One More Night with You (12 page)

Joey lowered again. The sides of her face were sore and her lips stung, but her mouth missed him. He was a jawbreaker of a man, but she gladly accepted the challenge.

Encouraging him to grind into her until she was able to tease his hair with her nose, she cupped his balls and swallowed. Coming up for air, she grinned and repeated the kiss.

The play of her muscles flexing around him had him crying out unfinished sentences and unintelligible words. Reluctantly, she let him go and massaged her throat.

Flopping on top of him, she let herself enjoy being the reason for his ragged breathing and the sweat on his skin.

“Jo. God, my Jo.” He molded a hand to her ass, waking up her nerves with a squeeze and a slap. “Who taught you how to do that?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

“I'm trying to decide whether I should thank the guy or kill him.”

“Then it doesn't matter. You and I—
we
matter.” She couldn't hide her smile...couldn't hide that she was happy. But oddly, she was sad, too.

This intimacy wouldn't last. Even now, she was taking what she could get—not what she wanted. He wasn't capable of giving her that.

She had offered him love and he'd tied up her heart, preventing her from fathoming taking the risk with someone new. It had been bearable when she believed he loved her, too.

Knowing that he hadn't loved her and would never give her what she needed?
That
wasn't bearable.

But hey, didn't she always find a way to cope?

“Am I still in control?” she asked, searching his face for some sign that he could see through her pretenses and defenses.
You take over. Take me.

“Get on your back.”

Yes, sir. Hell, yes.

Joey dropped back into softness and opened herself. No, he hadn't said that was what he wanted, but her body knew. So did her heart.

“Everything about you is incredible,” he said.

“
No soy perfecto.
You're seeing me through sex-tinted glasses.”

“I didn't say perfect.” He hesitated to raise her left leg higher but when he settled it over his shoulder, she didn't mind. “Some of the most incredible, beautiful things are flawed.”

“Flawed. That, I am.”

She felt his words on her inner thigh before he kissed her there. “This freckle? Incredible.” He pinched her clit between two knuckles. “The way you squirm and moan when I do this? So incredible.”

Then he added lips and introduced tongue, and she was flailing for something to cling to. This wasn't the antique-style iron bed in her room—there were no bars to clutch. The headboard behind the mountain of pillows was a solid mahogany slab, and her fingers slipped when they tried to gain purchase.

Nothing would help her ride out the sensations.

Bucking under him, she surrendered to a succession of moans, each louder than the one preceding it. His name belonged in her mouth, and his mouth belonged on her.

“Taste this,” he commanded, sliding up her body. Kissing her, he tantalized her with lips slick from her own arousal. “I dreamed about this.”

After he rolled a condom into place, she asked, “You've been dreaming about me, Zaf?”

He didn't answer her—not with words. Drawing up her knees, he thrust into her, spearing her, coming back to her in a way she hadn't believed was possible before finding him waiting for her in a library.

Zaf leaned until she could hug his shoulders. He'd given her something to hold on to. Watching his face as he moved inside her, she knew.

On some level that was deeper than friendship or sex, she'd gotten to him.

But, as they lay together with her weak leg draped over him and his hand on her scar, she said nothing.

Zaf was the first to speak. “I'm gonna get your cane now.”

“Sending me on a walk of shame to my bedroom?” she murmured against his chest.

“No. There's no shame in this.”

“I know. It was always good between us.”

“That clock on the wall says it's almost eleven, and your growling stomach says you need to eat. Do you?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“So...” Zaf looked at her with concern and care and something that resembled love, but she quickly shook off the thought as post-orgasm fever. “Let's get you back into that sexy dress. I'm taking you out.”

* * *

A poppin' party was throwing down at TreShawn's Spring Valley house. Cristal was on tap, guests stripped to their underwear and bling were playing Marco Polo in the pool, and the live music could probably be heard in the depths of the Mojave Desert.

