Chapter Two

Gray thought maybe they needed to rally.  “How many times have you given up on this team over the course of this season?”  he asked, trying to sound reasonable.

            She glared at him.  “You crack the door for the Yankees, Gray, they storm the barn.  Do you watch baseball?”

            “It’s only a tie game.  We come back.  This team comes back.”

            “He’s going to bring in Mariano Rivera, Gray.  We’re going to be done.”

            “We have the best bullpen in baseball.  You just said it.  You don’t think we’re the equal of Mariano Rivera?  Right now we’ve got three or four mini-Riveras in reserve.  We can hold the Yankees, and we can outlast Rivera.”

            “Why would you bring Pedro back in?  When has Pedro ever thrown that many pitches?  All they do is baby and coddle him.  Are you trying to save your bullpen?  And if so, why?  It’s October!  There’s nothing coming after.”

            These were all valid points.  And, because Gray hadn’t made the monumentally stupid decision to leave Pedro in there, he had no answer to any of them.  He ran his free hand through his hair and let Aubrey keep the use of his other hand, because at the moment he didn’t feel wise to cross her.

            “I don’t want to watch it,” she said, abruptly.  “Can you take me somewhere - anywhere - so I don’t have to watch it?”

            “They’re going to come back, and then you’re going to miss it, and what will you tell your children?  We’re Red Sox fans, Aubrey.”  He tried a smile.  “We always keep the faith.  Always.”

            “I can’t go through this team losing tonight like this.”

            “They won’t, alright?  How can the season really end this way?  This particular season?  It doesn’t end like this, because we have a bad manager.”

            “Why can’t it end like this?  Just another thing to add to Red Sox lore.  Were you watching in ‘86?”

            “Oh, God,” he said.  “Please don’t bring up ‘86.  I almost killed myself in ‘86.  Couldn’t get out of bed for days.”

            “Me, too.  And I watched the Cubs lose it, Gray.  Did you watch the Cubs lose it? This is just the sort of thing the baseball gods would do.  The Cubs and the Red Sox, perennial losers, so close to triumph they can taste it.  And knocked down for their presumptuous arrogance.”

            He really should have cut her off earlier in the night.  “I think you’re getting carried away a little bit, Aubrey.  It would also be just like the baseball gods to have us down and out like this and give us a ninth-inning hero against Mariano.  Wouldn’t that be an equally good story?”

            “It would be equally good, but it doesn’t have a Boston ring to it, does it, now?”

            “Well, lately it does.”

            “Eighty-five years of bad karma, Gray.”

            “Our luck is due to turn.”

            “Oh, yes.  Too bad baseball doesn’t work that way.”

            Gray glanced at the television screen.  The Red Sox had gone down against Rivera.  He looked back at Aubrey.  “Should we stay?”

            She looked around the bar, saw her own despair echoed on every face.  “Well, I came to Boston to be with people who would understand.  I should suffer with them.”

            Gray wanted to continue to be positive.  Unfortunately, he hadn’t been given a ninth inning hero.  And, from the television screen, he could hear Yankee Stadium roaring its way back to life.

 

They made it through Mariano.  Aubrey had thought he would crack during his third inning of pitching.  How often did Mariano Rivera pitch three innings?  No such luck.  But they made it through him.  There was hope.  Grady was bringing out Wakefield.  A good, solid move.  Wakefield, if they pulled this off, was the hands-down MVP of this series.  So they brought out Wakefield.

            The home run happened so quickly that she actually missed it.  She turned to Gray, to ask him if he also thought Wakefield should be the MVP of the series, and as she did so, she saw his mouth drop open.  She turned quickly back to the television, and there was Aaron Boone, trotting around the bases in triumph.  There was Tim Wakefield, looking bewildered and close to tears.

            Yankee Stadium was jubilant.  Its exuberance was pulsing through the television.  Aubrey slid off her stool.  “Out of here,” she said, feeling dazed.  “We have to get out of here.  I can’t listen to . . . I can’t watch . . . .”

            Gray was calling for the check, producing a credit card.

