he wasn’t holding his stomach—he was holding his crotch.

“What are you doing in here, Chance? Do you guys ever fucking knock?”

“I did! Christ, Brett, did you have to hit me so hard? Some of us didn’t go pro, you know.” As if he was moving through molasses, Chance rolled himself to a kneeling position, then stood. Finally at almost eye level, he pushed Brett once on the shoulder with the heel of his hand. Brett didn’t budge.

“Living room. Don’t leave until I come back down.” He couldn’t have put more menace into his voice if he’d tried.

Though he had almost eleven years—and, as a cop, the law—on his side, Chance thumped down the stairs, mumbling to himself about bait-and-switch crap.

Brett ran a hand down his face once, not sure what he’d find when he walked through the door. He took a deep breath and went into the bedroom.