Fat Girl (47 page)

When he lifts my leg high onto his hip and quietly rocks into me, I still him with a cry.

“Dee?”

“Don’t stop,” I whisper against his lips, tasting my tears. “It’s perfect.”

I rise to peak on a long shimmering wave, floating softly through it, breathing his name.

And the sound of him breathing mine as he trembles with me in stunning reflection lays to rest any lingering doubts about the strength of his desire and the depth of his love.

WAKING TO DEE CURLED UP next to me puts a giant smile on my face. Her eyelashes rest on her cheeks like silk fringe. The sheet is pulled up to her waist, and at some point she must have gotten back into her black nightie, as it now covers the body she had so generously given me time and time again.

A stream of sunlight filters through the part in the drapes, and her bedroom carries the musky scent of bonding, all-consuming, insatiable sex. I couldn’t get enough of her.

Gazing at Dee, all round and soft, her nipples poking against her barely-there lace cups, I feel damn lucky that this amazing woman, with her juicy curves, passionate soul, and big heart is all mine.

My desire swells and I’m tempted to flip back the sheet and slip inside her warm body. But I didn’t let her get any solid sleep until four hours ago. So I press a kiss to her shoulder and roll out of bed to pad quietly into the bathroom. Stepping inside the claw-foot tub, I pull the curtain around me and turn on the spray, although I’m loath to wash her from my skin.

Afterward, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt with Northside Lions stenciled in navy on the back, I head to the kitchen. Her fridge and cupboards are nearly empty. Maybe I caught her before grocery shopping. I hope. I’d hate to think of Dee depriving herself. She ate little of her lobster yesterday evening, but I assumed that was a combination of nerves and excitement.

Choosing from the meager selection, I scramble and nuke three eggs. While washing them down with a glass of juice, I turn on my phone. There are several missed calls and text messages from Mackie about ESPN. Ignoring them, I instead Google my name. Normally, I couldn’t care less what the media report about me, but I have Dee to think about now.

A dozen celebrity sighting headlines pop up. The first is from the
Chicago Tribune
online entertainment news. I click the link and find a photo of me exiting the restaurant.

Micah Peters, former Chicago Bulls shooting guard, was spotted leaving a private party at the Lemon Lounge after midnight. Business mogul Theodore Townsen and his wife, Miranda, hosted the event to celebrate the thirty-first birthday of their daughter, Alexandra Townsen.

Peters, dapper in a gray suit tailored to fit, was absent his usual supermodel accessory. When queried about his romantic status,
People
magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive flashed his trademark smile but declined comment.

I shake my head, wondering why people give a shit what I was wearing or who was or wasn’t on my arm. After checking out several other sites and finding more of the same, I exhale a breath of relief that Lexie had successfully managed to contain any leak about Dee. I didn’t welcome seeing that wide-eyed look of panic on her face again.

Just as I return the phone to my side clip, I hear the light shuffle of footsteps and look up. Dee comes to a stop at the entranceway of the kitchen. Her hair falls in a cascade of tangled curls around her face, and she’s wearing my dress shirt from last night over her silk gown. It covers her hands and reaches to the middle of her thighs. The buttons are misaligned, causing the shirt to hang off one shoulder, revealing a thin black strap and soft, golden skin. My gaze travels down her plump, shapely legs to her red-painted toes, cold and curled into the floor. Then back up past the lush cleavage to her rosy lips and sleepy eyes.

In two long strides, I reach her, gather her in my arms, and kiss her. Dee’s mouth is moist and minty; her body supple and warm.

“Mornin’, beautiful.”

She treats me to a lazy, crooked smile. “I think that’s my line. You’ve at least showered.”

“I like smelling me on you.” I nuzzle against her neck and rub my jaw against her skin.

“You didn’t shave.”

I lift my head. “Too scratchy?”

“Nope. Sexy.”

“If beards turn you on, I can grow a full one.”

“They don’t as a general rule.” She nips my bristled chin. “But you do.”

“Feeling’s mutual.” My hands are already up inside the shirttail and all over her upper thighs and butt, kneading her through the slinky material, wanting her with every savage beat of my heart. In my mind, I bend Dee over the counter, and pay homage to her round, curvy ass.

“What?” she asks when a groan leaves my mouth.

“I’m having a vivid fantasy.”

A soft pink hue colors her cheeks. I find it adorable as hell that despite her boldness the night before, I can still make her blush.

“Another fantasy,” she says warily. “I hope I can live up to them.”

“Baby, you keep surpassing each and every one.” I squeeze her once more and then reluctantly move my hands to her waist. I have less than five minutes. Not nearly enough time for what I have in mind. “So what are your plans for today?”