            “I owe you money,” she realized.  How much had he bought for her anyhow?  She frowned.  “How much do I -”

            He ignored her, handed the signed check to the bartender, who took it wordlessly.  The bar was ridiculously silent.  Someone had shut the television off, thank God.  He turned back to her, fastened his hand firmly onto her upper arm.  “Come on.  Let’s get out of here.”

            “Gray, how much do I -”

            “Forget about it,” he said, as they got outside.  “Forget about - Dammit!” He turned swiftly and kicked the side of the building hard.  Then he swore again when the action accomplished absolutely nothing.  “Oh, dammit,” he said.

            “Did that make you feel better?”  she asked.

            “I think I broke my foot,” he said.  Her mouth was twitching suspiciously.  He narrowed his eyes.  “Glad to see I got you over the Red Sox loss.”

            “I just like the way men think.  You’re mad, so the best thing to do is to take on a brick wall.  That makes sense.  Look at you, you can’t even walk.”

            Well, there was a blow to his pride.  But it was true, he was limping a bit.  “I’m fine,” he sniffed.  “I suppose you plan to go home and cry.”

            “No.  I’d like to throw something.  I can’t get my hands on anything right now.”

            “I need a cab,” said Gray, because his foot was throbbing now.

            “You’re never going to get a cab now.”

            She was right about that.  Red Sox Nation was spilling out of the bars along Lansdowne Street, looking like the walking dead.  A heavy, dreadful, stunned silence was suffocating the city of Boston.  No one was talking.  Aubrey had never experienced anything like an entire population thrown suddenly into dismay, had never seen crowds of people so silent.  They all looked as if they had no energy to make it home, never mind riot.  Cabs were crawling by, nudging space through the people, all of them already taken.  “This,” he spat out, “is just the most absolutely perfect night.  And so not funny,” he warned her, because she still looked close to laughter.

            “Oh, Gray, if I don’t laugh right now, I’ll cry.”

            “Uh-huh,” he said, limping along the bridge over the Mass Pike.  Why had he kicked the wall?  Why had Grady Little left Pedro in?  “This is Grady Little’s fault,” he bit out.  “I’m sending him the medical bill.”

            “Here, let me help you.”  The notion was laughable, but he leaned a bit of his weight on her, off his foot.  “I knew this guy who, after the Red Sox lost in ‘86, burned his Red Sox cap and sent the remains of it to Bill Buckner with a little note.  ‘You ruined my life.’”

            “Really?”

            “Totally true story.  I’m staying in Kenmore Square.”

            “I’m closer to the Common.  I’ll get on the T at Kenmore.”

            “You’re going to get on the T like this?  It’s going to take you twenty minutes just to get down the stairs.  If we get to my hotel, we can call you a cab.”

            “We can call me a cab now,” he pointed out.

            “Yeah, and then wait on the Mass Pike for it to come.  You have to get off this foot.  It would have been a lot better if you had thought to punch the wall instead of kick it.  At least you could still get along on your own.”

            “I don’t know why you think this is funny.  I’m depressed.  I’m terribly depressed.  And you’re laughing at me.”

            “I’m just thinking of this new story to pass down to my kids.”

            “It was one pitch,” said Gray.  “Wakefield threw one pitch.”

            “I missed it.  I mean, I didn’t see it.  I was going to ask you something.  I was looking at you.  And the look on your face was . . . . We should have gone home in the eighth inning.”

            “You’re right.  You were right.  I just thought . . . . I’d just gotten used to them winning.  Strange thing for a Red Sox fan to say, isn’t it?  I was just so used to them winning.”

            “I really hate the Red Sox,” she said.

            “Love is quite the double-edged sword.”  They were limping over the T tracks at Kenmore Square.  These twenty hours in Boston were turning out to be quite the adventure.

            “You know who else I hate?”

            “Grady Little,” he guessed.

            “Passionately.”  She held open the door of the hotel for him, so he could limp through.  “You’re lucky you don’t have that ‘d’ in your name, because I sure as hell wouldn’t be holding doors open for you.”

            “I’ll be sure to thank my mother in the morning,” he drawled, and collapsed gratefully on the dismal-looking couch in the lobby.

            “What are you doing?”  she asked.

