Playing Hard (12 page)

Except, perhaps, how long she was going to stand here before she gave in to the inevitable and let herself find out exactly what Oliver Shields had learned since he was seventeen.

The thought made her shiver and she lost her nerve and looked up and away, over his shoulder and out the window. The mostly dark expanse of the park across the street and the reflections of the lights of the buildings beyond were breathtaking. But not as breathtaking as the man himself.

Who was waiting, silent. All she had to do was give in to what she wanted. Take what he was offering. She turned back. Managed a lopsided smile despite the churn of need and nerves buzzing through her body. “I don’t remember the bleachers having this sort of view.”

“Neither do I,” he said, in a voice suddenly rough with tension that told her he was as unnerved by the moment as she was.

“You never took a girl under the bleachers at seventeen?”

He grinned then. “Never one who looked like you.”

She laughed, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly and chasing away her nerves. “Well, you’ve definitely learned to be good with a line since then.”

“Seventeen-year-old me never was good with words. Always been more sort of hands-on.”

“Oh, so you did try it under the bleachers?”

“Pretty sure seventeen-year-old me would have had a heart attack if he’d gotten you under the bleachers. I’m also dead certain that current-day me is going to have a heart attack if you don’t let me put my hands on you in the next few minutes.”

“I’m amending that to very good with a line,” she said, wondering how her knees, which were beginning to feel a lot like they’d been replaced with Jell-O, were holding her up.

“It’s only a good line if it works.”

“Oh, it’s working.” God. She wanted to kiss him. But she didn’t want to hurt him in the process and she wasn’t exactly sure how the logistics were going to work.

“Amelia, if you don’t get down here on this sofa with me, then I’m going to have to stand up and come to you.” He lifted his good hand and crooked his finger at her. She gave up on trying to work out a perfect solution and moved without thinking. Which was how she found herself straddling his lap, one knee on either side of his legs, the heat of him practically scorching her thighs. She didn’t lower herself completely, just held herself above him, looking down. His eyes were nearly black now. She didn’t know if it was the dim lighting or whether he was as frantically turned on as she was. She swallowed, sucked in a breath, trying to think. Saw his chest rising and falling a little too fast as well. And they were hardly even touching yet.

Madness.

“You’re still a bit too far away for my liking.” He settled his hand on her waist. His big hand curled easily around her, fingers splaying across her back. Each one a line of heat licking at her through the wool of her jacket. She tore at her buttons as heat flared through her and shrugged out of it, tossing it behind her without looking.

Oliver smiled. “I like your thinking. Come here.” His hand pressed gently, urging her closer. She let herself give in to the tremble in her thighs and lowered herself until she was hard up against him. Belly-to-belly. Chest-to-chest.

He was hard between her thighs which felt too damned good—but that wasn’t the part of him she was interested in right now. Not yet. Not now. Right now, she couldn’t look away from his mouth.

“Hi,” she said, nervous all over again.

“Hello.” The word was soft. Enticing. “You feel good, Amelia.”

She was pretty sure she was red-faced and wild-eyed. Hardly sexy. Except the look in his eyes told her that he thought she was. And with him so close. So
there
. So obviously willing to let her do whatever she wanted to him, she couldn’t bring herself to care too much that she was blushing.

“You feel pretty good yourself,” she said, letting her knees sink just that little bit farther forward so that she rested more tightly against him. He groaned and she froze. “Did I hurt you?”

“God, no,” he said. “Don’t you dare move an inch.”

“But if you don’t let me move I can’t kiss you.”

A laugh rumbled through him, and the vibrations set off some rumbles deep and low in her own body. “You really would have been the death of seventeen-year-old me.”

“Probably,” she agreed. “So it’s a good thing that you’re not seventeen anymore, isn’t it?”

“Definitely,” he said. His hand slid up her back to cradle the back of her head. She never would have done this at seventeen. Never let a baseball player near her. Particularly not one as gorgeous as Oliver. Too scared of ending up like her mother. But Oliver made her feel safe, not scared. So she forgot about seventeen and her mother’s fears and let herself feel. Let herself give in to what she wanted.

And without her quite knowing how or when they’d moved, his mouth was finally on hers.

