Chapter 13
“Thanks, man.” The taxi driver accepted Brendan’s generous tip. “Are you gonna need a ride back later?”
“I’m not sure,” Brendan said honestly. He’d told himself he would take a taxi to Erin’s apartment this Sunday evening so his conspicuous yellow Aston Martin wasn’t parked for her neighbors to see. As for the duration and intent of his stay, well…
“Here’s my number in case you need a lift.” The driver passed a card around the headrest of his seat.
Brendan tucked his notebook under his arm and climbed out of the shabby sedan, then looked up at the high-rise building in the heart of downtown Atlanta where Erin lived.
Ostensibly he was here to work on their bets for the midweek fixtures. In reality, he’d decided to accept her offer. Friends with benefits. No-strings sex. Whatever catchphrase she wanted to use to sum up two people colluding in an illicit gambling scheme who also slept together.
He cringed as he approached the front door. Not exactly romantic. But where had years of half-hearted attempts at romance gotten him? Here, apparently—ready to accept whatever crumbs Erin offered him, resigned to never getting the whole cake.
Not that he could blame anyone but himself. While his teammates spent their downtime in clubs or bars or otherwise sexually leveraging their fame and fortune, he buried his head in stats and betting coupons. When he finally looked up he was over thirty, single, and on the brink of retirement.
He squared his shoulders, returning the concierge’s greeting. He was walking into a potential sex situation with the hottest woman he’d ever met like he was on his way to the gallows. So what if she didn’t want a relationship? Even if he wanted to date her—which, okay, he did—it wouldn’t go anywhere. His time in Atlanta got shorter every day. Pavel told him not to hesitate when he found a good woman, and Erin couldn’t have been clearer about her interest and expectations. There were probably hundreds of men who’d give their right arms to be in his shoes. Time to quit moping and enjoy himself for once.
“I’m going to number eighteen-zero-six. It’s Brendan.”
The concierge nodded, picked up the phone and announced his visit. Then he hung up and nodded toward the elevators. “Eighteenth floor. Miss Bailey is expecting you.”
He bet she was. He rode up through the sleek building, noting the signs for the in-house gym, pool deck and game room beside buttons in the elevator. This place wasn’t his style at all—too big, too impersonal. And it must be costing her a fortune.
Erin was waiting for him in the hallway when he stepped out of the elevator, leaning out of her open door wearing heels and a tight black dress. Her hair fell in waves over her shoulders and she smiled, beckoning.
“You’re early.”
“Meeting was short. Low attendance this week, for some reason.”
“How’s Lenny and the crew?” She motioned him inside.
“Fine.” He stopped as she shut the door behind them, taking in the spectacular view of downtown from the floor-to-ceiling windows that ran along one wall. The apartment itself was well decorated but small, with an open-plan living area. A long, black sofa sat at one end of the room in front of a TV on a black console. The other end housed the kitchen, where a marble-topped island vaguely demarcated the prep space from a dining area. A square table with two chairs had been laid with plates and silverware and a vase of fresh flowers. The lights were low and a bottle of red wine was open on the counter, next to a lit candle.
He turned to her quizzically. “Are you expecting someone?”
“Actually, I am. I have a date.”
“Oh. Okay.” His thoughts stumbled, mental gears grinding as he rewound his plan and revised his expectations. He leaned against the island and opened his notebook, dizzy from the shift in circumstances. “We can make this quick. I’ve already had a look at—”
“Brendan.”
Erin’s hands were on her hips, her expression stern. “Don’t be deliberately obtuse.”
He blinked. “What?”
“You’re my date, idiot.” She rolled her eyes, coy demeanor evaporating as she clomped across the hardwood floors to where he stood. She leaned over and shut his notebook, shooting him a pointed look.
He took in the lone candle, the wine, the napkins artfully folded on top of the dinner plates. Her fancy shoes. Her perfectly tailored dress.
The irritation narrowing her eyes.
He sure could fall for her if he wasn’t careful.
“If I’d known I would’ve worn something a little classier.” He raised his palms in a gesture of helplessness, glancing down at his jeans and beer logo T-shirt.
She grinned. “I like the casual look. I almost never get to wear heels, so I thought I’d take advantage while I could.”
“How tall are you in those?”
“Six-foot-two.”
“Still two inches shorter than me.”
“Exactly. See?” She stepped in close, the tips of her breasts a breath away from brushing his chest. The scent of jasmine lit up his senses.
“I see. I like your dress, too. Real pretty.”
“It’s my seduction special. Is it working?” She turned a slow circle, giving him plenty of time to examine the way it hugged every contour, accentuated every swell.
He swallowed. “Yeah. It works.”
“Good. I thought you might need some convincing.”
