Back in the Game: A Stardust, Texas Novel (36 page)

“We’ll see.”

“See about what?”

“We’ll have to keep an eye on your stamina, and if we plan on lasting until dawn, we
have
to pace ourselves.”

“Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

“Close your eyes,” he said.

She didn’t question him. Simply obeyed. He was the master lover, and she the love slave. He was the sultan, and she his willing concubine. He rubbed Aladdin’s lamp and she was the genie. His wish was her command.

“Aladdin’s lamp,” she said.

“What?”

“Another name for Mr. Johnson. Because when you rub it, magic comes out.”

“You gotta stop making me laugh, Breezy. If we never start making love, we won’t be able to keep at it until dawn.”

“I thought Aladdin’s lamp was clever.”

“Too clever for your own good. Close your eyes.”

Slowly, she lowered her eyelids. Felt the silky scarf touch her face. His fingers tied a knot in the material behind her head, making a blindfold of it.

“But I want to see you,” she protested.

“First,” he said, “you feel.”

She gulped. What did he mean by that?

He took her hand in his, and guided her to Not-So-Little Rowdy. Her fingers grazed flesh that was at once brick firm and velvety soft. She had no idea a penis could feel so plush, and yet at the same time so hard.

“You . . .” she whispered, her fingers breaking free from his hand to go exploring on their own. “You.”

“Me,” he whispered back, his warm mouth against her ear again.

The shape of him intrigued her. More contrasts—straight but rounded, smooth yet ridged.

He was right. Her sense of touch was far more acute with the blindfold on.

She slipped her hand down to cup the heavy sacs beneath his shaft.

“Easy there, sweetheart.” His deep voice vibrated through her. “The boys are sensitive. They appreciate a light touch.”

She explored him for the longest. Taking her time. Making him groan. She loved it.

“If you want to last until dawn, you’re going to have to stop touching me now.” He manacled her wrist, and she let go.

She reached for the blindfold.

“No,” he said. “Leave it on for now.”

It felt weird to touch him, taste him, hear him, and smell him, but be unable to see him.

His lips touched her bare breasts, and she let out a cry. How sweet, the hot suction of his mouth. While his mouth played with her nipples, his hand slid down her belly. Her body went rigid, anticipating. Slowly, he stroked over her hip, the warmth of his caress crept under her skin, burned a fever through her.

Tenderly, he touched the warm, moist spot between her thighs and she came undone. His mouth was hot on her shoulder, her collarbone, her breasts, her belly. Everywhere. He was everywhere.

“Ooh, ooh.”

“You like that, huh?” Pride tinged his rich, deep voice. Using his finger, he played her as if her body was a finely crafted instrument, and he was a virtuoso.

He was all hands, and lips, and tongue, and teeth. He smelled of earth, and sky—solid, infinite, abundant. His strong masculine fingers combed through the tuft of hair at the apex of her thighs.

“Are you disappointed that I don’t wax there?”

“I didn’t expect you to.”

“A lot of women my age do.”

“You’re not them,” he said. “And I like you just the way you are.”

His kiss silenced her, and she drank from his lips, quenched and nourished. He tortured her with his caress, investigating her with his fingers. Touching her in places that made her cry out with sheer joy.

She arched her back, pushed into his hand. He murmured happy noises. She parted her thighs, eager for his exploration. Her body was slick, hot, ready for the finger he slipped gently inside her. He moved his hand rhythmically, taking her back to the delicious place where his mouth had taken her before.

Behind the scarf, colors popped on the backs of her eyelids. She could smell them. Red was the fragrance of bricks and cinnamon—spicy, dusty, fertile scent. Green smelled of limeade, the pond water they’d skinny-dipped in. Yellow gave off the aroma of butter, and sun, beachy and hot. The more he touched, the more colors exploded, the more scents she smelled. Pink bubblegum. Blue smelled of backyard pools. Brown smelled of creosote. Black stoked the fragrance of patent leather.

His fingers drove her to the top of the mountain, and once she got there, she looked into the abyss, and discovered there was only one way down—over the mountain and into the void. She let go. Let him take command.

