Triple Score. Regina Kyle
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“We’re not going there again, are we?”
“I never went there in the first place.” He grabbed another cookie and stuffed it into his mouth. “I’m an athlete. But you—I watched you. You’re an athlete and an artist.”
“You...watched me?”
“You can find just about anything on YouTube these days.”
She winced. “Then I suppose you saw the video of my accident. It’s got over a million hits. Seems people enjoy watching the suffering of others. The Germans even have a word for it. Schadenfreude.”
“I don’t know about the Germans, but I don’t get my jollies by seeing folks in pain.” He tapped his brace. “I tore this in front of 40,000 people at Citizens Bank Park. Had to be escorted off the field.”
“Ouch.”
“You said it.”
“And I thought twenty-five hundred witnesses at Lincoln Center was bad. That calls for another cookie.”
She held up a macaroon, but instead of taking it from her he leaned forward and bit into it, his lips brushing her fingertips. The contact sent a buzz of lust through him, and he jerked back.
“No good?” she asked, her voice husky. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips and his cock swelled.
“To the contrary.” His voice matched hers. “A little too good.”
“The cookie? Or...?” Her hand still hung midair, clutching the remains of the macaroon.
“Or.” He took hold of her wrist and brought her hand to his mouth. “If you don’t want me to eat that damn cookie right out of your pretty little fingers then suck them into my mouth one by one, licking off every last crumb, stop me now.”
Her eyes darkened to the navy blue of the Yankees logo. “And if I do?”
He nipped her fingertips. “Then sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.”
* * *
RELAX? HE WANTED her to relax? Who was he kidding?
If pressing against him as he’d helped her up in the gym had been trapeze-without-a-net stupid, then this was Russian-roulette reckless. But Holly’s words echoed in her head.
Let loose. Live a little. Who says he has to be Mr. Right? What’s wrong with Mr. Right Now?
Her lips parted and she had trouble focusing her gaze. Her palms itched with the need to grab his asinine I’m the Guy Your Mother Warned You About T-shirt and pull him to her, forcing his actions to speak louder than his deliciously dirty words. The world had narrowed to three things: his mouth, her fingers and the half a cookie between them.
“I’m going to count to three.” His breath mingled with hers. “Are you ready?”
She nodded.
“One.”
She swallowed hard.
“Two.”
She closed her eyes.
“Three.”
In a heartbeat, the cookie vanished from her hand and her index finger was drawn into the warm, wet vortex of his mouth. He worked his way down to her pinkie, tormenting each finger in turn with his lips, teeth and tongue until they were sucked clean.
“There.” With one last lick, Jace released her hand, and it flopped into her lap like a newborn kitten. “All gone.”
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah.
Noelle wasn’t promiscuous, but she wasn’t a sexual novice, either. How had she gone so long without experiencing...that? She shivered, picked up the tin of cookies and snapped the lid back on.
“Wait. You’ve got a few crumbs. Right—” he pointed to the corner of her mouth “—there.”
She lifted her hand to her lips, but he caught it, stopping her.
“What are you doing?” Every last one of her nerve endings hummed with anticipation.
“I’m still hungry.” He brought her hand down but didn’t relinquish it, instead stroking slow circles on the inside of her wrist with his thumb.
She glanced at the tin in her lap. “There are more cookies.”
“That’s not what I’m hungry for.” He plucked the tin off her lap and set it down on the bench behind him. “I think you know what I want.”
Yeah, she did. And she wanted it, too. Trouble was she knew exactly what path it was going to lead her down—and what would be waiting for her at the end.
Heartache.
Loneliness.
And, if she was really lucky, a big, steaming serving of humiliation.
Exactly what she’d been left with when Yannick called it quits. Unless she could somehow manage to engage her body without engaging her heart, something other women seemed to have mastered but she could never figure out how to accomplish.
Live a little, Holly’s voice echoed again. What’s wrong with Mr. Right Now?
“I repeat.” He raised his good hand and tangled his fingers in her hair. “If you don’t want this, stop me now.”
She couldn’t if she tried.
So she didn’t.
He pulled her in and he crushed his lips against hers. Not shy or tentative, this kiss was like the man himself—hot and hard, forcing the air from her lungs. It demanded a response that she gave willingly, opening her mouth so he could slide his tongue inside.
He tasted good. Like coconut and almond from the macaroons but somehow better, as if their sweetness was mixed with the spice of wild, hungry sex. Sex the likes of which she’d never experienced, that would leave her breathless and panting and begging for more.
Her tongue met his and she melted into him, wanting—needing—more. Her fingers clutched at the soft cotton of his shirt and she moaned into his mouth. She couldn’t recall ever feeling so wanton, so desperate. Whether it was due to the man or her six months of celibacy, she didn’t know.
Beneath her hand, the muscles of his chest tightened, making her breath hitch. Who was she kidding? She knew damn well. It was the man.
He broke off the kiss, leaving her momentarily bereft until he worked his lips over her chin, down her neck, to the hollow of her throat, leaving a warm, wet trail in his wake. She tilted her head, encouraging him to explore further, just in time to catch of glimpse of something moving in the trees past his shoulder.
“Wait.” She stiffened, listening, her eyes straining to see in the fading sunlight.
“Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts now,” he groaned against her skin, his mouth pushing past the neckline of her peasant blouse to skim the top of her breast. “Just when it was getting good.”
She thought it was already pretty damn good, but there wasn’t time to argue. “There’s something—or someone—out there.”
“Probably an animal.” He moved to the other breast without missing a beat.
“You don’t understand.” The flutters in her stomach traveled lower even as she pushed him away. “What if it’s one of the nurses? Or another patient?”
He raised his head to pin her with a heavy-lidded stare. “Embarrassed to be seen with me, Duchess?”
“Ohmigod, what if it’s the paparazzi?” she asked in a whisper, ignoring his question. They’d had a field day with her and Yannick’s messy split, half of them painting her as a naive girl caught under the spell of her older, more experienced choreographer and the other half making it look like she was an opportunistic fame-seeker willing to screw anyone who could help her on her way up the ballet