“About that, I’ve been thinking—”
She shook her head. “First things first. Wine?”
He watched her pour herself a glass of the merlot, knowing full well he should decline. He had a full day of training tomorrow and the league final was around the corner. He was still shaking off the dust from all those months on the bench, and physically he wasn’t quite where he wanted to be. He should knock off the booze until the season was over. He should get up early tomorrow and go for a run, too. He shouldn’t stay up late. He shouldn’t get distracted.
He probably shouldn’t be here at all.
“Just half a glass,” he acceded.
She ignored him, filling it to the brim and sliding it across the counter. They clinked their glasses together and then simultaneously took their first sips, eyes meeting over the rims.
Erin put her glass down first. “You said you’ve been thinking. About my offer?”
He nodded, placing his glass beside hers.
“And?”
“I’m worried.”
“About?”
He looked away, his line of vision landing on a pricey box of chocolates wrapped with a bow on top of the microwave. The angle of its placement suggested Erin had tossed it there, a gift too meaningless to bother putting into a cupboard, let alone opening.
Had another man given it to her? He imagined a model-perfect guy in a suit turning up at the door he’d just walked through, hopeful, slightly desperate, his romantic gesture waved off as Erin explained it had been a one-time thing, it couldn’t lead to anything more, and she appreciated his discretion.
Where had he heard those words before? Oh, right. Straight from her mouth on the same afternoon Roland informed him he was suspended for three months.
When he looked back she was still waiting for his answer.
“Obviously I like you,” he admitted. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t even contemplate this. But we’ve been down this road before, you and I. That phone call in February—it hurt. You kicked me when I was down.”
Her gaze dropped to the counter as she fiddled with the stem of her wineglass. “I was in negotiations with the league to take the new job and I panicked, worried that night in Vegas would come back on me somehow. That’s not an excuse, though. It was a shitty way to behave, especially since we’ve known each other for so long. I’m sorry.”
He shifted his weight, surprised. He’d expected her to roll her eyes or say something flippant that would make it easy for him to walk away. He never thought she would apologize.
“I like you too,” she ventured, her gaze finding his again. “I’ve liked you since I met you. If I’d known that sleeping with you in Vegas was going to mess things up, I wouldn’t have done it. If this is going to mess things up”—she gestured between them—“then let’s forget about it. I can do sex without commitment—I always have—but I know that’s new for you. I want us to be friends, and if the ‘with benefits’ element is going to derail that, I’d rather leave it than lose everything.”
There it was—she’d given him an out. He should take it. Tell her they should keep things friendly, nothing more. Partners in bets but not in bed. Say goodbye in a couple of months with their friendship—and his heart—intact.
“I have a condition,” he told her instead.
“Tell me.”
“It has to be just me, no one else, for as long as we do this. I can’t be with you knowing you’re with other guys on other nights.”
“I’ll agree to that.”
“Good. Any terms on your side?”
She shook her head. “Nothing I haven’t already told you. We can be friends, we can have sex, but don’t ask me for anything more.”
“I won’t,” he said firmly, making the promise to her and to himself. He could do this. It would be worth it. He would be fine.
“Great.” She raised her glass in a toast and he did the same. “When do we start?”
“I don’t know.” He glanced around the room, suddenly embarrassed, and his gaze snagged on the table. “You put plates out. Did you make dinner?”
“No, I just thought they made the table look nice. Why, are you hungry?”
“Not really.”
“Me neither.”
For a few moments they stared at each other, silent, the space between them growing tighter and heavier with each passing second. Eventually he asked, “Now what?”
“Now you take me to bed.”
Before he could register her statement she replaced the glass on the counter and slightly shimmied her shoulders. The movement accentuated the heft of her breasts, and he knew it was rehearsed. Such a well-worn, practiced come-hither gesture he bet she didn’t even realize she did it. It was part of her veneer—her personal brand. Erin the superstar athlete. Erin the high-flying executive. Erin the no-strings sexual dynamo, here today, gone tomorrow.
She closed the space between them and linked her arms behind his neck, but he stiffened. She sensed it and pulled back, and as her eyes searched his he saw it—the flash of uncertainty. The long-ago softness she worked so hard to pretend she’d outgrown.
“One more condition,” he told her.
“What is it?” she asked, not impatiently.
“I want the Erin I met her first month in college.”
He drew breath to go on but her shaking head interrupted him. “If you have some porno fantasy of a quivering, eighteen-year-old virgin we can call this off right now because that’s the opposite of—”
“Stop.” He silenced her with hands on her waist. “I want the Erin who trusted me. Who told me the biggest secret of her life, confident I would never share it with anyone. Who’s walking into this with her arms wide open, because she knows she’s safe with me—just like she was at that party.”
