Back in the Game: A Stardust, Texas Novel (26 page)

He shrugged, and looked down again at the bulge straining his zipper.

“Oh,” she said, her eyes widening. “
Oh.
You—”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “I do.”

“Well.” Her shoulders straightened. “Now you don’t have to go it alone. I’m right here in front of you.”

“I can see that.” He raked his gaze over her. She dropped the pillow to her lap and her breasts were moving up and down in that tight little bustier every time she breathed. “But this ain’t happenin’.”

She fixed her eyes on his. “Why not?”

He held her stare, tossed the baseball from palm to palm now instead of up and down. Smacking it against his skin. Back and forth, harder, faster, building an escalating rhythm. “You’re my ghostwriter. You know too much about me.”

“Ah, you’re afraid I’ll spill your deep, dark secrets.”

She didn’t know his deep dark secrets, but he wasn’t going to bring that up. “I don’t do long-term. Not romantically. Not deeply. Not for the long haul, and you’re a long-haul kind of woman.”

She slipped her legs off the bed, stood up. The pillow fell to the floor. He tried not to stare. Failed.

“You’re assuming,” she said. “And that makes an ass out of you and me.”

“Look, if I take your virginity you’ll imprint with me like a baby duck. I can’t have you following me around all starry-eyed and moony.”

“That’s pretty egotistical of you. Thinking you’re so irresistible that I’d lose my head over sleeping with you.”

“Hey, it’s happened before.”

“It must be such a burden carrying around the weight of your ego.”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Because you care so much about me?”

“I like you. You’re fun to be with.”

“So what’s the problem?” She came toward him, acting bold, but he saw that her hand was trembling.

“Your first time should be with someone you’re in love with.”

“Were you in love with the woman who took your virginity?” She took another step.

He couldn’t stop tossing the damn baseball.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
“No.”

“Then why do you think I have to be?”

“It’s different. You’re a woman.”

“The old double standard, huh?”

“Women
are
different. Sex means something to women.”

“And it doesn’t mean anything to men?”

“Sex means sex. Love is love. You can have sex without love and love without sex.”

“And you don’t think I understand that?”

“I don’t know if a virgin can separate the two.”

“Why don’t you let this virgin decide for herself?” She was toe to toe with him now and almost eye to eye in those stilettos.

“You deserve better. I don’t want to use you.”

She rolled her eyes. “If you start singing ‘Baby, Don’t Get Hooked on Me,’ I’m seriously going to belt you.”

“I’m not much of a singer.”

“Good thing.” She touched his arm.

He dropped the ball. It hit the floor with a thump and rolled under the bed.

They stared into each other’s eyes, breathed the same air so charged with sexual tension it smelled like ozone.

She plastered her palm against his chest.

He was struck by her bravery, and that was the only thing that kept him from walking away.

“I don’t want love from you,” she said.

He gulped. Twice. “You’re sure?”

“I want action and excitement. I want to know what I’ve been missing, and from all the stories you’ve been telling me, I know you’re the man for the job.”

“You’re sure?”

“You’re repeating yourself.”

“I know.”

“I want my first time to be wild and crazy and uninhibited. When you’re in love, you’re too busy worrying about the other person. I don’t want to have to worry about what you want or feel or think. I just want you to make me feel good.” She slipped her arms around his neck, leaned in close. “Got it?”

When had his sweet kitten turned into a tiger? Her plan sounded perfect. Right up his alley. Why did it feel so wrong?

“I want you to teach me how to have mind-blowing sex. There’s only so much you can learn from a book. I’m ready for a hands-on—and I do mean hands-on—tutor.”

He shook his head. “I’m no teacher.”

“But you
are
a good lover.” She pressed her lips to his, wriggled her hot little body against him.

She smelled of chocolate-covered strawberries and wine. Ah, she was tipsy. That explained why she was so ballsy. Not that he minded. Normally, he would approve of a woman who asked for what she needed, but not her. Not now.

