Various States of Undress (21 page)

When he stepped out of his pants, he reached for her, but she stopped him again—her hand flat on his hard abs. She reached for his rigid length, closing her fingers around it. She moved her mouth forward and he drew in a sharp breath. “Isn't this what you fantasized about?” she murmured against him.

“Yeah. Oh God. Yeah. That and . . . other—” His breath whooshed out as her lips closed around him.

After a moment he placed his hands on her head and pulled her away. “I want to have you. Now.”

Slowly, teasingly, she put the condom on him and then leaned back against the cushion. She drew up her knees and rested her heels on the table edge, feeling way sexier than she ever had in her life. “You do have me, Brett.”

With a growl, he reached for her hips and guided himself home. When he filled her, inch by delicious inch, her heart swelled in proportion. This was so erotic—so exciting—but at the same time, so wonderfully perfect that she felt tears spring to her eyes. She beckoned to him.

He complied, leaning forward until his chest pressed against her breasts. When Brett moved within her, thrusting slowly, the friction between her thin shirt and his hard chest made her nipples ache with need. She grabbed the hem and drew it up, but Brett slid his hands under hers, over her skin, and up, his fingers closing over her breasts, squeezing her nipples. He whispered her name over and over, and she closed her eyes, the sweet pressure inside of her building so fast, it threatened to crash through her and sweep her away. It was need, yes, but something else too. Something even more overwhelming—something bigger than either one of them.

Love.

The tears in her eyes spilled over as she looked at him, and when his hands moved up to cradle her face, she saw love looking back at her. She was speechless.

As he rocked against her more quickly, she locked her ankles around his back and arched from the table. His hot breath exploded over her neck, and she came—glorious spirals of color dancing behind her closed eyelids. She moaned—a long, low sound—and he surged into her deeply.

His powerful arms lifted her from the table, and he stood up, locking her in his embrace, thrusting hard against her, capturing her open lips with his even as he jerked and shuddered. His deep groan filled her mouth—and the rest of her—with an exquisite sense of completion. Of belonging. She belonged to him.

Georgia sank her cheek to his damp chest, her body still rocking slightly. A moment later, he turned and lowered her to the table. He kissed her again and gathered her to him. His spicy scent teased her senses, and a sharp yearning sliced through her heart. He was going to leave. She missed him already, even though he was right here. Would it always be like this?

Brett bent down and placed a kiss on the top of her head. “You okay?”

She nodded.

“I feel something wet against my belly and it's not . . .” He chuckled.

She chuckled too, despite of herself. “No, I'm fine. Just a bit overcome.”

“Mm. You're welcome.”

Georgia raised her head. “So are you.”

He reached for her hand. “Then we're both lucky.”

She let him help her off the table, and he led her back to the bedroom. “I'd love to stay and hold you, sugar. I really oughta take a shower, though. If I miss my flight . . .”

“No, you can't do that. You'll be back soon.” She smiled up at him, but her chin wobbled.

“Hey, none of that.” He leaned down and carefully stroked his thumbs beneath her eyes. “You'll make me cry, and you don't want to see that. It'd be ugly.”

She let out a half-hearted laugh. “You ugly? Unimaginable.”

“Well, I haven't cried since I was ten.” He paused. “I'll be out in a minute.” He turned and walked out of the room. A moment later, she heard the sound of water spattering against her shower curtain.

With a sigh, she walked to her closet and reached for a sundress. It didn't surprise her a bit that he hadn't cried in so long. She could count on her fingers the number of times she'd cried since she was ten. And yet, here she was, the dam about to break. She rested her head in her hands and took a couple of deep breaths. Did she really want to be a blubbering mess when he stepped out of the shower? No.

So she put on the dress. She made the bed and spread his clothing on top of it. Then she went to the kitchen, poured a mug of coffee, and took a couple of sips. A second later, her phone vibrated against the kitchen counter and she picked it up. Good. A real distraction.

“Hello?”

“Miss Fulton, this is Fred Shipley.”