She opened her mouth, the objection already half-spelled in the shape of her lips, then snapped it shut. A series of emotions chased across her face so quickly he only caught a few of them—disagreement, refusal, distress and outright panic—and he couldn’t make out the winner as her expression resettled coolly.
For five heartbeats he held his breath, schooling his features not to give any indication of how much he wanted this. They stood inches apart but the distance between them was vast, maybe insurmountable. Maybe they were about to wrench apart irreparably.
Or maybe they were about to fill the aching void that had yawned between them all these long, lonely years.
She slid one palm along the back of his shoulders, drawing nearer.
“Okay,” she whispered, the word as intimate as a confession. “You’ve got me.”
He cupped her cheeks and kissed her, choosing to believe what she said and hurling himself headlong into this…whatever it was. Tryst. Affair. Arrangement. Whatever you called a situation where nothing was held back but nothing was given or kept, either.
Her red-wine taste raised memories of Vegas, of decadence and reckless indulgence. As much as he thought he read her promised trust in the softness of her posture and the gentle parting of her lips, for a second he stopped himself, his mouth pausing on hers.
No strings. Two words resonating in his mind with the dull thud of a dealer knocking card decks against the table.
He’d always been a cautious gambler. Obsessive, calculating, risk-averse. This might be the first bet he couldn’t afford to lose.
Erin leaned back in his grip and looked up at him, her voice soft as she asked, “What?”
“Nothing,” he said firmly, lowering his hands to her arms. He jerked her against his chest and brought their lips together again, lapping up her taste, luxuriating in the heat he found inside her mouth.
Too late for second-guessing. The cards were dealt, the chips were stacked. He was all in.
* * * *
Erin’s heart had hiccups.
The first few times she ignored the twitching inside her ribs, too focused on Brendan’s kiss. But as the erratic, fluttery beats became more frequent and intrusive, some self-preserving chunk of her mind detached to examine the situation. An irregular heart rate, tightness in her lungs, a slight but unpleasant tilt in her stomach.
Maybe it was something she ate. Early signs of food poisoning, even? Hopefully not—that would certainly spoil the evening. It was probably overexcitement. Or exhaustion from too much work and too much travel.
Or maybe she was having her first-ever panic attack.
No, there was something distantly familiar here, dimly remembered from many years ago. Unsteadiness in her fingertips, dryness in her throat.
She was nervous.
Brendan’s palms sliding down to her waist told her she shouldn’t be, as did his lazy thumbs lingering against the sides of her breasts. Not to mention they’d done this before. He’d seen every inch of her in Vegas, more than once lights off and on.
But while her mind rattled off these logical arguments, her heart knew better, and again hiccuped its anxiety.
In Vegas she’d been triumphant, her already dominant sexual style heightened by champagne and adrenaline and an overpowering sense of conquest. She’d caught the one who got away and spent all night having her way with him.
She reached for the sexual confidence which usually surfaced automatically but came up short. She rooted deeper, digging for the arrogance and self-satisfying impulses that normally spurred these encounters. The feverish drive for completion. The urgency to get what she wanted and slip away unhindered, a thief without remorse.
Except for this time she was complicit. Brendan was her co-conspirator, not her target. She already trusted him with her future, recommitting herself every time they placed a bet, and she’d shared her body with him on New Year’s Eve. There was no reason to be fearful of the trust he asked for now.
Yet her heart hiccuped again.
Stop. Mentally she gripped her own shoulders and gave herself an almighty shake. Yes, Brendan was different from the men she normally slept with. They were friends—he wasn’t disposable. That didn’t mean anything else had to be different. Not the sex, not the post-sex expectations, and certainly not her personal performance.
Unless this was her one chance to make it different. To experience more than self-fulfillment. To allow intimacy. To give as well as take. To find someone who—
“Let’s go,” she said aloud, more to herself than to Brendan. She jerked out of his grasp and away from that momentary wobble, dragging on sexual bravado like a pair of jeans she hadn’t worn in a long time. Tighter and less comfortable than she remembered, but she trusted it’d feel right in a few minutes.
She took Brendan’s hand and pulled him toward the bedroom, barely looking at him as she charged across her apartment. She’d prepared the bedroom to be sex ready, as she often did before dates. Changed the sheets, shoved framed photographs into drawers, hid anything too personal, including perfume. Sterilized it so the man of the hour wouldn’t see anything she hadn’t carefully choreographed.
She practically shoved him inside and shut the door, yanked the curtains across the window, then hastily set about lighting the series of candles she kept arranged around the room for exactly this purpose. Candlelight was second only to alcohol when it came to dulling potentially mood-killing imperfections.
She tossed the spent match in a wicker trash bin, then leaned over where Brendan sat on the end of the bed to switch off the overhead light.
He switched it back on.