Her eyes held a bright sheen and she was wobbly on those heels that made her legs look like those of a runway model. He ached to taste those tipsy lips, taste the wine on her tongue. He groaned. Even the strongest man had his breaking point, and Rowdy did not usually deny himself pleasures of the flesh. But if he kissed her now, he was done for.

Gently, he unhooked her arms from around his neck. “Look,” he said, desperately searching for something to throw her off. “You might enjoy yourself, but what about me? Novices aren’t much fun.”

Her breathing stilled. The uncertainty returned to her eyes and he felt like a shitheel.

“But . . . but . . . I want you.”

“The Rolling Stones said it best. You can’t always get what you want, sweetheart.”

Her eyebrows dipped into a frown and her body stiffened. “Dammit, it’s not fair.” She swatted his shoulder. “I’ve been waiting twenty-five years to have sex and I’m alone in a big fancy house with a sizzling hot major league baseball pitcher with a playboy reputation. I’m dressed in sexy cheetah print, your favorite, and I’m not interested in a long-term relationship and I still can’t get laid? What’s wrong with me?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Then do me!”

“Breeanne, I can’t.”

“Bullshit.” She dropped to the floor, tears smearing the smoky-eyed makeup she’d spent so much time on.

It killed him to see her so torn up. “Are you okay?”

She folded her arms over her chest, and started up at him with raccoon eyes. “Admit the truth. You don’t want
me
. I’m too skinny, and scarred and I’m not pretty enough for you. That’s it, isn’t it?”

He reached down a hand to help her to her feet. “Bullshit. You’re perfect.”

“You don’t have to lie. I know what I look like.”

“You wanna know the real truth?” he growled.

Gingerly, she placed her palm in his hand and allowed him to tug her up, her stare distrustful. “Yes.”

“Your passion scares the hell out of me.”

CHAPTER
19

Things could be worse. Suppose your errors

were counted and published every day,

like those of a baseball player.

—
A
UTHOR
U
NKNOWN

“It does?” That brightened her for a moment.

“Scares the pants right off of me.”

“Oh goody. I’ll help you get out of them.” She reached up for his waistband.

He hopped back.

“If the biggest womanizer in the world won’t have sex with me, who will?” she wailed. “Who will?”

“First of all, I’m not the biggest womanizer in the world.”

“Yes you are. I’m your autobiographer. I should know.”

“I might have overexaggerated my number a tiny bit.” He measured off an inch with his thumb and forefinger.

“How much?”

“Sixty percent.”

He could see her doing the math in her head. “That’s still a lot,” she said.

“I’ve had a good time, okay. But I’m not a heartbreaker. I don’t go around breaking hearts.”

“Aha!” she said, raising an index finger. “Caught you in a bald-faced lie.”

“What?”

“You said sex means something to women. If sex means something to women, then you were breaking those women’s hearts. Ergo you’re a liar.”

“Ergo?”

“It’s a word, look it up.”

“The women I’ve been with know it’s just fun. I make that clear up front. Just like I have with you.”

“That’s all I want. Fun. A good time. Why does everyone get to have fun except me?”

“You wanna have fun?”

“Yes! That’s what I’ve been saying all along. Do me!” She started undoing the stays of her bustier, but her fingers got tangled in the laces and she hiccupped.

“How long were you waiting for me?”

“Dunno. An hour? Maybe longer.”

“And how much wine did you have?”

“I’m not the least bit drunk if that’s what you’re insin . . . insin . . .” She hiccupped again, slapped a palm over her mouth.

“You’re tipsy. You wouldn’t be doing this if you weren’t at least a little tipsy.”

“Like you know me so well.”

“I’ve spent as much time with you as you have with me.”

“Yes, but you’re always doing all the talking.” She was inching her back up the wall, her boobs jiggling beneath the loose ribbons of those stays.

He couldn’t stop staring. He wanted her so damn badly. His body was harder than it had ever been, and yes, that was counting his super horny teenage years.

“You’re driving me crazy, you know that?” she said. “Absolutely batshit crazy.”

Rowdy gulped. She was driving
him
batshit crazy. Why did he want her so damn much, and why was he so fascinated by her tits? They were no bigger than peaches, but they were round and high and firm and he found himself craving peach cobbler something fierce.