            “I’m going to call a cab and -”

            “You’re going to sit here in the lobby until your cab comes?  Don’t be ridiculous.  Get up.  You can sit in my room and put some ice on your foot while we wait for the cab to come.  It’s important to get ice on an injury as soon as possible after it occurs.”

            “Are you a doctor?”

            “No.  But I had aspirations as an eight-year-old.  Come on, get up.”  She took his arm, pulled hard to try to pull him up, quirked an ironic smile when she had absolutely no effect.  It was like an ant trying to push someone over.  She had the impression he could have just swatted her away.

            “Aubrey.”  He whined her name, and it sounded to her at that moment like he’d been saying it forever.  She tried to determine how long she had known this man, but her head was too fuzzy for the math.  It had been long enough, certainly, to invite him to her hotel room.  Certainly.  Anyhow, they had been through a life-changing experience together.

            “Hey, do you know what I have in my hotel room?”

            “What?”  He half-hoped she would say lingerie.  He could do with Aubrey and some lingerie.  That took his mind very nicely off his foot.

            “Alcohol,” she answered, brightly.  “Lots of alcohol.”

            Alcohol was a better answer.  Lingerie put his mind on other parts of his body, which was going to lead to irritating complications.  So.  Alcohol.  Dull all the pain he was experiencing - physical, emotional.  He pulled himself up off the couch, hissing a swear when his foot refused to take the weight he accidentally put on it.

            She caught as much of his weight as she could.  “Good boy,” she said, as if he were a golden retriever.  “Alcohol and ice,” she continued, apparently believing the prospect of these rewards would keep him going.

            “And a tennis ball?”  he asked.  “And would you give my belly a nice rub while you’re at it?”

            “Only if you’re good.”  She had the bad manners to be grinning at him, as she pulled out an electronic key card and swung open the door for him.  “Here we are.”

            The room was tiny.  He tried not to wrinkle his nose.  So he was a hotel room snob.  There were certainly worse things to be.  He sat on the room’s one chair and put his foot up on the bed and tried not to wonder how well they washed their bedspreads here.

            “Alcohol,” she said, producing a tiny bottle from the fridge.  “Didn’t I promise you alcohol?  Take off your shoe.”

            “My what?”

            “Your shoe.”  She had disappeared into the bathroom.  “We have to see if it’s swollen.”

            His shoe, he thought, and drained the bottle of beer she’d given him in two swallows.  Oh, yeah, definitely worth the twenty bucks he was sure they were going to charge her for it.  He leaned forward gingerly and tugged at his shoelaces, finally managed to maneuver his shoe off and stared in chagrin at his sock.  Oh, yeah, his foot was definitely swollen.

            Aubrey came back out into the hotel room.  She’d taken off her Red Sox cap, so that for the first time he was being hit with the full glory of her head of short copper hair.  He’d always had a weakness for redheads.  It was the reason he’d slid into the seat next to her.  So he usually preferred hair a little longer.  At present he thought the flyaway look of her chin-length crop would just be lovely to pull his hands through.  The woman was gorgeous in a way he hadn’t truly been able to appreciate in the dimness of the bar.  She was petite, as he’d already noticed, but she moved with a casual, feline grace that made his mouth water.

            He had to get out of this room.  Hadn’t there been some talk of calling a -

            “What are you doing?”  he asked, abruptly, because Aubrey was reaching for his sock.

            “I brought you ice.”  She held up a washcloth that he assumed was full of ice. She had lovely hands.  Small like the rest of her.  Slender, elegant fingers.

            “I have to go,” he said.

            “You can’t walk on this foot.  Look at how swollen it is.  Let me put some -”  She was tugging at his sock now.

            He inhaled sharply.  “Would you be careful?  It’s sensitive.”

            “You are quite a baby for such a big man,” she said.

            “I think my foot is broken.  And I don’t think you should be looking at my foot.”

            She paused in the process of working his sock off, regarding him curiously.  “Do you have six toes?”

            “No, I just . . . . As a general rule, I don’t let women see my feet until they’ve seen . . . other parts of me.”  God, he sounded like a complete idiot.