She hung suspended on the peak. A roller-coaster ride stopped in the middle of a segment—dangling, waiting, frustrated that she was going to lose the sensation before she crested.

And then . . .

Chaos—neon neurons firing over pathways, electrical impulses sparking up nerve centers, chemical signals racing headlong to oblivion. Any, and all, primal desires clamoring for connection.

She fell, fast and long. A thin keen broke from her lips, and she was gone.

CHAPTER
26

When you’re in a slump, it’s almost as if you

look out at the field and it’s one big glove.

—
V
ANCE
L
AW

Rowdy made waffles at dawn, and they ate breakfast in bed, dribbling syrup on each other in interesting places and licking it off.

“These are delicious,” she declared, waving her fork around as sunlight peeked in through the partially open blinds. “I’m glad I picked a lover who can cook. No runs to IHOP at six in the morning.”

“You’re delicious,” he said, dipping his pinky in the syrup on his plate, dabbling it behind her ear, and proceeding to kiss it off. “Mmm.”

“That’s not me! That’s the maple syrup.”

He laughed. “You’re so much fun.”

“So are you.”

He chucked her under the chin. “Are we going to spend the day in bed together?”

“I’ve been holding my breath.”

He took the plates away, stacked them on the bedside table, and dragged her down under the covers. He swept his mouth along her naked bare belly, delighted to her laughter, a sweet-pitched sound of glee. He was light-headed, dizzy with the taste of her on his tongue, and dazzled that he was her first lover. He’d never been with a virgin before. It was as novel for him as it was for her. With Breeanne, he felt fresh and new again. His first time on the mound as a professional pitcher, he felt the same, felt . . .

Invincible.

He reached for another condom, flipped her over onto all fours.

“Ooh, doggy style. Fun!”

Her innocent enthusiasm was catching, and he had to think of baseball scores so he could keep things slow and gentle. While things were still new for her, she needed it this way. Later, he would teach her just how pleasurable her body could be.

For hours, they dozed, and made love. Talked, and made loved. Ate, and made love.

They took a bath together in the claw-foot bathtub and then took their time drying each other off. Breeanne bemoaned the fact that she hadn’t polished her nails for him. He found a bottle of red nail polish someone had left behind and coaxed her into letting him paint her toes. Kneeling on the bathroom floor while she propped her foot on the side of the claw and slowly dragging polish over her nails was one of the most erotic things he’d ever done in his life.

Mischievous Breeanne insisted on painting his toenails to match hers. And he went along with it because it made her so happy. Giggling, she lined her feet up beside his and took a picture on her smart phone, and when she said, “This is so going on Facebook,” he didn’t protest.

Obligingly, she then removed the polish from his nails, and he noticed she didn’t ask why he had women’s nail polish at his house. He was glad of that. He didn’t want to talk about the other women he’d been with.

Not with her.

Not for today.

Not ever.

In fact, he had an immediate impulse to grab up a trashcan and run through the house throwing away everything that belonged to other women.

He carried her back to bed, curled his body around hers, pulled her up snug against him, and rested his nose in her hair, her delicate scent turning him inside out. He liked this. Liked being with her.

They cuddled, spooning together. Sometime in the early evening, he woke from a nap to see her lying with her hands stacked beneath her cheek, staring at him. He smiled and reached for her, but she didn’t smile back and resisted when he tried to draw her closer.

“What is it?” he asked. What had he done to displease her? A strand of hair had fallen across her cheek, and when he moved to brush it away, he was alarmed to find his hand was shaking. “Breeanne?”

She sat, the sheet falling away from her, revealing her lovely breast marked by scars. He wanted to press his lips to those scars, kiss away her pain, but she pulled the sheet up to her neck and leveled him a look so mournful he was instantly sick to his stomach.

“What is it?” Had she thought about what he’d told her last night and decided she simply couldn’t be with a cheater?

“Rowdy,” she said after a long moment when he stopped breathing. “I’ve got something I need to tell you, but I’m afraid it might scare you away.”