“I want to see you.”
“Suit yourself.” She shrugged with a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “Just thought I’d create a little romantic atmosphere.”
“But this is lust, not romance. Right?”
“Right,” she agreed, hoping he hadn’t heard the slight tremor in her voice.
He held out his hand. “Come here.”
She dropped onto his lap, tired of her internal back-and-forth. She’d wanted him for so long. Now he was here, ready, willing, and she was wasting all of her energy on stupid insecurities.
This was only lust like he said. Pure pleasure. About time she started enjoying it.
“Don’t stress,” he urged, arranging her legs on either side of his hips, her skirt sliding high on her thighs in the process.
“I’m not stressing.”
“Don’t lie to me, either.”
“Stop talking and take off your clothes.”
She slid off his lap, kicked off her heels and drew her legs up beneath her. His eyes widened but he obeyed and pulled his T-shirt over his head, leaving his hair mussed in its wake.
“Stand up,” she instructed, relaxing into the familiarity of control. “Take off your jeans.”
She admired the nearly six and a half feet of him as he straightened. He stepped on the heel of one sneaker to pry it off, then the other, never dropping eye contact—until he realized he had to reach down and tug off his socks. She muted her smile as he contorted, his lanky frame bent in half, all efforts at sexiness momentarily abandoned for the sake of logistics. When he stood again she made sure her expression gave no sign of how utterly adorable that had been.
He recovered quickly, undoing his belt and dropping it on the floor, the metal buckle clattering against the hardwood. The muscles in his forearms flexed as he lowered his zipper and let the waistband hang loose, briefly framing the ridges of muscle above his hips, the flat plane of his lower abdomen. Then he shoved his jeans to the floor and stepped out of them, kicking them against the wall.
She crossed her arms over taut nipples as she appraised him, smiling her approval. Long, long legs, from the elegant arches of his feet to the thick muscles of his thighs. Chiseled arms and broad shoulders, the delicious taper of all that width into a narrow waist. Pale hair standing out against tanned skin, fading evidence of a summer spent outdoors.
She imagined him lounging shirtless in his backyard, squinting at his notebooks through dark sunglasses. Tossing the books aside and moving restlessly around the perimeter, checking the gardener’s handiwork. Taking a soccer ball from the shed and toeing it to his knees, to his head, back to his knees, counting the keep-ups until his sun-warmed skin was spotted with beads of sweat, moisture collecting on his forehead, between his pecs, in the hollow of his lower back.
For a second she closed her eyes, and in her mind her tongue swept the damp skin on his chest, the tip of her nose preceding its lazy trail. He would taste like salt. Sun. Heat. And beneath it, just Brendan. A flavor all his own.
She opened her eyes, licked her lips. Ready to make him sweat.
Finally she let her gaze drift below his waist. She was used to scanning designer labels on men’s briefs, but Brendan wore plaid cotton boxers. She bet he bought them in packs of five for twenty dollars, tossed them in the car with blank notebooks and that cheap ground coffee he drank, then drove everything home in his Aston Martin.
Fuck, he was weird.
And unbelievably sexy.
She crooked a finger to summon him closer to the bed. When he came within reach she stuck that same finger in the waistband of his boxers, pulling it away from his body to assess what was beneath.
She couldn’t stop her smile. He was all she remembered—maybe even more.
“These shorts don’t fit you right,” she murmured, brushing her fingertips over his skin, tracing the slight indentations made by the elastic. “You should buy some that do.”
“I like these.”
“I like this.” She closed her hand around his length so suddenly that he flinched, giving her exactly the reaction she wanted. He was hot and hard in her fist and she tugged him mercilessly, tightening her grip at his base, then shimmying it up over his tip.
She watched his jaw tighten, saw him close his eyes for a split second before swearing under his breath and closing his hand on her wrist, stopping her mid-pull.
“Slow down,” he said hoarsely. “You’re not even undressed yet.”
“Fix that.” She released him abruptly and stretched out on the bed on her stomach, lowering her chin to folded hands.
The mattress shifted as Brendan eased down beside her. She closed her eyes, focusing on his proximity, the woodsy scent that drifted with it.
For a moment he simply sat, still and quiet. She wondered where he would touch her first, each part of her body livening as she visualized his hands there. Her shoulders, maybe. Her waist. The curve of her ass. The tender skin on the insides of her thighs, or the expectant, swollen flesh just beyond.
She heard the zipper on the back of her dress before she felt it, so light and careful were his fingers. The pressure of the tight garment eased and a slight draft moved over her exposed skin before his palm warmed it, flattening beneath the splayed halves of fabric.