            “I see.  You don’t consider your feet to be sexy enough for general viewing?”  She lifted an eyebrow

            “I - Well, that’s not -”  Gray had no idea how to respond to that.

            “That’s okay, Gray,” she assured him, earnestly.  “I don’t find any part of your body particularly sexy.”  This was a lie, but it was totally worth it to see his jaw drop in astonishment.  Good-looking men, as a general rule, knew they were good-looking man.  And Gray was even better looking than most.  Wide shoulders, broad chest, narrow hips, strong features, and a pair of blue eyes that edged toward periwinkle.  Everything about him screamed masculine beauty.  Naturally he knew it.  And she enjoyed having astonished him, took advantage of his momentary distraction to pull the sock the rest of the way off.  Ignoring the swear this elicited from him, she regarded the foot she’d revealed.  It was indeed swollen, and was beginning to bruise, but other than that, it was a perfectly respectable foot.  “How hard did you kick that wall, Gray?”

            “I was angry.  I am angry.”  He flinched as she placed the washcloth and ice on his foot.  “That’s cold.”

            “That’s the point.”  She sat on the bed, keeping the ice applied to his foot.  “It was worse that it was one pitch.  Baseball should be . . . . I mean, it should take a long time, you know?  There should be a build-up.  People on base.  Disintegrations in the form of hits.”

            “Ah.  You mean the way it was tied up.”

            “Yes.  That way.”

            “What do you think the population of the world is?”

            She shrugged.  “I don’t know.  It’s in the billions.”

            “So the odds are billions to one that the Red Sox win this game tonight, and instead we find the one human being - possibly the one living creature - on the planet who leaves Pedro in for that entire inning.”

            “I wish I felt angry like you.”

            “How do you feel?”

            She sighed.  “Sad.  So sad.”  She shifted the ice a little on his foot, and felt the sorrow settle on her heavily in the ensuing silence.  And she couldn’t let it take hold.  She couldn’t keep reliving those awful moments in her head.  “Gray, thank you for the drinks,” she said, to have something to say.

            “Don’t worry about the drinks.”

            “And thank you also for . . . . Well, it’s nice to be with someone who understands.  I mean, tomorrow I’ll have to go back to New York and face -”

            “I know.  Don’t think about it.”

            But she had to think about it.  She had nothing to think about but that.  The following day would be hell.  Tonight would be hell, tossing and turning in the dark, playing over the what-ifs endlessly.

            She lifted her head abruptly to meet Gray’s gaze.  He was watching her, head resting in his hand, but he didn’t look interested.  His dark eyebrows were drawn together over his blue-gray eyes.  He looked intensely thoughtful.  Probably he was thinking about the game.  Probably he wasn’t thinking about her at all.  He lived in Vegas.  He probably slept with showgirls.  No one would mistake her for a showgirl.

            But she didn’t have to be alone tonight.  She could make a move here . . . . He was a guy . . . . Surely he wouldn’t turn down no-strings-attached sex - Was she really thinking of having a one-night stand with this man?  She’d never done anything like that in her life.  She didn’t even know his last name.  And yet he was almost impossibly attractive, fun to talk to . . . . And a Red Sox fan.  Did men get any better?

            She swallowed thickly.  Except that she would have to make a move.  How did one go about making a move in this sort of situation?

            “So there’s nothing about me you find attractive?”  Gray asked, abruptly.

            She blinked at him.  And then she grinned, feeling instantly better.  She’d bruised his ego with that comment.  She cocked her head to the side, pretended to consider.  “You have nice eyes.”

            “Gee, thanks,” he said, narrowing said body part.

            “Why?  Do you find me attractive?”  she asked, innocently.  This was more fun than she would have thought.

            “Of course I find you attractive.  I’d be an idiot not to, wouldn’t I?”

            She rushed into things, with no second thoughts, but also with no finesse.  “Gray, don’t go.  Stay.”

            “I have to go,” he said.

            “No, you don’t.  There’s nothing that says you have to go.  And if you go, and we spend the night alone, all we’ll do is think and think and get more and more and more depressed than we already are.  We’re here.  We’re together.  Let’s wallow a little.”

            Gray tried a smile.  “The thing is.  I . . . .”  He trailed off.