Georgia's eyebrows flew up. He'd never called her before. “Oh. Hi, Ship. Is there something I can do for you?”

He coughed. “Yeah, uh, listen . . . this is kind of awkward, but I wanted to talk to you about Brett.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “Is something wrong?”

“I hope not, but I'm worried. His playing has been erratic, and I'm concerned that his chances with the Cardinals are being compromised.”

Georgia's heart sank a little. It would kill Brett if he got passed over this season. He was hoping to get called up. He'd worked hard for it.

“I see,” she said. “Have you talked to him about this?”

“Oh, sure. But nothing I say seems to matter. I realize that he's been spending some time with you outside of your interviews. I hope it's okay for me to mention that.”

“He has,” she responded. “And I don't mind your mentioning it because Brett and I aren't keeping it a secret. I can assure you, though, that the interviews are over. We taped the TV portion yesterday. She heard the shower turn off and her eyes widened. “Is there something I can do to help Brett?”

“Well, the thing is, I was wondering if y'all might be willing to spend less time together.”

Georgia leaned against the counter and lowered her voice. “You mean, you think that I'm what's distracting him?”

“Yes.”

Her heart sank the rest of the way.

“I don't mean any offense, of course. It's just that he's in a pressure cooker right now.”

“I understand,” she said numbly. She heard the shower curtain slide back, and she glanced toward the half-open bathroom door. “I hate to rush, but I need to go.”

“I'm sorry if I upset you.”

“You didn't,” she lied.

He had—but not in the way he was implying. She felt guilty, which was a lot worse than simple outrage. Guilt lasted. Anger didn't.

“Okay, then. I appreciate you talking with me.”

Brett stepped out of the steamy bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist.

“You're welcome,” Georgia said quickly and then clicked her phone off and smiled at Brett. “Hey.”

“Hey. You have to go into work?”

“No, why?”

“Oh, nothing. Most people don't just gab on the phone at six in the morning.”

She forced a light laugh. “Most people aren't me.”

“Now who's cocky?”

“You're the king of cocky.”

He glanced down at the front of his towel and grinned at her. “I don't think I'll touch that comment.”

“Well, it's a hell of a lot better than being the furniture king, isn't it?” She twisted sideways and groaned. “I don't think my back will ever recover from that bed.”

His grin faltered. “Yeah, you oughta kick it to the curb.”

She held up her mug. “Coffee?”

“I'd love to, but . . .”

“I know,” she said quickly.

Brett turned and went into the bedroom.

Georgia stayed in the kitchen, her face growing hotter by the second. If he didn't leave soon, she really would cry. But he got dressed quickly, and, somehow, she held it together while he held her in his arms. She kissed him feverishly as they stood by the door. She promised to see him the minute he returned from Durham. And after she closed the door and locked it, she walked into her bedroom and sank to the carpet.

To ugly cry.

Chapter Eleven

A
FTER A LONG
weekend away at the All-Star Game, Brett came back to Memphis with a fresh perspective. He was determined to adjust his attitude about things that made him nuts—like certain baseball rituals. There was a clubhouse tradition at AutoZone Park, one that Brett had always thought was a little bit stupid. The guys danced before they hit the showers. No—not danced, really—more like did a mass striptease. Brett didn't know who had started it, but it had morphed into this weird ritual in which the guys went wild and pretended that girls were watching them. It wasn't even that sexual—more a display of testosterone just for the hell of it. It was their way of blowing off steam after playing hard, and they did it whether they won or lost.

That tradition had never meant much to him. He was the player who got the most hot water because while they were gyrating on top of the benches in front of the lockers, he was already in the shower, replaying the day's game in his head. Thinking about mistakes, ways to improve himself, and most important—ways to stay in the zone.

But on Tuesday afternoon, Brett was already in the zone. He felt great—a force to be reckoned with, a playing machine, completely in control of his game. A man who knew what he wanted and how to get it. So when the team crowded into the clubhouse, he was the player who reached for the ON button and started the cheesy disco music. He half expected the guys to give him shit for it, but they just turned, surprised, and grinned as he began to dance his way across the room.