Her hands circle my nape and the tips of her fingers sneak up into my hair, massaging my scalp, not helping to calm my desire at all.

“I was planning on going to the flea market in Darlington. They have an antiques shop there. I’m looking for one of those roller desks for my home office.”

Claw-foot tub, roller desk…my big-city career woman has an old fashioned streak. “Wait for me and I’ll go with you.”

“Really?” she says in a delighted tone. Then she says cautiously, “Are you sure that’s a good idea? It’s a busy place on Saturdays.”

“I’ll wear my cap and shades. No problem,” I assure her, desperate to show Dee we can have a normal relationship without my celebrity getting in the way. “I’ll be back here around twelve thirty. I’ll bring some lunch with me, and then we can head over to Darlington. And tonight I’ll take you to dinner. Anywhere you want to go.”

“I’d prefer to stay in and cook something for you.”

“Mm…” I murmur, that idea appealing to me even more and slide my lips to the sensitive patch beneath her ear. “Will you cook for me wearing nothing but high heels?”

She laughs breathlessly. “Let me guess…another fantasy.”

“You’re catching on.”

THE BEST THING ABOUT COACHING Dwayde and the kids is their joy for the sport. With Malcolm Peters, basketball was all pressure and no play.

This being the final practice before their game against Monroe, I put them through the paces with drills and mental preparation. It’s not only about winning. It’s just as important for them to feel confident in their ability to put their best performance on the floor and have fun doing it.

But although I should be giving the team my best, I’m preoccupied and distracted. Even as I call out the passing patterns, Dee keeps sidling up sweetly against my thoughts, making me grin at something she said or did or at how sexy she looked this morning. I want to hold her again, talk to her, kiss her, make love to her, satisfy every damn one of my fantasies, and create some new ones of our own.

Eager to get back to Dee, when practice is over I congratulate the team on their great effort, but I’m already slipping on my cap and shades for a quick exit. Victor, who was watching the last half from the bench, saunters over as the ten boys, sharing a round of high fives and chest bumps, head for the locker room.

“Good practice,” he says.

“Yeah. They’re stoked and ready for Friday.” I shrug on my jacket.

His eyebrows arch. “Hurrying off to see Dee?”

I laugh at my transparency. “Yep.”

“Last night and again today…that explains all the goofy grins,” he ribs me. “So I take it you’re not coming over later to watch the game?”

Since Dwayde’s grandparents came on the scene, I’ve spent most evenings and weekends at Victor’s. I try to assuage my conscience by telling myself Dwayde is safe and in good spirits…the Franklins haven’t contacted him again…there’s no news for now. But I also know we still need to get Dwayde to open up, and the more time I spend with him, the better the chances of that happening. I think of Dee and feel the pull in both directions.

“Bros before bras, my ass,” Victors says, reading my dilemma, but his comment is delivered with a smile. He claps my shoulder. “We’ll see you tomorrow at Maria’s. Dwayde’s good. Go make my sister happy, man. You both deserve it.”

After I wave Dwayde and Victor off I nod to Stiles, confirming that he’s finished for the day. Then I dial Mort’s and place my order. At 11:30 I arrive ahead of the lunch crowd. Going incognito, I receive a few curious stares but no recognition. The young hostess harmlessly flirts with me as she apologizes for the delay and ushers me over to a table, where I can wait while my order is being packed.

No sooner have I taken a seat than the door opens, bringing in a blustery autumn breeze and Paul O’Malley. Typically disheveled, he looks out of place in the upscale market-deli. His windblown comb-over sticks up, as though he’s just been zapped by an electric prod. His beige sweater has a coffee stain down the button placket, and his wrinkled slacks give the appearance of being slept in.

I haven’t seen him since I busted his lip and knocked him flat on his ass. But it’s no coincidence that he’s here at the same time that I am. “Stalking me, O’Malley?”

“Thought I might buy you a conciliatory beer.”

“No, thanks.”

“Oh, that’s right,” he says and snaps his fingers. Then with a grating smirk that tells me there’s nothing conciliatory about this meeting, he braces his palms on the table and leans in. “I seem to recall you had a problem with the bottle during college.”

“What do you want, O’Malley?”

“To make a deal.” He waits a beat and when I don’t so much as nibble, he says, “I’ll forget about filing a lawsuit against you in exchange for an exclusive.”

I laugh. “What exclusive? There’s no story here.”

“Oh, come off it, Peters.” He angles his head to try to get a read on me through my opaque lens. “You quit the NBA at the height of your career and then invest a load of cash into building Papa’s Kids in honor of Cayo Torres. Meanwhile, you rarely mention your old man, and he’s just as tight-lipped about your lack of relationship as you are. After all your fame, you suddenly just fade into the background. And you expect me to believe there’s no story here.”