            She arched an eyebrow at him.  “The thing is?”  she prompted.

            “I’m trying to think of what the thing is.”

            She laughed at him.  “Gray, don’t you want to have sex with me?”  she asked, innocently.

            “Oh, I have to go,” he said, standing far too quickly.  Swearing, he sat back down in the chair.

            Nonplussed, Aubrey swept up the ice that he’d upended all over the bedspread.  “Foot not feeling any better?”  She collected the ice back in the washcloth.  “You want it?”  She lifted the washcloth toward him as she asked the question, but he felt that she was asking him if he wanted something else entirely.

            “You’re drunk,” he said, almost sounding relieved.  “That’s what the thing is.  I bought you far too much to drink.”

            “I don’t feel drunk.”  She put aside the washcloth on the bedside table.

            He tried not to watch the play of the lights in that fiery hair.  Dammit, she would be a redhead.  “You’ll feel it in the morning.”

            “So you plied me with drink, and now you’re not making good on it?”  she asked.

            “I didn’t - What the hell are you doing?”  for she deposited herself firmly in his lap.

            She pulled his Red Sox hat off.  His hair was a very dark brown.  Very close to black.  He wore it cropped short in the back, longish on top, and, from a night under his hat, it was flattened adorably onto his head.  And it was shot through with gray at the temples.  Thoughtfully, she tousled her hands through it.

            “Really what are you doing?”  he asked.

            Because she was well aware he could push her off his lap with very little effort, she ignored his protestations and said, instead, “How old are you, Gray?”

            “What?”

            “I think you’re older than me.”

            “I think definitely I’m older than you.”

            “Ah.”  She was amused by him.  “That’s why you get to be the responsible one, right?”  She nuzzled at his throat, under his jaw, feeling the scrape of stubble, flattening her palms against his chest.

            “I’m also pretty sober.”  She nipped at his earlobe, and his breath caught involuntarily.  “Oh, Aubrey,” he said, lifting his hands into her hair with every intention of pulling her away and instead keeping her in position.  “Please stop.”

            Her head came up, but she didn’t look like she was going to stop.  She looked like she was having a fantastic time.  She filled his vision.  Her eyes were blue.  Bright.  Clear.  Endlessly amused.  She seemed to be amused by everything he did, even when he was trying very hard not to amuse her.  “You want me to call you a cab?”

            Yes.  Yes.  He had to go.  He had to go.  She thought she wanted a one-night stand here, but she really didn’t.  In his experience, women never really wanted a one-night stand.  And he wasn’t looking for a relationship.  He didn’t need a relationship.  They would never have a relationship.  And wasn’t there something about honor here?  Something about being honorable?  “Yes.  A cab.  Please.”

            She got off his lap.  Thank God.  She was a warm, lovely bundle of female, and he’d loved the feel of her against him, leaning on him, teasing him.  It was better that she stay on her own two feet, far away from him, while he was trying to be honorable.

            She took off her shirt.

            Then again, he reconsidered.  She was asking for it, wasn’t she?  Who would she have to blame when he was gone in the morning?  And who the hell cared if she blamed him?

            She tossed the shirt at him.  “Hold that for me for a second.”

            “You going to take all your clothes off?”  he asked, in amusement.

            She shrugged, unconcerned, unclasping her bra.  “I figured you’d do it, but you’re out of sorts because of your foot.”

            “I’m out of sorts, am I?”  He caught her bra.

            “Mm-hmm.”  She nodded, watching Gray’s eyes, wondering if she was making a fool of herself.

            “Well, keep going,” he said.  “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

            She smiled at him.  “You want me to call you a cab?”

            “I’d get up and undress you but as you can see I’m incapacitated.”

            “Ah.  So you want the undressing and then the cab?”

            “Well, we’ll see what I think once I see what you’ve got to offer.”  He sent a wicked grin her way that made her feel light-headed.  Maybe he was right.  Maybe she was drunk.  And she was way too far into this to stop it now.  She was standing here topless in front of this man.  She couldn’t very well walk over and ask for her clothing back because she’d changed her mind.

