She smiled. You, my love, might be the king of the gridiron, but I, I am La Belle Tornade.
Once again, she reached for her hair, lengthening her torso, emphasizing her breasts. Reveling in her power. Until he said the most extraordinary thing.
“Sing for me. ‘Habanera.’”
For an instant she thought this was one of his desensitizing exercises, except horrifically ill timed. But those half-lidded eyes, his husky voice, told her otherwise. This was the seduction he wanted, a seduction no woman from his past, from his future, could offer. Only her.
And so she sang, leashing the power of her voice but making each note a smoky, pitch-perfect seduction. The French lyrics, the Spanish temptress. She warned him of her impermanence.
“L’amour est un oiseau rebelle . . .” Love is a rebellious bird no one can tame . . .
She spread her legs. Breasts bare. Moved her arms in subtle, liquid arcs. I can’t be tamed. I am my own woman.
Her hair cascaded over her wrists. She arched her back, her waist supple, voice molten. I love your perfect face. I adore your beautiful body. But I’m fickle. True only to myself.
She bathed him with her silken glissando. She was in control. Never again would she lose herself for a man. Make herself smaller. She was a wild, untamed bird taking what she wanted. If I love you, be afraid, because I will never be any man’s slave. Instead, I will fly away.
As the last note faded, he came up on his knees, and with a groan, pulled her onto the bed. “That . . . ,” he whispered, “was perfect.”
Her briefs quickly disappeared. Together, they struggled with his clothes until he was as naked as she, and she could take in the powerful body that had made his career. Strong and sculpted, lean and aerodynamic. She touched. Enjoyed. Toyed. She would have frolicked in his playground forever if he hadn’t taken her down, deliciously trapping her under his weight.
Now her hair was spilling over his big hands. His thumbs nested on her temples as they kissed again. A fierce, carnal kiss that was a graphic overture of what was to come.
Her thighs were open. His mouth trailed down her body, finding every pleasure point—nipples, waist, belly—going lower, lingering there but never quite long enough. She moaned, begging him.
He pinned her wrists to the bed on each side of her head, capturing the wild bird as he entered her. She laughed at the impossibility of it. Sank her teeth into his shoulder. He nipped at her ear. She wrapped her calves around his, her laughter turning into a throaty moan.
He drew back and smiled, the possessive, wicked-eyed smile of a man who’d buried himself thick and heavy inside her. The smile of a conqueror. She dug her nails into his back in retaliation. He moaned and thrust deeper. This was sex as grand opera—outrageously over the top, a cast of thousands playing with her body.
He crushed his mouth to hers and they moved together. Long, hard invasions and exquisite ripostes. Missionary sex blessed by the devil. Their bodies glistened with sweat. Their breathing rasped hot and jagged. They were endurance athletes. He knew how to wait for the perfect receiver. She knew how to hold a note until it pierced the sky. Neither would give up.
Until . . .
Even the finest of athletes reached a breaking point. He drove his hips, coming down hard. She met his aggression with her own.
They broke.
*
She fought against the tsunami of unwelcome emotion threatening to drown her. This was play. Only play. Delicious, sexy play that had nothing to do with the overwhelming rush of love she felt for this impossible man. “That was too perfect.” She curled into his shoulder. “From now on, whatever happens is going to be one big disappointment.”
He kissed the top of her head. “We set the bar high.”
“I lasted longer,” she said mischievously.
“You did not.”
“Did, too.”
His hand curved around her hip. “You are so asking for it.”
“Please.”
“Give me a couple of minutes.”
“That long?”
He gave her butt a light slap. “For weeks, you’ve been holding me off, and now you want it all at once?”
“I’m a prima donna. We’re allowed to be unreasonable.”
“You’re telling me.” He came up on his elbow and toyed with a lock of her hair, mayhem lurking in his eyes. “I don’t want to be insulting—you being a prima donna and all—but I think you need a little more practice.”
“Really?”
“I’m sure of it.” He trailed his fingers from her collarbone between her breasts to her stomach and lower. She gazed along the length of his body and fell back on the bed. He grinned, covered her, and they were kissing all over again.
She made him lie still while she explored, taking in everything she’d been yearning to see. Testing what pleased him. What pleased her. Marveling that a man who’d devoted his life to such a violent sport could have such a perfect body.
Then it was his turn. At first, she gave his curiosity free rein, but enough was enough. She settled on top and used him in the most exquisite way until they were bound together in a tumultuous, heart-stopping free-for-all. Not love. Only play.
Afterward, they napped.
He bent her over the arm of the easy chair.
They dawdled in the shower.
Held each other.
“Shit!” He shot up in bed.
She followed the direction of his gaze to the bedside clock. “Merde!”
It was nearly seven thirty. Their first Chicago client dinner began in half an hour. They scrambled for their clothes. She didn’t bother with her bra. He stuffed his bare feet into his sneakers and shoved his socks in his jacket pockets. They dashed from the hotel and out into the cold Illinois night.
*
Thad beat her to the dinner, but by less than ten minutes, and considering she’d had hair to untangle and makeup to apply, he was impressed with how quickly she’d pulled herself together. She’d arranged her hair in some kind of low, twisty bun that nested at the nape of her neck, and put on one of those pencil dresses she wore better than anyone. He hoped he was the only one who could see the faint red marks she’d tried to hide. By tomorrow, the marks she’d left on him would show up, but they’d be under his clothes. He’d have to be more careful with her next time.
And there definitely would be a next time.
It was the best sex of his life, like being in bed with a dozen different women. Her quicksilver changes of mood, of character—virgin to vixen—her sensuous movements and beautiful body, the laughter in her dark eyes, the danger. She’d sung for him just as he’d fantasized. “Habanera.” He had the uneasy feeling that she’d spoiled him for other women. Which was unfair. How could any woman compete with a trained actress of Olivia’s stature? But Olivia hadn’t seemed to be performing. Instead, he had the distinct feeling she’d shown him exactly who she was.
“Who’s your favorite player, Thad? Other than yourself?”
It took supreme effort to bring his attention back to the effusive, overly cologned male owner of a chain of Illinois jewelry stores sitting next to him and chomping on filet mignon.
Thad had several prepared answers to this question, but since this was Chicago, only one would do. “Gotta be Walter Payton.” Depending on where he was, he sometimes went with Jerry Rice or Reggie White. Maybe Dick Butkus. He tended to stay away from quarterbacks. How would he compare the great Stars QBs—Bonner, Tucker, Robillard, and Coop—against guys like Montana, Brady, Young, and Manning? Maybe—one day—Clint Garrett. Those kinds of comparisons messed with his head.