But he'd disappeared. If any of the folks shooting his alcohol, eating his food or sopping up the luxury of the top-quality amenities his backbreaking career paid for were to notice he was missing, he'd be effing shocked.

A few teammates had hassled him to play host, and he had no one's ass to kick but his own for yielding. They'd survived the first day of training camp hell—cool. Opening his place in the city to teammates who didn't have the sense to R.I.C.E. their battered bodies in Desert Luck Center's residence hall wasn't his idea of a celebration.

Most of the people walking through his rooms and touching his shit were strangers—midprofile celebrities, riffraff blown in off the street, rented women with expert mouths and nightly rates.

Security would hold down Spanish Heights Drive—that was what he paid them for. Duncan Torsay on defense said he'd keep his own guests in line, but who knew if he would? TreShawn was no man's keeper. For all the brotherhood talk he'd heard during practices and meetings, he accepted that for every position there were at least two men each fighting to make it his. When the man breaking bread with you in the cafeteria was both your comrade and your adversary, there was no brotherhood.

Getting away wouldn't get him out of his head. Which was why he hadn't yet left his neighborhood. His Chevy Suburban LTZ dominated the curb in front of a stucco two-story half the square footage of his house. Sitting on the hood, he sent a text message and craned his neck to search the darkened windows to see which would illuminate.

Arched balcony doors, he predicted, tossing his phone from hand to hand. There would be no reply text, just a slip of a woman poking her head out into the summer night to give him hell...before ultimately going along with whatever impulse he wanted her to get all wrapped up in.

A few minutes passed, and he paused, flipping over his phone to check to see if she'd replied, after all.

Nothing.

Weird. It was kissing midnight and she had a quirk about sleeping instead of compensating with early-morning energy drinks and B-12 shots. So she
had
to be home...right?

As he was about to slide off the truck's hood, the arched balcony doors glowed golden and the draperies swayed.

You're predictable, Min
, he thought with an amused grin, leaning back against the windshield.

Minako Sato pushed open one of the doors and shot across the balcony. A curtain of jet-black hair swung back and forth over an orange hoodie. “Scenes like this should really be left to Shakespeare, Romeo,” she said in that waspish tone she borrowed whenever his spontaneity shook up her routine.

“That'd make you Juliet? Nah.” He chuckled. Minako would punch him if he accused her of being emotional, passionate or lovesick. “And I'm nobody's Romeo.”

“I'll say,” she served back, but their banter had diluted her irritation. “Romeo wouldn't blaze through Verona blasting—is that ‘Moon River'?”

“Come out here and find out,” he enticed.

“No. I have an early morning. As do you.”

“Minako, I can just hang out here on the curb. But when I get bored with instrumentals, I might put the rap on.”

“There's already plenty of rap coming from one of these party houses.”

“That'd be mine.”

“You're throwing a party? Wow. Just...wow.” She sounded equal parts amazed and disappointed. “Good night, TreShawn. I'm getting back in bed, which is where I've been since the storm kicked out the power.”

“The power's been back on for a while. It's early, even for you.”

“Yeah, well, pharmacists perform best when well rested. I'd venture to say the same about athletes, but apparently, partying and playing works for you.”

TreShawn's hands cushioned his head as he watched the sky. When the storm left, it'd taken the heavy clouds with it. Minuscule dots of silver filtered through as though someone had poked the sooty blanket with a needle. “Then I'll get comfortable here. Or you can come down and hear me out.”

“Fine. I'm coming.”

He was still in that position, watching the starry sky, when Minako rushed outside to the Suburban and confirmed, “You
are
listening to ‘Moon River.' On repeat.”

“You're surprised.”

“We don't have the same taste in music. Now, if I can get you out of your superstar NFL player bubble long enough to watch
Breakfast at Tiffany's
, then you might actually be tolerable.”

“I belong in that bubble.” It was a dream and a nightmare, but he'd wanted it since he was a kid growing up poor in the ghetto.

“What are you doing here if you've got some VIP party going on at your place?”