            Hesitating, she looked down at her shoes, wondering how women managed to pull off sexy stripteases.  Probably they wore killer heels, not practical sneakers.  She looked up at him.  “I have to take off my shoes.”

            He looked amused, which she wasn’t sure was a good thing.  She didn’t want him laughing at her.  “Please,” he said, lifting his hands in an expansive gesture whose effect was ruined by the bra and shirt he was holding.

            She sat on the bed, back to him, untying her sneakers and kicking them off.  Maybe she should recommend that he get undressed, too.  It occurred to her that never in her life had she stood completely naked in front of a man who was still fully dressed and just watching like it was some show he’d paid for.  She couldn’t do this.  She couldn’t.  Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t . . . . It couldn’t . . . .

            She stood, turned to face him, opened her mouth to tell him, and felt the words die in her throat.  He was watching, yes, but not like it was some show he’d paid for.  He was watching her.  Like he wanted her.  There was no trace of amusement left on his face.  His gaze was dark and heavy-lidded and made her want to shiver.  She wanted him, she realized.  She wanted him desperately.  Maybe more than she’d ever wanted anyone, which was confusing to say the least, as she barely knew him.  But the nerves jumping inside her, it became clear to her, were there because she wanted badly for him to want her back.

            She unbuttoned her jeans, pushed them down panties and all, because it occurred to her that if she didn’t take everything off right then, she would panic again and not do it.  She wanted to look sexy while she was doing this, mysterious and aloof, instead of struggling to look halfway desirable.  Note to self: When next attempting to seduce a strange man, wear a dress.  Easy and graceful to take off.  No pantyhose.

            She finally managed to get naked.  It seemed to her it took her an inordinate amount of time.  And then she waited for something to happen.  Gray’s eyes lingered, drank her in, slowly crawling over her.  Her breaths sounded to her so loud.  She hoped he wasn’t going to sense how embarrassingly nervous she was.

            The woman was exquisite.  All the time he had spent with her that night, he had been noticing abstract things about her body, but he had never actually taken the energy to imagine her naked in front of him, partly because he hadn’t thought it would ever happen, mostly because he’d been watching baseball.  But now it occurred to him that the woman was absolutely exquisite.  Perfect.  Everything about her was stunning, breathless.  His hands clenched in the shirt he was still holding.  He wanted to be full of her.  He wanted to be lost in her.

            His eyes went back to hers.  They looked vaguely nervous.  He wondered suddenly how long he’d been sitting there staring at her.

            He cleared his throat.  “This is the part where I would sweep you off your feet.  Except that -”

            “Right,” she said.

            “So come here.”

            She took a deep breath.  If she went . . . . If she went . . . . She knew exactly what would happen.  She’d asked for it, hadn’t she?  Even so, she went slowly, deliberately, over to him.

            She was nervous, he realized.  Should he tell her that the game was over?  She’d obviously gotten herself in over her head, and he was willing to end it.  Okay, willing wasn’t really the word.  But he would if she wanted him to.

            Or maybe, he thought.  Maybe she just needed to be relaxed.  It had been a while since he had wanted a woman as desperately as he wanted her.  He thought relaxing her was worth a try.

            “Why don’t I show you all those things I usually show women before we get to my feet?”

            It worked.  Thank God, it worked.  She smiled broadly.  “You need help?”

            “Oh, tons of help.”

            “Yeah, I figured.”  She sat on his lap, reaching for the hem of his shirt.

            And the impulse took him by surprise, but he caught her chin firmly and jerked her head toward him and kissed her hard, startled by how much he needed to taste her.  He’d taken her by surprise, too.  He could tell by the lag time in her response.  And then she kissed him back.  Almost bewildered him by how eagerly she kissed him back, shifting, squirming, to get closer to him, her hands dragging through his hair, reangling their heads.  At some point Gray decided this woman was going to kill him, curled and cuddled naked on his lap, his hands full of skin that felt like satin.  She’d forgotten about taking his clothes off, which was fine by him, because much as he wanted to be inside her, much as he wanted that skin against his skin, he wanted more to taste her.  Oh, every blessed inch of her.  He wanted to lap her up like cream.