She folded her arms over her chest. “You think I’m too small.”

“Says who?”

“You told me about all those big-breasted women who waited for you outside the locker room.”

“Don’t worry about it, Breezy. More than a mouthful is a waste anyway.”

“I bet one of these would fit in your mouth with room to spare.” She unfolded her arms, gave him a good look.

He tilted his head, eyed those sweet gems. Oh man, it was hotter than a Swedish sauna in here. “There would be no room to spare.”

“We could try it and see.”

“Sweetheart, you’ve had too much to drink to try anything.”

“One measly little glass.” She hiccupped a third time. “Okay, maybe two.”

“Let’s get you to bed.” He peeled back the covers.

“Finally! Now we’re talking.” She rushed over.

“We’re getting
you
to bed. I’m not coming with you.”

“It’s the scars, isn’t it? That’s the turn-off. Not only are my boobs tiny, they look like railroad tracks from all the surgeries.”

“It’s not the scars. Besides, I grew up by the railroad tracks. They’re home. I like railroad tracks, remember?”

She held her arms wide. “So come home.”

God, how he wanted to just let it happen. He wanted to rip that flimsy getup off her body and explore every inch of her with his tongue.

“Please,” she whimpered.

He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t be the one to take her virginity when she was in this condition, but he could show her a good time, as long as things didn’t go too far.

Rowdy took her hands and drew her to the bed. Her heart was thumping so hard he could see the pulse at her throat fluttering. She was a heart patient. He couldn’t forget that. Too much excitement could give her a cardiac arrest.

“What now?” she whispered.

Yeah, Blanton, what now?

“Have you asked your doctor if it’s okay for you to have sex?”

“You sound like a Viagra commercial.” She lowered her voice. “Before engaging in sexual activity consult your doctor . . .”

“Stop laughing. I don’t want to be responsible for killing you.”

“You won’t kill me. I’m fine. But if you did kill me with your powerful sexual prowess . . .” She smiled, sighed, and wriggled against him. “What a way to go.”

He shouldn’t have, but he hung on to her, loving the feel of her body so close to his. Then she pulled his head down and kissed him.

It was as if someone flicked a lighter in a roomful of propane. Whoosh!

Every nerve ending in his body went up in flames.

She smelled like springtime, and new beginnings—crisp linen sheets, magnolia blossoms, a fresh coat of paint. She tasted of chocolate milk, strawberries, and Prosecco. She was dawn slipping through bedroom blinds—new, but old-fashioned, a sweet original. She made him feel things—secret longing, and remembered dreams that he’d let slip through his fingers, of being young and eager and passionate and wanting something so badly he feared dying of need.

Hoisting her off her feet, he settled her onto the bed.

She looked up from the pillow, those raccoon eyes devastating him. “Is it happening now? Is tonight the night?”

“You’ve been listening to too many Rod Stewart songs, Breezy.” He climbed onto the bed, straddling her waist, his knees on either side of the mattress.

“But are we going to make—er, have sex?” Her voice went high.

“Nervous?”

“Excited.”

“Scared?”

“Anticipatory.”

“Frightened?”

“Eager.”

He stroked her cheek with his index finger and she shuddered. “Terrified,” he whispered.

“You say potato, I say pat-tot-to.”

“Do you?”

“What?”

“Say pat-tot-to.”

“Nobody says pat-tot-to.”

“Somebody must have said it once. There’s a song about it.”

“Why are we talking instead of doing it?” she asked.

“I’m trying to prove to you that you’re not ready for this.”

“I am ready.” She hardened her stubborn little chin.

“Let’s do a little experiment and see.”

She gulped and her wide eyes doubled in size. “What kind of experiment? Sex toys? Vibrators? Nipple clamps? Ball gags?”

“Ball gags? Good Lord, woman, you need to stay off the Internet.”

“Have you ever tried it? Could be fun. If it’s something you have not tried before maybe we could do that. We could be ball gag virgins together.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, do you?”

“Nope, but don’t let that stop you from getting creative. I’m open.”

“Let’s just stick to the basics.”