bed. While the phone was ringing in her ear, two big, warm hands settled on her shoulders and started kneading, and before she could stop herself, she’d let out a low, heartfelt moan.
“You’ve got an entire rock quarry in here,” he murmured, going right for her tight, tension knots and digging in as his mouth settled on the nape of her neck.
Oh God, she was melting. “Stop. I can’t talk when you do that—”
“Then don’t.” Reaching around her, he took the phone from her fingers and hung it up.
“I was trying to get a roll-away bed.”
“Roll-aways are pieces of shit.”
“But—”
“Shhh.”
His fingers were long and strong and firm, and knew exactly where to press to turn her limbs into overcooked noodles. Unable to stop herself, she sank to the chair, closing her eyes at his soft, knowing laugh.
“I make you weak in the knees,” he said silkily.
“No, your hands make me weak in the knees.”
He laughed again. “I might be buzzed, but not too buzzed to know that you are such a liar.”
And then he pulled his hands free.
She nearly cried at the loss, but got herself together. When she turned to look at him, he was headed for the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt, which he shrugged off halfway there.
She told herself not to stare but he truly had the most glorious physique. His back was all sleek, smooth, bronzed flesh, sinew rippling as he moved—“Hey!” she said as his pants dropped. He kicked free and kept walking, in nothing but black knit boxers. “What are you doing?” she squeaked, even as her gaze soaked up the fact that he had a tan line, and that the waistband of his boxers had slipped past it, revealing a tantalizing strip of paler, smooth, tight skin. “We’re not doing this, Wade O’Riley. Do you hear me? This is all pretend, remember?”
“I remember. The question is, do you?” He sent her a cheeky grin over his shoulder.
“Put your clothes back on!”
“Taking a shower.”
And then he dropped his boxers.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus.“Don’t drown,” she murmured, watching the most excellent ass in all the land vanish behind the door. She heard the shower go on and leaned back in the chair, letting out a long, shaky breath.
She was in big trouble.
All the way around.
Wade sobered up a bit in the shower. The nice alcohol daze couldn’t stand up to the pressing thoughts bumping around in his brain like bumper cars.
Mark getting married.
His father drunk-dialing him . . .
There was also a disturbing ache in his bones, suggesting his body was damn tired, and maybe, just maybe at age thirty-two, also damn old. With Opening Day less than forty-eight hours away, that couldn’t be good, but that problem would have to get in line.
He hadn’t meant to get toasted tonight, but Mark had been so goddamned happy and over the moon, and looking at him had made Wade feel just a little envious.
Mark had a life. A real life, one that went deeper than nights out with the guys and the occasional hot woman in his bed, one that went past what ESPN had to say about his athletic prowess.
One that wasn’t defined by what he did for a living.
Feeling a little off his game, he got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his hips, and opened the bathroom door.
Complete darkness greeted him.
“Sam?” He wondered if she ever felt off herself. Probably not. She had her shit together. She was cool as ice, baby, ice, and never doubted herself.
And she sure as hell didn’t want a guy like him. Because what was it she’d said? He wasn’t keeper material. “Princess?”
“Shh. She’s sleeping.”
He padded toward the voice, tripped over something, and hit the floor. Reaching out, he realized he’d fallen over his own shoes. “Marco . . .”
“Polo,” she said on a sigh. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” He followed the voice to the small, narrow couch and stood above her, blinking through the dark. “What are you doing there?”
“Trying to sleep. You should try it.”
“Okay.” But he didn’t move. “Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“You being here with me, it’s really just pretend, right?”
“Take the bed, Wade.”
“Yeah. Just pretend,” he said, nodding. He’d known it, but he seemed to keep forgetting.
“You’re still wet. You’re dripping on me.”
“Sorry.” He crouched at her side and put out a hand, which settled on her belly. She was warm and soft and wearing something silky smooth. He bent his head and nuzzled his face against her throat. “You smell good,” he whispered. “You always smell good.”