            She was breathing like she was running a marathon when he tore his mouth away, tugged at a breast that looked like it was pouting just for him.  She made a noise that might have been his name, and her hands closed in his hair.  And she was trembling.  He could feel it.  The shivers racking through her body.

            He drew back.  Her eyes was half-closed and unfocused with pleasure.  Dark blue.  Her eyelashes were like her hair.  Fire.  Warm.  Who the hell was he kidding?  Hot.  He meant to ask her . . . something.  What had stopped him?  Something had - She was shivering.  Yes.  He meant to ask her -

            “I want you everywhere, Gray,” she said, her voice low and husky with desire.

            “Okay,” he said, stupidly, and, forgetting the fact that he’d done something very bad to his foot, stood with her.  The foot gave out, but that was okay, because they collapsed onto the bed, and he didn’t feel any of the pain, because she was eager and lovely and tasted like Christmas cookies.

            He devoured her mouth while he let his hands roam.  If she wanted him everywhere, he was going to damn well comply.

            In years of bedding women - and he had had his share - he had never spent to much time fully dressed and not noticing.  He licked every inch of her, until she was gasping his name, and then he teased her further by catching the gasps in his mouth, kissing her but not quite.  He sucked at her breasts until she squirmed in desperation.  He lavished kisses on the lovely slope of abdomen until she moaned, whispered teasing nuzzles along the inside of her thighs until she was practically sobbing for him.  Then he took a deep breath and went back for more.

            “Gray,” she said, and he had the idea she was not happy with him, except that she was far too happy with him, and that was the problem.

            He measured her racing pulse points with his tongue, on her wrist, then her neck, and finally slid a hand between her legs.

            She exploded around him immediately, the force of the heat of her knocking him backward and kicking his own desire up several notches.  He waited through the climax, trying to catch his breath, trying not to admit that he may have miscalculated and waited too long, because now he wanted her too badly to show her much of a good time once he was inside her.

            And maybe she wouldn’t mind so much, because she was relaxing slowly under him.  He could feel the uncoiling of the muscles he had tensed with his ministrations, feel the sweat cooling on her skin.  Her eyes were wide open with what he took to be amazement, and he felt immediately flattered.  And immediately determined to take her there again.  If he was only getting one night, he was going to acquit himself damn well.

            “You’re not done yet,” he told her.

            Aubrey, tremors from the climax still running through her, thought she had to get him to stop.  She had to catch her breath.  She felt like there wasn’t enough oxygen getting to her brain.  She felt feverish and light-headed and his tongue slid up her thigh and she dropped her head back and lifted her hips for him.  What the hell.  It was quite the way to die.

            He rocketed her brilliantly through another climax, and, while she was still gasping, still trembling from it, he rolled with her, and she collapsed in exhaustion on his chest.

            “Don’t tell me you’re going to sleep now,” he said.

            “Gray,” she gasped, although she didn’t know what thought she meant to express.

            “Okay, we’ll let you catch your breath here, and then we’ll get around to me.”

            Around to him?  For a long moment she couldn’t imagine what he meant.  She lay wilted on his chest, legs straddling him, and finally, as she began to come back to a semblance of herself, she realized what he meant.  Him.  She lifted her head abruptly.  “I’ve been remiss,” she told him.

            “No, I’ve been generous,” he corrected.

            “You’re a little too self-righteous in bed,” she said, finally getting around to his zipper.

            “I - Well . . . .”  he said, and then his hands curled around her hips.

            She grabbed them, pulled them away, sending him a silky smile.  “You have been in control far too long here.”

            “But it’s . . . .”  She was definitely very good at torture, Gray decided.  Her thrusts were long, sinuous, teases.  “You’re going too slowly,” he chastised.

            She shrugged.  “You say potato . . . .”

            What the hell was she talking about?  And why the hell wouldn’t she let him get deeper?  “For God’s sake, Aubrey,” he bit out, raggedly.

            She contracted around him, and for a second he could swear he went blind.  And she looked so damn calm.  Like she was getting a manicure.  His game, he realized, almost in shock.  She was outplaying him at his own game.  She should have been far too wild with desire to hold it in check.  She wasn’t supposed to be torturing him.  She was supposed to be giving him the upper hand.  She had turned the tables quite neatly.  He would have been feeling admiring, except that he was feeling mostly desperate.  And, of course, absolutely marvelous.