She fidgeted pleasantly as he spread his fingers across her back. She was a tall, curvy woman with a robust figure, but Brendan’s big hand made her feel dainty and petite, like the five-foot-nothing, perky-breasted women she’d always envied. Soon he had both hands on her shoulders, and she wriggled to help him pull the dress over her arms, then her hips, resettling on her stomach as it hit the floor.
He inched closer, his thigh pressing against hers. With her face on her hands she could just see his bare legs out of her peripheral vision as he undid the clasp on her bra. His fingers smoothed the red marks the straps had left on her skin.
“This bra doesn’t fit you right,” he murmured playfully. “You should buy a new one.”
She laughed bitterly. “That’s a slightly more complicated purchase than your boxers.”
He hummed thoughtfully, kneading his knuckles over her back. The motion was relaxing—too relaxing. Need thrummed harder and harder at her core, and impatience prompted her to push up to a sitting position.
His expression registered surprise in her sudden movement but she ignored it, tossing her bra to the floor and scooting into his lap.
His brow furrowed as he steadied her with hands on her hips. “Sorry, was that not—”
“It was fine,” she told him briskly, guiding his palms to cup her breasts. “But this is what I want.”
He paused, his hands hovering over her breasts, awkward and uncertain. She pressed them into place and reached between them to grip him through his boxers, pleased with the wet spot that appeared on the cotton when she rubbed it over his crown.
“What are you in the mood for?” she asked, dropping her voice to a husky purr.
“I—I don’t know,” he stammered, thumbs moving unevenly over her nipples. “What do you want?”
She didn’t have to think about her stock answer. She leaned in close and whispered beside his ear, “Make me come. Use your mouth.”
His erection throbbed in her hand, and an answering jolt pounded in her sternum, quickening her heart rate.
“Whatever you say,” he replied smoothly, then put his finger under her chin and brought their lips together.
Exasperation flashed automatically. She tried to avoid kissing after the first few minutes—it slowed everything down and, depending on the guy’s skill, had the potential to completely kill her buzz. She supposed she had to go with it for a minute or two, though, if Brendan seemed into it.
She pushed her focus to the present, the physical, shelving the impulse to escalate their foreplay as quickly as possible. As he parted his lips she concentrated on his mouth, that lingering trace of red wine, the sultry, decisive sweep of his tongue over hers. She let herself sink into the kiss in the same way she had earlier, exhaling the anticipatory tension from her muscles, inhaling the scent of his aftershave as the tip of her nose brushed his cheek.
She abandoned her ruthless pursuit of his groin and draped her arms over his shoulders, widening her focus to include the lazy, almost distracted movement of his hand over her breast. His thumb toyed with her nipple, circling it, brushing its taut peak. Then he closed his hand over the fullness of her breast, hefting it, the slightest sound in his throat indicating how much he enjoyed its weight. Something about that idle attention sent a sharp, insistent pang of arousal arrowing through her body and settling so hotly between her legs that she moaned, the sound so unbidden and startling her eyes popped open, suddenly self-conscious.
Another hiccup, only this time he seemed to register her tension. He eased back to look at her, sweeping his thumb over her cheek.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said automatically, then sighed at the chiding skepticism in his eyes. “Maybe I’m a little nervous.”
Incredulity drew his brows together. “Why? No strings, remember?”
“I know. And I know we’ve done this before, too. I’m not sure what’s bothering me.”
“This is supposed to be fun, and if it’s not, we should wait. We don’t have to rush into anything tonight.”
His gentle, understanding tone made her heart clench, and then something clicked. Brendan wasn’t just another guy who needed to be told what to do to get her off and then shoved out the door. He wasn’t a selfish, self-centered one-night stand. He wouldn’t leave her unsatisfied.
She had to trust him.
“Don’t move,” she instructed, then stood up from the bed. She blew out the candles, then opened the drawer in her bedside table and hauled out the cosmetics she’d stuffed inside, returning them to their typically haphazard arrangement. She crossed to the closet and opened the door, standing back as a wave of clothes and bags poured onto the floor. She made a vague attempt to kick the mess into a pile before turning to scan the bedroom, trying to pinpoint what still didn’t feel right.
The sheets, she realized and motioned Brendan to the end of the bed while she untucked the flat sheet, threw back the duvet and tossed two ornamental pillows to the floor.
“Much better,” she declared, meeting Brendan’s bewildered expression with a broad smile.
“This is how it really looks,” she explained, sinking down beside him. “I promised to be honest and trust you. To give you the real me. Here I am.”
One side of his mouth quirked. “I think there’s more to you than piles of clothes and an unmade bed.”
“I’m serious. No man has ever seen my bedroom like this. Whenever I sleep with someone, I try to keep it tidy. So it never gets too intimate, and stays—”
“Transactional?”
Her attention sharpened at the word. “Exactly.”
“I know.”