A small, inarticulate sound escaped her, and for a beat he went still as it reverberated through him. Then he pressed his mouth to the sweet spot right beneath her ear, listening as she made the sound again.
It wasn’t annoyance, not that breathy little sigh. Nope, even drunk, he knew it was arousal. To make sure, he used his teeth this time, a light grazing over her flesh and she shivered. She moaned, too, though she did her best to suck it back in, but it was too late. “I heard that,” he said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You moaned.”
“I did not.”
God, she was so soft. He flicked his tongue at her earlobe, and then sucked it into his mouth, giving it a little nip, too, one that had her hissing in a breath as she lifted a hand, running it down his bare back as if she needed to touch him.
It did him in, and he shifted, kissing his way to the very corner of her mouth. “Admit it, Sam. You want me.”
She admitted exactly nothing, but dug her fingers into the small of his back.
“I want you,” he confessed, and nipped her jaw. “Bad enough to be getting rug burns already.”
“Then stop.”
He could. He should. But her breathing had accelerated, and beneath his hand, her abs quivered, softening for him now in a way she never did.
And he got it. “This in the dark thing, it’s right up your alley.”
“What’s all that alcohol in your brain talking about?”
He kissed her jaw, loving how she arched her neck to give him more room, and that her breathing had become the loudest thing in the room. “You like this because it’s anonymous.” He kissed her. “Nothing too deep.”
Another shaky breath escaped her and her hands finally came up to cup his face. “You’re one to talk.”
“Admit it. You want me as bad as I want you.” His mouth was so close to hers that his lips lightly brushed hers, barely touching until, with a hungry little sound, she tightened her grip, gliding her fingers into his hair, pulling his mouth down to hers.
The kiss went from sweet to wild in less than two seconds, egged on by her frustration and his own inexplicable loneliness and the way she held on to him, letting out the sexiest little murmur, as if there was nothing, absolutely nothing better than his mouth on hers.
But he had a point, and he was trying to make it. Sure the alcohol had slowed him down some, as well as the utter sexiness wrapped around him now, which went by the name of Samantha McNead—but he managed to get it together and slowly pull back.
Her mouth tried to follow his, and he groaned, his thumbs stroking over her jaw. “Just admit you’re into this little game, Princess. And then we can have our fun.”
“There is no game. This is just our job, what we both as consenting adults agreed to do.” She sat up, nearly bumping heads with him in the dark. “But I didn’t agree to this. I’m sorry, Wade, but it ends here. It has to. Our last fun took me a year to get over.” And with that shockingly revealing statement, she rose, and then he heard her flop onto the bed.
“You lose,” she muttered, and tossed him a blanket, which hit him in the face.
He sighed as he fell back onto the couch. Hard as a rock.
/>
And all alone.
Chapter 8
The tradition of professional baseball always has been agreeably free of chivalry. The rule is, “Do anything you can get away with.”
—Heywood Hale Broun
Sam woke up to the sound of rustling and squinted at the clock. One in the morning. The rustling was Wade. She could see his tall, built outline walking to the door. “What are you doing?”
“I’m hungry.”
Of course he was.
“I ordered a pizza and I hear the guy coming.”
Sure enough, a soft knock came at the door. The room service waiter handed Wade a box of pizza and Wade handed him some cash.
Sam sat up, nose wriggling at the scent of melted cheese and sauce, and, if she wasn’t mistaken, pepperoni. Her stomach rumbled. “Smells good.”
Wade switched the light on in the bathroom, which bathed the room with a soft glow. His broad shadow gleamed in the pale light, his hair rumpled from sleep. In nothing but dark blue knit boxers, he slouched on the couch, opened the box, and sank his teeth into a big piece. Moaning, he closed his eyes. “Oh, yeah.”
Sam’s mouth watered.
He took another bite and she couldn’t take it. “Um, hi.”