            “You’re very -” and he could hear himself panting to get it out - “very good at this.”

            “Huh,” she said.  “Good?  That’s it?  Guess I need to try a little harder here.”

            “Dammit,” he gasped, as she squirmed just a little, sending sensation singing through him in a foretaste of climax.

            Aubrey’s breath hitched in the same reaction.  She was enjoying teasing this man, but she was also getting pretty close to her breaking point.

            “Aubrey,” he said.  “I’ll give you anything in the world you want if you’ll let me get a little deeper.”

            She blinked in surprise.  Well.  That was definitely the first time a man had ever begged for her in bed.  Did splendid things for the ego.  And also for how badly she wanted him in return.  “No need,” she said, unevenly.  “I’m also feeling generous tonight.”

            And she had thought the previous climaxes had been noteworthy.  They were nothing - absolutely nothing - next to what he provoked while inside her.  When she hit his chest afterward, she felt like she’d been hurtled headlong off a cliff and had hit the ground hard.  Pleasure, the aftermaths it, slid through her exquisitely, and she gasped for breath and tried to remember if she’d ever felt so absolutely wonderful.  Exhausted, but so perfectly wonderful.

            She didn’t know long she laid on his chest, in a sprawl of limbs, but at some point she realized that her cheek was against his shirt, not his skin.  Frowning, she lifted herself up and realized he was still, for the most part, completely dressed.  She looked back at his face.  His eyes were closed.  He was probably sleeping.

            Except he said, without opening his eyes, “If you’re going to get off me, that’s fine, but the way you’re sitting right now is a little uncomfortable.”

            “You’re still dressed,” she said.

            “Huh?”  He opened his eyes to see a flushed, rosy, naked redhead straddling across him, looking like the most delicious of dreams.  And also furious.  Great.  She couldn’t just fall asleep after earth-shattering sex?  They had to fight first?  “What is it?”  he asked, feeling resigned.  “What’s the matter?”

            “You’re still dressed.”

            “Mmm.  Aubrey, can we go to sleep?”

            “That’s not fair.”

            “Fair?  Sweetheart, you have nothing to complain about.  And if you are complaining, well, that’s just too damn bad.  You got the best I could give.”

            “You’re full of yourself.”

            “But with reason,” he said, around a yawn.

            “It isn’t fair that I’m naked and you’re dressed.”

            She wasn’t going to just roll over and go to sleep.  “What’s not fair about that?”

            “It’s not fair to me.”

            “Aubrey, believe me, you’re much nicer to look at than me.”

            She continued to frown.  It just wasn’t fair for her to be naked, every silly flaw on display, and for him to be covered up safely in clothing.  Absolutely not fair.  “I’m going to take your clothes off.”

            “That’s fine,” he said, around another yawn.

            She started with his shirt, got it up as far as his chin before she stopped and stared down at his chest in chagrin.

            “Uh-oh,” he said, ruefully.  “You’re looking . . . thunderous.”

            “How old are you?”  she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.  “Really?”

            He hesitated a fraction of a second.  “Thirty-six.”

            “Are you lying?”

            “No.  I have a driver’s license if you’d like to -”

            Thirty-six.  Thirty-six, and every part of him was in the most irritatingly good shape.  “Do you own a gym?”  she asked in disgust.

            Technically . . ., he thought.  But he answered, “What is the problem here?”

            “You are not a fair man.”

            “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.”

            “You’re very beautiful.”

            “Oh, God.  Please put my shirt back on.”

            She laughed suddenly, surprising him.  Then she settled back comfortably on his chest, looking up at him.  “It’s better like this,” she whispered.  “Skin to skin.”

            “Yes,” he managed, beginning to question the extent of his exhaustion.

            “Hmm.”  She licked along the side of his neck.  “You up for another round?”

            He rolled, flipping her underneath him.  “Well, what do you know?”  he said.  “Indications are yes.”

            “Wait, wait, wait.”  She tugged his head up with hands firmly planted in his hair.  “First you get naked, too.”