“Vegas?”
He nodded.
“But you’re here now.”
“You kept me at arm’s length, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it. Or want to be with you again. Or hope you might let me get a little closer next time.”
She held up her palms. “You can’t get any closer than this.”
He tilted his head, his coy smile saying, Try me. He leaned around her to pluck something off the bedside table. When he resettled she saw that he’d picked up a pack of makeup removing wipes.
“Oh, come on,” she protested, but he’d already tugged out a wipe.
“Close your eyes.”
She sighed exaggeratedly in response but did as he asked, folding her hands in her lap.
She was at his mercy, she realized with a mix of fear and excitement. Sightless, half-naked, the messy trappings of her messy life strewn around the room for his perusal. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so exposed. Even the night she’d lost her virginity had been planned in advance, arming herself with condoms and practically throwing herself at her friend’s notoriously slutty brother at a party, gritting her teeth through his grunting and later driving herself home, relieved to have what she considered a stupid milestone out of the way. She thought she’d taken a big step when she agreed to spend a single night at five-dates-Cal’s apartment, but she spent the preceding days reading articles on how to style your hair before bed so it looked good first thing in the morning and arrived with more luggage than she’d bring on a week-long business trip.
No, she decided as she heard Brendan shift closer. She’d never, ever been this vulnerable.
She fought to be calm and relaxed, but she flinched at the first touch of the damp cloth. Brendan put a hand on her forearm, and its weight and heat were a welcome, anchoring contrast to the cool material sweeping over her cheeks, along her forehead, over her eyes.
“There you are,” he said quietly, and she opened her eyes to find his approving smile.
“You haven’t run screaming. That’s a good start.” She attempted a humorous grin, but he was having none of it.
“Lie down,” he instructed.
She flopped back against the pillow, marveling at her newfound ability to surrender. If any other man had said that she would’ve bristled, wrestled for control of the situation, maybe kicked him out altogether. But as Brendan eased her panties over her hips and onto the floor, she felt totally safe. No need to resist, no impulse to take what she wanted. He’d give it to her eventually—she knew he would.
He splayed one of his big palms on her stomach and she luxuriated in her nudity, stretching her arms and arching her back, wanton and confident despite the harsh lighting and lack of makeup. Her nipples stiffened anew under his gaze, her thighs instinctively pressed together in a futile attempt to relieve the pressure building at their apex.
There’s nothing left to hide from him, she realized with a jolt, her eyes lifting to meet his. He’d seen it all. The gambling. The debt. The selfish woman in Vegas who lapped up his body and then tossed him like a broken champagne flute.
Yet here he is. A different kind of heat suffused her body as he parted her knees and spread her wide, one that burned behind her eyes and into her throat, aching through her lungs and balling in her heart.
He was such a good, good man. Whoever he found in Nebraska better deserve him, because she sure as hell didn’t.
The thought of some anonymous future woman putting her hands on him sent an irrational pang of jealousy slicing through her stomach. She pushed it aside, concentrating on his fingers running up the insides of her thighs, registering the way he was repositioning himself between her legs.
“Don’t let me be selfish,” she told him huskily, clamping a stilling hand on his wrist. “Make sure I give you what you want, too.”
“This is what I want,” he replied, then ran his tongue along her swollen, aching slit.
The noise that wrenched from her throat at that first touch must’ve been the sound of her brain vacating her skull because at that point any semblance of coherent thought gave way to pure, primal, all-consuming sensation. She writhed as he pinned her thighs against the bed, dragging the flat of his tongue up and down her core, then teased her clit with its tip. Her eyes squeezed shut and her breasts heaved as he tormented and tantalized, slowing exactly when she needed him to speed up, repeatedly bringing her to the edge of climax and then yanking her back. Her stomach muscles became sore from trying to evade his touch when it was too much and encourage it when it wasn’t enough, and she shoved a restless, frantic hand through her hair as sweat broke out on her forehead.
When he slid his forearms further beneath her thighs and traced focused, unrelenting circles around her clit, she knew she had to pull herself together. It took every ounce of her will to drag herself out from under the heavy, inviting tide of her impending orgasm and push up to her elbows. She threaded her fingers through Brendan’s hair and pulled—hard—to bring his gaze to hers.
His eyes were bright but dazed, like green glass weathered by the ocean, and it took him a second to blink to awareness. “What?”
“Not like this.” She planted her foot on his shoulder and pushed him away. “Condoms under the bed.”
He stared at her. She poked through her sluggish thoughts, trying to figure out what she could’ve said wrong. Finally she came up with, “Are you not ready?”
“I’m ready,” he said roughly, standing and stripping off his boxers to show her the evidence. “I was just thinking about why you’d keep condoms under the bed instead of the drawer.”