Soft at first. Questioning.

She knew the answer to that question. Curled one arm around his back and the other hand into his hair and kissed him back. Opened her mouth to him and let him take her like the pirate he was.

Pirates, it seemed, kissed gloriously.

Beyond gloriously.

His lips and tongue took her and tumbled her into heat and darkness and longing. She pressed herself against him and went willingly. Because there was really nothing else she could do. The world arrowed down to a single place, to the few inches of his mouth and hers, and the rest blurred to pleasure. If any seventeen-year-old had ever kissed her like this under the bleachers, she wouldn’t have been a virgin until she was nineteen.

These kisses were the real deal. One hundred percent raw longing and need. One hundred percent guaranteeing that she wanted more. Wanted the rest of him. Wanted his hands on her and his weight above her. Wanted flesh on flesh and the slide of hard against soft.

The hand she’d pressed to his back grabbed a handful of his T-shirt and yanked it upward until she could get to bare skin. His skin. Hot under her touch. As hot as hers felt. The combination was near scorching. As she slid her hand over his back, his muscles tightened and trembled, and then he yanked his mouth away from hers.

It took her a second to come back to herself. To dull the roar of lust through her body and get her brain to reengage.

He’d stopped kissing her. So mostly what she was able to think was that she didn’t like that fact very much.

“Did I bump your ankle or something?” she asked, doing a hasty inventory of where her hands and feet were. Nowhere near any wounded parts of him as far as she could tell. Which brought her back to why had he stopped kissing her?

“No,” he said. “But I think we need to stop.”

“You want to stop?” Her body didn’t want to accept that message.

“I said ‘need’ not ‘want,’” he said, sounding suddenly cranky.

“But—”

“Amelia, I think we both know where that kiss was heading. And as much as I like that direction, I think I have to call a time-out.”

She had liked the direction, too. She wanted all of him. Naked. In her. So much it was hard to think. “Did the doctor tell you not to?”

He laughed at that. “No. But he probably didn’t think he needed to.”

“I did hurt you.”

“No. You didn’t. Well, only in a good way.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“You only met me on Sunday.”

That startled a laugh from her. “You think it’s too soon? I think your seventeen-year-old self just voted you off the island.”

“Yeah, well my seventeen-year-old self was a bit of an idiot. I liked kissing you, Amelia. I liked it a lot. I’d like to do other things to you even more, but you have to go to work in the morning and I’m kind of playing with a handicap here.” He lifted his bandaged hand. “So I’m just suggesting we take this slow. I don’t want you regretting anything. I want you sure.”

She could feel him hard against her still. Every inch of her wanted to feel more. “I’m sure. Unless I’m mistaken, you feel pretty sure, too.”

“Trying to think with the bigger brain here,” he said, determination underscoring his words.

There really was going to be no persuading him, she realized. Damn it. “Your bigger brain sucks,” she grumbled, but she eased herself off him and onto the empty space on the sofa on his other side. “Happy now?”

“Not particularly,” he said.

“Me neither.”

“Me and my great ideas,” he said. “So … want to play Words with Friends?”

*   *   *

If she drank one more coffee she was probably going to make her brain explode. Nevertheless she was going to drink it. She’d stayed at Oliver’s until close enough to midnight, until he’d begun to yawn and look exhausted and she’d made her excuses and stolen away. Then when she’d gotten home she’d watched her recording of the game. Because there was no way she’d be able to face Finn, Em, or their parents if she hadn’t watched it. So she was operating on about three hours’ sleep, a body humming with frustration, and a mood not improved by the fact that the Red Sox had beaten the Saints. Putting them one up in the series. Two more games like that and the Saints’ chances would be over.

Which might make things easier on Oliver. Maybe. He was obviously pissed about having to watch the Saints from the sidelines but she had no idea if that meant he’d prefer them to lose. What she did know was that Finn wouldn’t take losing the divisional series well. He loved to win. Pushed himself relentlessly to win. To be the best at what he did. Which was why everybody had tended to let it slide if he sometimes chose to blow off some steam. But with Oliver out of the picture, Finn would be trying to prove himself more than ever. Go after what he’d decided was his. She had no idea how he’d cope if it didn’t work out.