If any other woman had said something like that, he’d already have one leg in his pants, hopping out the door. But Breeanne was different. He couldn’t imagine anything she could possibly say that would scare him off.

He plumped his pillow against the headboard and sat up beside her. He took her hand in his. She was trembling too. Now
that
did scare him. “What wrong, sweetheart?”

“It’s about the cheetah scarf.”

“What about it?”

“You know how only you and I can feel that it’s soft?”

“Yeah.” He ran his thumb over her knuckles. Her skin was as soft as the scarf.

“There’s more to it than that.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, but okay.”

“I don’t want you to think that I believe this story, or anything, but seeing as how this is Stardust, it’s going to get out sooner or later. And I’d rather it come from me.”

He didn’t know what to think. “What story?”

She told him how she’d come to find the scarf in an old hope chest. About the odd old woman she’d bought the chest from. About the prophecy written on the chest. About the wish she’d made for her writing career and how it had come true. Then she told him about the prophecy that was carved into the box that the scarf had come in.

“ ‘One soft touch identifies the other, and they are at last made whole,’ ” she quoted. “My sisters think it means that if two people feel the same thing they’re soul mates, but that’s silly. Right?”

Her voice went up on a hopeful note, as if the last thing she wanted was for him to confirm that the quote was indeed silly.

He didn’t look at her, just tightened his grip on her hand and kept rubbing her knuckles, a storm of emotions whizzing through him. If any other woman on the face of the earth had told him this strange story about a soul mate–detecting scarf, he would have been long gone. But this was Breeanne and that made all the difference.

“It’s weird though, isn’t it, that the scarf is cheetah and cheetah is your favorite animal print. It seems almost—” She broke off.

Finally, he glanced over at her. She tilted her head so that her hair fell into her eyes and she could study him from underneath a camouflage of fringe. God, she was cute as hell.

“Fated,” he finished for her, thinking of the day he’d first caught sight of her and those cheetah panties.

Her cheeks pinked. “It’s not only superstitious, but pretty nuts to believe that.”

“You don’t think we’re fated, Breezy?” he whispered, leaning in toward her, surprised by how panicky he felt at the thought that maybe confessing his secret shame to her had changed the way she looked at him.

Her eyes widened as if he’d asked a trick question and he suddenly realized he didn’t want her to answer that in case the answer was no.

That’s when he knew that he truly wanted more. And he’d been wanting it for a long time, but admitting it felt too much like walking off a cliff.

Until now.

Until Breeanne.

His father had loved his mother, and he had loved his children, but as he lay dying, he regretted getting married and having four kids so young. He never had the time or money or health to enjoy life. Rowdy had clutched that lesson to his heart, and held on tight. He’d strived to emulate his uncle Mick, who was still single at fifty.

But it didn’t have to be an either/or extreme. He could have a balanced life. He had money. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He could have a substantial future beyond baseball. He could be a real part of a community. Volunteer. Coach Little League. He had had his day in the sun and that was all right. He had played in the major leagues for over a decade. How many people could say that? He had a legacy, but what good was it if he had no one to share it with? It wasn’t until he met Breeanne that he fully understood how empty his life had become. He’d dated free-spirited women who didn’t want strings attached any more than he did. Women like Laila.

An old childhood fear had kept him believing that if he stopped moving, stopped having fun, stopped long enough to let himself feel anything deeper than physical pleasure, he’d end up like his father. Trapped in a life he didn’t want to be in, and couldn’t get out of.

It seemed obvious now. Why hadn’t he seen it before? Warwick tried to tell him, but he simply hadn’t listened.

Breeanne.

She was the one who’d gotten through to him. His last good hope. A lifeline. How stupid would he be not to grab hold before he ended up like his uncle Mick, a bloated, middle-aged party boy trying hard to prove he wasn’t lonely.

Around Breeanne, he felt good in a different kind of way. A way that didn’t leave him hungover, or with buyer’s remorse for a hotshot toy he’d blown money on, or sheepishly sneaking out of a woman’s apartment in the middle of the afternoon.