“You’re lucky I find that bizarro brain of yours so attractive because that is a weird thing to say given the circumstances.”
“You never told me you found my brain attractive,” he responded teasingly, dropping to the floor to fish under the bed.
“Of course I do. The crazy stats, the obsessive analysis, the annoyingly spot-on non-sequiturs… What’s not to—”
She literally bit her tongue to stop the word from leaving her mouth. She didn’t love him. She wouldn’t love him. She wasn’t sure she had the capacity to love anyone, ever.
Sex without commitment. No strings. Friends with—
“Found them.” He returned to the bed.
“Let me do the honors.” She pinched the top and slowly rolled the latex over his shaft, marveling at how small her hands looked as she circled it with thumb and forefinger.
“Do you want to be on top?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind. In Vegas you said—”
“I know what I said.” Well, she didn’t remember the exact words, but she could assume it was a variation on her standard line. I only come when I’m on top. Translation: I come a lot faster when I’m on top, and I want to make sure you don’t leave me hanging.
She eased onto her back and opened her legs to him. He could take as long as he liked.
Brendan stretched out above her, supporting his weight on his elbows. She swept the fingers of one hand through his hair and planted her other hand on his taut ass, pressing him lower. She felt the heat and hardness of him jutting against her abdomen, the latex slick against her skin.
He traced the line of her cheekbone with his thumb. She felt his fingertips tracing the edge of her fresh bikini wax, then one finger slipping lower, testing her slickness, venturing inside.
She moaned her objection, pushing his hand away. “Not nearly enough.”
“Then what do you want?”
“You know.” She shifted impatiently beneath him.
“Tell me.”
She crossed her wrists above her head, giving him the sultry, pleasure-drunk smile he was angling for. “You. I want you, in me. Now.”
He obliged with a groan, positioning himself at her opening, then pushing inside in a single, unhesitating stroke.
She swore hotly at the delicious pressure, the simultaneous fulfillment of his body and her heightened need for more. She hooked her ankles together behind his back as he began a smooth rhythm. He stubbornly ignored her hands kneading his hips to move faster, and after a few seconds of frustration she breathed out and closed her eyes, reminding herself yet again to trust him, to relax and let her arousal move at its own pace.
Despite Brendan’s calm, unhurried ministrations, that pace turned out to be pretty damn fast. She fidgeted beneath him, feverish with swelling desire, each thrust briefly satisfying and then increasing her body’s demands.
She was on the verge of telling him to hurry the hell up when it happened. Her orgasm blindsided her, descending unannounced, as fierce and sudden and drenching as a summer-afternoon thunderstorm. She gasped from the shock of it, dug her fingers into Brendan’s arms, arched her back as her jaw fell open and every muscle in her body clenched.
Scorching pulses of pleasure throbbed from her core through her abdomen, thundering through her heart, lodging in her chest. More than once she thought her climax was subsiding only to have it rear up with renewed insistence, thumping harder, suffusing every nerve.
“Fuck,” she exhaled, rediscovering her voice as the pulsing finally dissipated.
“We are.” Brendan smiled wryly. As she got to grips with the situation she realized he’d paused to study her, the tension in his face showing the effort of his self-restraint.
“You good?” he asked.
“Good? Try amazing. I’ve never come for that long.”
His smile spread into a grin. “At your service.”
They shared a happy gaze for another second, then she shifted her hips to encourage him to move.
“No one told you to stop.”
She caught a gleam in his green eyes before he ducked his head, glancing between them at the place where they came together as he resumed the rhythm.
She relaxed against the pillow, her muscles loose and melty, her core still so sensitive with the aftershocks of her orgasm that Brendan’s thrusts were welcome, each one sending a reminding shiver of pleasure down her legs.
Typically this was the point at which she lost all patience and found herself mentally composing emails, rearranging her to-do list, and getting more and more eager to wrap things up. At a certain point she would do or say whatever was necessary to get her partner off and send him out the door, but not tonight.
Instead of feeling trapped or uncomfortable, she actually enjoyed the weight of Brendan’s body above her. Instead of closing her eyes and letting her mind wander she drank in the view of his face, what she could see of his chest, the muscles standing out in his arms. Instead of willing him to finish she savored him, lifting her hips to meet his strokes, arching her back to sip at his lower lip.
“You are so sexy, Brendan Young,” she purred, running her hands along his ribs, smoothing them over his narrow haunches.
He grunted in response, increasing the pace. She murmured encouragement, tightening her crossed ankles to urge him deeper. Soon his thrusts became sloppy, quick and harried, and the sound of flesh slapping against flesh competed with their heavy exhalations. She relished the slick sensation of his erection sliding in and out, harder and harder. When he pushed inside and stayed, stiffening, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close. He pressed his cheek against her temple as he came, the shuddering jerks of his climax accompanied by a breathy, sighing moan that pulled hard at her heart.