He looked up and took in her cream spaghetti-strapped silk nightie. His eyes darkened. “Hi.”
“You going to share?”
“If you are.”
She weighed the danger of letting him into the bed with the promise of the mouth-watering pizza. She wasn’t afraid Wade would push himself on her. Rather she was afraid she’d push herself on him. But then her stomach told her brain to shut up, and she scooted over. With a grin, he joined her, fluffing the pillows against the headboard to make them both comfortable before offering the box with an innocent smile that didn’t fool her one little bit. “You were going to share before I made room for you,” she said.
“Maybe.” He made sure that they were skin to skin as he polished off his first piece and looked at her. “Hope you haven’t forgotten that you owe me.”
“For . . .?”
“Coaching you at the game.”
“Let me guess,” she said dryly. “Monkey sex?”
He arched a brow. “Is that on the table?”
His boxers had slid disturbingly low on his hips. His body was perfection, hard and deliciously warm, and she wanted it on hers, pushing her down into the mattress, sinking into her . . . “No.”
“Something else then.”
“What?” she asked warily.
“Truth or dare.”
A game? “Truth,” she said, thinking she’d gotten off easy.
“Atlanta. The elevator. Just an alcohol-induced fuck, or more?”
She set down her pizza. Okay, maybe not so easy. Wade nudged her with his arm and she met his gaze. “Truth,” he reminded her softly.
“More,” she said, just as softly. “But I really wanted it to be just an alcohol-induced fuck.”
He absorbed that. “Did it really take you all year to get over it?”
“That’s two questions.” She reached for her slice again, licking cheese off her finger. “My turn. Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” he said, eyes locked on her mouth.
“Why did you ask me that?”
He paused and met her gaze. “I don’t know.”
She gave him a long look, but decided he wasn’t being evasive, he either honestly didn’t know or couldn’t put words to his need to know.
“Truth or dare?” he asked.
“Truth.”
“You could have any guy you crooked your little finger at, but you hold yourself back. Why?”
“I don’t know,” she said, giving him a taste of his own medicine.
He wasn’t as accepting as she’d been. “Maybe you’re afraid.”
“Of what?”
“You tell me. You grew up stifled by alpha males. I didn’t think you were afraid of anything.”
She paused at that shockingly accurate and insightful statement. “Maybe I’m happy to be my own woman. Maybe I don’t want to lose myself again.” She broke off, a little unnerved at what had come out of her mouth. “Okay, that sounded—”
“Honest.” He took her hand and pressed his mouth to her palm. “One of the most honest things I’ve ever heard you say.”
Pulling her hand free, she took another bite of pizza and chewed on it.
“The right man won’t hold you back, Sam.”
“Truth or dare?” she asked, needing a subject change.
“Truth.”
“Your most embarrassing moment.”
He winced and she laughed. “That bad?”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment as he inhaled another piece of pizza. “Would you buy the I-don’t-know excuse again?”
“No.”
He sighed.
“It can’t be that bad.”
He met her gaze. “It’s you thinking I slept with Tia.”
She gaped at him, shocked to her core that he would even give this a second thought. It was nearly as revealing about him as what she’d admitted only a moment before about never wanting to lose herself in another man again.
“You’ve slept with half the women in Santa Barbara county, why would that bother you?”
“Because I haven’t slept with anyone in months.” He paused. “And months.”
She gave him a get-real look. “There were pictures of you with Tia, Wade.”
“Last month we had a three-day break in the middle of spring training. I flew home from Arizona and spent the first day sleeping on my beach. My private beach. The only thing I can figure is that she found me there, dead to the world, and posed next to me, taking the shots herself.” He hesitated. “I haven’t slept with anyone since you, Sam. Truth or dare.”
“Dare,” she whispered around the bombshell he’d just dropped, not trusting herself with another intimate question. She braced for the dare to be something outrageously sexual. She had no idea how she’d get out of it.