Damn. The ice in her voice could give a man frostbite in the middle of summer. What was up with her?

He and Minako lived in the same neighborhood—they'd met months ago when her dog had slipped his leash and wound up peeing on TreShawn's garage door—but they moved on different wavelengths. She had a PhD, wore a white coat, was in bed by midnight. He was drafted to the NFL his senior year of college, had his name smeared through sports media and was the man to call on when you wanted to get messed up.

They were friends, though. She wasn't trying to claw into his world, and he liked having her within reach when the cameras and entourages got to be too much.

“I don't feel like entertaining folks,” he told her.

Minako put her backside to the truck and looked up. “Then why order the food and hire the musicians and invite the guests?”

“Unwise decisions. Wasn't my idea, but nobody forced me to come into the city and unleash that—” he paused and the boom of bass beats surged through the air “—on the neighborhood.”

“So shut it down. Ask everyone to leave.” She turned toward him. When folks talked about having stars in their eyes, they usually didn't mean it literally. He thought it applied perfectly to the light reflected in Minako's deep-set eyes. They were usually behind a pair of plastic-framed glasses, and he guessed he'd never before tried to look closer than that. “I can't rescue you from your unwise party, TreShawn.”

“I'm rescuing myself. That's why I split.” When she lightly jabbed him in the ribs, he took her hand in his. The contrast reminded him of yin yang, and he liked that. “Come with me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Come with me.” He sat up, got a more complete look at her. “The hoodie's all right, but you should probably change out of the Daffy Duck sweatpants.”

“Donald.”

“What?”

“Daffy's the naked
Looney Tunes
duck
.
Donald's the Disney duck with the sailor getup.” She plucked at the fabric and seemed a little self-conscious. “Anyway, go home and find someone else to take off with you. I'm sure you'll find dozens of hot women tripping over themselves for you.”

For his wallet, no doubt. “You're as hot as any of them. Plus, on second thought, the pants are kind of sexy.”

Minako's starry-sky eyes widened—softened, even. “Serious?”

“Completely. Come with me. Let's hit up a club or a casino or something. 1 OAK in the Mirage. We might find you a man tonight.”

“Oh.” Minako wiggled her hand from his grip.

“So what's good with you?” TreShawn asked, hopping off the truck.

“Okay, I'll go. But I've got to check on Brewster and change my clothes first. Donald Duck pants aren't going to get me past the doorman at 1 OAK.”

He laughed as she dashed back into her house. By the time she reemerged, he was in the driver's seat with the radio tuned to rap but at a volume that didn't have neighbors pressing their faces to the windows and eyeing him with consternation.

When he saw her, his hand slipped on the steering wheel and he thanked God the truck was still in Park.

Minako's glasses were in place and her hair hanging to her waist in a shiny sheet, but she looked
different
.

The slinky purple shirt was too tight—maybe that was it. Or the silver high heels too tall. Or the leather pants too...leather.

“Something wrong?” she asked, coming up to his window, then glancing back at her house. “Concern is written all over this.” She circled her hand in front of her face.

The lipstick, he thought, his attention bolting to her devil-red mouth. That had to be the anomaly. Minako didn't paint her lips. She was all about balm and she smelled like peaches whenever she rubbed the stuff on.

She didn't smell like peaches as she climbed into the passenger's seat and put her purse down at her feet.

“You smell like chocolate,” he said.

“Oh—yeah.” She snorted. “I ate a candy bar on the way out.”

“Aren't you eating when we get to the club?”

“Of course.” She peeled back her lips. “Do I have Hershey's in my teeth?”

He clicked on the interior lights and inspected. “All clear. You look...”

“What?”

“I don't know.” He couldn't piece together a thought that'd make sense. In that outfit she'd have no problem cruising past doormen at any of Vegas's clubs. But she wasn't the beanie-hats-and-flat-shoes Minako he was used to. He'd come to her because he could always count on her to look the same, act the same, be the same.