Baseball. Who knew it could cause so much drama in her life? She’d made a choice of a sort last night by going to Oliver. By kissing him. Finn might well see it as a betrayal. So that needed to be handled carefully to avoid even more drama. But not as much drama as Daniel would cause if she screwed up this project. Which was why she was on her fourth coffee of the morning and wishing desperately that Pullman Waters was the sort of workplace that let its employees take nap breaks.

The only thing a nap break would get her here would be fired. She tipped extra sugar into the coffee she normally drank black and unsweetened and carried the mug back to her desk, trying to not to think about how many hours it was going to be before she could sleep. Also trying not to wonder if Oliver was going to call her. It was still relatively early, just on eleven. Maybe he was sleeping late. There hadn’t been so much as a move in their word game all morning.

Which was making her nervous.

Maybe he’d stopped kissing her last night because he hadn’t liked it.

Her body voted no on that theory. There was no way kisses that had made her want to peel off his clothes and drag him to bed, that had left her hot and wanting hours later, had meant nothing to him. He’d been just as frustrated as her last night after he’d called a stop to their make-out session. She could tell by the way he’d watched her and by his restless movements as they’d played their silly word game.

In retrospect, he’d done the smart thing. They were going too fast. Crazy fast. Logically she knew that. He was being sensible. Which the parts of her not currently feeling stupidly horny appreciated.

But why hadn’t he called?

Maybe he had another medical appointment.

And maybe she was just going to drive herself nuts trying to figure out what was going on and she should just call him.

Woman up. It was, after all, the twenty-first century. No one had to sit around waiting for a guy to call if they didn’t want to.

She definitely didn’t want to. She slurped down more coffee and reached for her phone. Then nearly dropped it when it vibrated to life in her hand.

But the name on the caller ID was Em’s, not Oliver’s. A pang of disappointment rolled through her. Chased swiftly by guilt.

“Hey, Em,” she said, trying to sound awake.

“Hey yourself,” Em said. “Did you watch the game last night?”

“Of course.” It wasn’t a lie. She just hadn’t watched it live. No, instead she’d made out with Finn’s archrival. Information she wouldn’t be volunteering to Em. “Finn played well.”

“Still lost, though.”

“It’s the Red Sox. They’ve got a lot more experience at play-offs. I’m sure the guys will settle down to the job tonight.”

“I hope so,” Em said. “’Cause the judge hearing my case decided he wants a long weekend or something because he’s adjourned until Monday.”

A smile spread over Amelia’s face. “Does that mean you’re going to Boston for the game?” She hadn’t been happy with the thought that Em wasn’t going to get to see Finn play.

“No. The earliest flight I could get to Boston last-minute was the seven-thirty flight tonight. I’d miss most of the game.”

“Oh. Finn will be disappointed.”

“No, because I’m booked on the seven o’clock flight to New York instead. So I can see him play tomorrow at Staten Island.” Em sounded gleeful.

“You’re coming here? Tonight?”

“Yes. I can still stay with you, right?”

“Of course,” Amelia said, happiness at the thought of seeing Em dampened a little by the fact that a houseguest meant she wouldn’t be able to go see Oliver tonight. “What time does your flight get in?”

“About nine thirty, if everything goes well. I’ll just get a cab to your place. Don’t come meet me.”

“Are you sure?” Was it bad that she felt relieved? The thought of battling her way out to JFK sounded pretty crappy. Particularly when she was so tired.

“Absolutely. Friday nights are always a zoo at airports. Stay home and mix us up a batch of margaritas.”

Amelia grinned. Friday-night margaritas with Em sounded pretty good. Even if Em wasn’t tall, dark, and handsome. “I can do that.” If Em was landing at nine thirty, she wouldn’t be at Amelia’s until well after ten thirty. Maybe even after eleven. Which meant Amelia might even get in a nap.

“Cool,” Em said. “Don’t tell Finn if you talk to him. I want to surprise him and my parents.”

“My lips are sealed,” Amelia said. She’d left Finn a “good luck for tonight” message earlier, carefully avoiding any mention of the loss to the Red Sox. But she hadn’t had a response. She wasn’t really expecting any. He needed to focus on the game ahead.