Page 18

She slips away, shaky for a moment on those heels she’s always balancing on before she spins on her toe.

The bedroom door is nearly closed behind her when she looks back, holding my eyes with hers, and I think I see regret there just before she closes it.

When it clicks into place, I finally release my breath, my chest rattling and hollow.

With a hand as shaky as her legs were a moment ago, I run it through my hair and then over my face, muffling a heavy groan the best I can.

I’m hard as a fucking rock and we didn’t even kiss.

I grab the bag of toiletries I managed to cobble together in my mad dash to the airport and lock myself in the bathroom, getting the shower as hot as humanly possible before shucking off my shirt, the rest of my clothes following before I douse myself under the shockingly good water pressure.

There’s no temptation to even attempt to talk myself out of it. I’m too worked up, too desperate.

For her.

Leaning up against the tiles I let the hot water sluice down my back, the steam curling up into the air and it’s easy to imagine that the heat in the air is her body beneath mine, limbs entwined, wrapping around me.

I could lift her up against me, let those long legs cross behind my back, her smooth skin cool to the touch but warming with every second she’s in my arms. She’d call my name.

Charlie , she’d murmur in my ear, as my mouth works against the silky skin at her neck, down to the generous rise of her breasts.

Grasping myself tightly, hard and heavy in my hand, I imagine sliding inside of her slowly.

I chuckle at the idea that I’d have any kind of restraint at this point, but fuck it, it’s a fantasy and that’s what I’d want to do – take her in long, deliberate strokes, building her pleasure with mine, making her writhe against me, our bodies dancing into the sweetest friction despite the water cascading over us.

I’d bring her to the edge and then pull back and then do it again until she rakes her nails down my back, maybe leaving a mark or two along the way, a signal that she’s had enough of my teasing.

But I’d draw it out still, waiting until she begs me because I need her to want me as much as I want her.

Outside of this shower that feels impossible, but right here, right now, I can make myself believe it, just for a few more seconds, just a few more strokes before my hips break the rhythm I set and rut forward, harder and faster of their own volition, a desperate pounding that leaves me gasping for breath against the steam and choking out a strangled “Francesca” that I can only hope is drowned out by the steady beat of the water against the tiles.

Relief. Sweet relief. Thank fuck.

I didn’t realize just how worked up I was until this moment, the water washing away any damning evidence of the last few minutes, as I catch my breath.

I should have known, though. It’s not that I haven’t had opportunities recently, I have, and I’ve taken advantage of them.

Consenting adults, no strings, quick and easy, both of us knowing it wasn’t anything more than that.

But that kind of connection started to feel hollow a long time ago. Come to think of it, it started feeling that way during my last year, as it became clearer and clearer that it was time to call it quits.

Shutting off the water, I wrap a towel around my waist, the hotel nice enough that the towels are soft and large enough to actually serve their purpose.

Wiping away the fog that has steamed up the mirrors against the wall, I lean on the bathroom vanity and stare my reflection.

Older than I picture in my head, but I recognize the look in my own eyes: it’s how I used to feel before a big game, before going out to do the only thing I ever loved.

I haven’t seen that look in a long time, not for years.

The last time I saw it was reflected in the windows of her car that night in the parking lot.

I think that’s why I wanted to kiss her then, when it was all over, to see if I could feel that thing again, to feel alive, to know it was possible after walking away from the game.

So I did and it was. But now I wonder if that was just her.

Maybe it was. Maybe it still is.

And if that’s true, if she’s the thing that makes me feel this way, then I need to do everything I can to hang on to her.

I’m too old not to sleep on anything other than a bed.

The nearly five-hour flight crushed into the middle seat is followed by a night trying to fold all six feet four of me onto this sorry excuse for a couch.

Of course, I could have actually unfolded the mattress below the cushions that did a piss poor job of supporting my back all night.

But that would have required not just throwing myself onto the nearest flat surface and trying desperately to fall asleep and not think about the woman just beyond the bedroom door.

That last look she gave me just before she closed the door, her gaze soft and longing.

I’ve never seen her look at me like that before.

That first kiss, I took her by surprise.

I know I did. Hell, I took myself by surprise, but afterwards it made a lot of sense.

There was always a tension between us, always a lit fuse headed toward dynamite, always on the verge of exploding, but never quite fully detonating. That spark is still there, obviously.

The last remnants of sleep shake away when the bedroom door opens and she steps into the room pulling her suitcase behind her.

“Aren’t you up yet?” she asks, her expression completely devoid of any emotion, like last night never happened. Either she’s an amazing actress or she wasn’t nearly as affected as I was. I almost want to hate her for it.

“Kind of,” I manage to croak out, as I sit up and stretch my neck back and forth, a sharp pain slicing through me with the motion. “What’s going on?”

“I need to get to the airport.”

“What? I thought our flight wasn’t until later tonight?”

“Yours is, I switched mine.”

“Seriously?”

Was she so put off by what happened last night that she doesn’t even want to be on a plane with me back to New York?

“Listen, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I swear I thought . . .”

“It isn’t that. I’m not going back to New York. I want to fly into Phoenix and do some more recent scouting on the guys I told you about last night. They’re a major part of my pitch to ownership on Nakamura and I need to have the most up-to-date information.”

“And I’m not invited?”

“What? No, I just thought . . . I figured after last night you wouldn’t want to . . .”

Ah, so maybe not unaffected, maybe just hiding it really, really well. Until now.

And I kind of want to hate her for that too. I’ve never been able to hide my emotions if they were strong enough, not on the field and not off it. “Didn’t we decide that we were going to do what we had to do to get that ring?”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“No buts,” I cut her off again, and I grin at the way she purses her lips at me.

Good, she’s annoyed at me, which means she’ll be distracted enough to not think about what almost happened last night.

“Besides, there’s no way there’s a direct flight from Bozeman to Phoenix, and I’m not sitting in another stupid small seat with a layover. ”

“What are you talking about?”

“I told you I was smart with my money, but desperate times. I have a share in a charter company. We’re flying private.”

I expect her to protest, but no, she just shrugs and gestures at me. “Well, don’t you have to make a call or something to get that to happen?”

“Right,” I say, tossing the blanket I’d burrowed under last night aside and standing up, reaching for my phone where I’d plugged it in to charge.

“Oh.”

“What?” I ask, turning to her, but her eyes don’t meet mine, they’re focused just a little lower, where I’m only wearing a pair of boxer briefs. The heat had been pumping against the chilly Montana autumn air last night and I’ve always run hot when I sleep.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, turning around and fussing with her luggage.

“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” I say with a chuckle, rummaging in my bag for a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. “You were always in the clubhouse; I’m sure guys were way more naked than this.”

“I always tried to avoid it. Some guys thought it was funny to just, you know, wander around naked when there were women there, but I couldn’t escape it completely. So, no, it . . . you, at least, aren’t something I’ve seen before.”

I definitely played with dickheads like that, who thought it was hilarious to make the women we worked with as uncomfortable as possible. I quickly pull on my clothes and then say, “All done.”

She clears her throat before turning back around, but still doesn’t quite meet my eye. Is she embarrassed? It’s . . . sweet. “Are you sure you want to come with me?” she asks, and her flush deepens as the double meaning of her words hits her.

“I’m sure,” I answer simply, letting the innuendo slide past us, and her shoulders drop in clear relief. “Let’s go.”