She’d never been so pleased to see a man come, or so sorry he’d finished.
Brendan dropped lower against the bed and she felt his racing heart as their chests pressed together. Too soon he withdrew, and she turned on her side to watch his fumbling, clumsy movements as he took off the condom, tied the end and dropped it in the trash bin across the room.
When he turned she smiled an invitation, scooting over so he could join her on the bed. He stretched out and so did she, delighting yet again in how diminutive her body seemed beside his.
“Happy?” she asked.
He crossed one arm behind his head. “Very.”
“Me too.” She sighed contentedly.
“Do friends with benefits spoon after sex? Or should I get dressed?”
“Spooning definitely allowed.” She rolled over at the same time he did, curling her back against his stomach as his arm came around her waist.
“Not a bad way to spend a Sunday night,” he remarked.
She closed her eyes drowsily. “Stay for dinner. I’ll grill chicken and vegetables. Or we’ll get something delivered. Watch the match highlights from the weekend. Use up another condom to celebrate our winnings.”
He chuckled into her hair. “What time do you have to leave for work in the morning?”
“Early,” she groaned, mildly astonished that she was actually entertaining the possibility of asking him to spend the night—and equally disappointed that a breakfast meeting made it too unwise to consider. “I have coffee with a potential new hire at seven. Then I have my weekly meeting with the CFO. He’s still harping on about making you the focus of an ethics insert in the year-end report.”
Brendan stiffened behind her.
“I thought the Tucson thing got me off the hook,” he said coolly, but the rigidity in his posture belied his casual tone.
She rolled over to face him. “I thought so, too, but he wants something bigger. Preferably involving one of the teams in the league final.”
“But that narrows it down to Miami or Charlotte, most likely.”
“Or Atlanta,” she supplied grimly.
His expression darkened and so did the mood. She pushed her mouth into what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’ll figure something out. We still have time.”
“What we have is an agreement,” he told her, sitting up and perching on the edge of the bed. “I help you settle your debt, you keep my name out of the report.”
“I’m working on it,” she said tartly, eyeing her robe across the room but deciding she had no reason to be embarrassed. She turned onto her back, refusing to shift from her reclined position. She hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact she was doing everything she could to do right by him.
He shook his head slightly, then fished his boxers from the floor and stepped into them.
Tell him to stay, some part of her begged in desperation. Tell him you’re doing your best and that you’ll keep up your end of the bargain if it kills you. Tell him this was the closest you’ve ever felt to anyone you’ve slept with. Tell him he’s different. Important. The first man you could maybe—
“No way,” she muttered under her breath, drawing Brendan’s attention. She schooled her features into neutrality as though she hadn’t spoken, and he pulled his T-shirt over his head.
She said nothing as he resumed his seat on the edge of the bed to tie his shoes. Let him be mad at her. Let him storm out like a toddler having a tantrum. She didn’t care.
Liar.
He finished and planted both feet on the floor, but he didn’t get up. He sat for another couple of seconds, patient, contemplative. When he finally twisted to look at her she could tell he didn’t want to say what he was about to say.
“I heard a rumor. A player who might be betting on the league.”
“From which club?”
His pained hesitation gave her the answer, and she raised a hand to stop him having to say it aloud. “I get it. Don’t say anything else.”
He nodded, maybe a little gratefully, but mostly his expression was resigned.
She bit her lower lip, wanting so badly to take him in her arms and comfort him, acknowledge how hard it must be for him to tell her this, assure him everything would be fine. But that’s what a wife would do, or a girlfriend, or a long-term lover.
They were just friends who had sex.
“Thank you,” she told him instead. “I’ll take it from here.”
He stood, cleared his throat. “Despite…that…I had fun. Let’s do it again soon.”
“We will. Definitely.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets, the atmosphere growing more awkward by the second. “I’m going to head home.”
He put his hand on the doorknob and something propelled her to sit up. “Brendan, wait, I—”
He looked over his shoulder, brows lifted as he waited for her to speak, but the words had gummed up in her throat, thick and stuck and immoveable.
I want you to know this wasn’t about our agreement. I wasn’t trying to seduce you into ratting on your teammates. This was the most honest, open, sincere sexual experience I’ve ever had.
“I’ll call you once I know my schedule for the week. We can pick a night to look at the odds and…whatever else.”
“I’ll speak to you tomorrow.” He opened the door.
She nodded. “Bye.”
He ducked his head in farewell and left the room. She heard his footsteps echo across the open-plan apartment, followed by the dull thud of the front door closing.
Then she flopped backward on her bed, her body still glowing from his touch, her heart already aching from his absence.