“Let's hear it for Knox!” Juan shouted. He jumped up on a bench and began to sway.

Drew did, too, his fingers on the buttons of his jersey. “Hell yeah. We're going to earn a lot of money from the honeys today.” He pursed his lips and pointed at the empty folding chairs clustered around the TV in the corner of the room. “What up, ladies?”

“Meat, they don't want none of that!” Booker yelled. “They want a man in his prime.” He jumped up next to Drew.

Drew executed a perfect spin on top of the narrow bench. “You better be careful, old man. You forgot your walker.”

“Ohhhh!” the guys said in unison.

“He burned you good, Booker,” Brett said, hopping up on a bench opposite.

“Kiss my ass, Knox,” Booker shot back, grinning.

A few seconds later, the entire team sang at the top of their lungs as they stripped off their jerseys and twirled them over their heads. They flung them into a pile in the middle of the floor. In unison, they jumped down and sat on the benches, each of them pulling off their cleats and chucking them toward their lockers. They jumped back up and reached for their belts. Just as they'd ripped them out of the belt loops, Brett detected motion at the doorway and glanced over.

Georgia stood there, watching, her mouth hanging open. Her gaze traveled over the group of shirtless men, rolling their hips in rhythm to the music. Brett winked at her. Her hands flew to her face. One by one, the guys noticed that their ritual had an observer, and they jumped off the benches, some of them embarrassed but others, like Booker, still dancing.

“Sorry, sugar!” Brett called out.

Juan trotted to the end of the room and turned off the music. “Yeah, sorry you had to see that. We didn't think postgame interviews would start this soon.”

The room went silent except for uncomfortable chuckles from a few players, and Georgia shook her head slowly. A second later, girly giggles escaped. “I'm not sorry I saw that,” she said. “And I'm definitely not sorry that I got here early.”

Brett looked at her pretty pink cheeks and grinned. “Want us to do it again live for WHAP?”

Her eyes went big. “No. We'd have women fainting all over Memphis.” She paused. “I'll . . . wait outside.”

“Hang on.” Brett grabbed a T-shirt from his locker and put it on as he walked over to her. “You got a minute?” he asked in a low voice.

“For you?” She frowned, pretending to think. “I guess I might, since I didn't get to see you before the game today.”

He bent his head near her ear. “You haven't seen me since Friday morning.” It was all he could do not to take her in his arms, back her up against the concrete wall, and kiss her into oblivion.

“And every second since then, I've been thinking of you,” she murmured.

“Good.” He swallowed. “Welcome home, Georgia.”

She took a quick breath and looked up at him, her heart in her beautiful eyes. “I belong with you, Brett.”

He knew then that she understood him perfectly. That when he'd said ‘home,' he hadn't meant Memphis. He had meant Brett and Georgia. She belonged with him, and he loved her. He had since before he'd even met her.

“Come on,” he said. He laced his fingers through hers, not caring who was watching—and there were a lot of people watching. His entire team. The WHAP crew in the hallway. Her agents. He didn't give a damn, and he pulled her through the doorway of the lounge next to the locker room and shut the door.

Georgia dropped her bag to the floor and launched herself at him. He caught her easily, his arms circling around her soft curves. He kissed her once, lingering. And then he looked into her eyes, his heart full, not a bit nervous.

“I love you, Georgia.”

As he watched, she closed her eyes for a moment, a sweet smile lifting her lips. He knew then that she was completely his, and tears of gratitude sprang to his eyes.

When she opened her eyes, they were misty too.

“I love you, Brett.”

He kissed her again, and this kiss was filled with a simple promise. He promised her that he would always love her. It was the best he could do because he couldn't promise her anything else. She kissed him back with equal passion, and he knew that she understood. Now was not the time to talk about what the future would hold. For this moment, they shared joy.

She let him hold her like that for a long time, and then she kissed his cheek and wiggled against him. “You better put me down unless you're intending to . . .”