Field of Pleasure (7 page)

His heart started to jackhammer at the sight of her holding the food out for him to sample. Jared sensed the moment when she seemed to realize what she'd offered. Her eyes rounded and she began to pull her hand away, but he caught her wrist and pulled it closer. His eyes
locked with hers, he closed his mouth around her fingers, dragging his teeth along her skin ever so slightly. With deliberate slowness, Jared drew each of her fingers into his mouth, licking a drop of sauce from her knuckle, swallowing the salty flavor of her skin.

“This sure beats an overpriced steak,” he said.

“I'm happy you like it.” The words rushed out of her mouth on a shallow breath.

Something told him he was pushing it, but Jared blocked the thought as he scooped up couscous and dipped it in several sauces. He held it out to her.

“Your turn.”

Chyna hesitated a moment before leaning forward and sucking the food from his fingers.

The arousal he'd been fighting all night burst to life within his pants. Desire, potent and raw, pulsated throughout every cell in his body.

Jared squelched a groan as Chyna drew her mouth from his fingers, but he couldn't help the swift breath that escaped when she licked her lips. It took every ounce of control he possessed to stop himself from toppling the table over and capturing that delicately pink tongue.

“Thank you,” she said. “That was better than I'd imagined.”

It was fifteen hundred and eighty times better than he'd imagined, and that was just her mouth on his fingers. He couldn't imagine what would happen when he finally tasted that mouth with his own.

He shut his eyes for a moment, visualizing sheep in a meadow. When that didn't work to taper the erection trying to make a break for it behind his fly he tried counting back from fifty.

Chyna held up the cabernet. “Would you like more wine?”

He was seconds from bursting through his pants and she was offering wine? Forget the wine. Why wasn't she offering to swipe the food from the table and drape herself across it?

“I'm good,” Jared managed to get out, though that was the understatement of the year. He was more than good. Despite their rough start at the first restaurant, tonight had been damn near perfect.

“Tell me more about the training you guys are doing at the practice facility,” she said with a nonchalance that told Jared she had no idea of the state she'd put him in when she'd closed her lips around his fingers.

“Do you really want to talk about football?” he asked. “Why don't you finish telling me the story you started in the car about how you and your friend Liani first met? Sounds like that was some fight.”

She rolled her eyes. “I'd hardly call it a fight. Liani didn't stand a chance. By the time we met I had been through five years of public school. She was no match for me.”

“Why did she pick a fight with you?” Jared chuckled.

“Because I upstaged her at our first dance recital. She had been the best dancer at Miss Cecilia's Dance Academy until I showed up. She hated me. But all it took was one butt whipping to straighten her out.”

“From what I see Liani looks pretty tough. I think you got off lucky.”

“Yeah, right,” Chyna huffed. She gestured to her face. “Don't let this sweet smile fool you. I can hold my own.”

Lifting one hand, he lightly fingered a loose tendril of silky brown hair that rested against her cheek. “That sweet smile does all sorts of things to me. It's one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen.”

A pink hue blossomed on her creamy skin, and Jared
instantly started thinking of other ways to make her blush.

The conversation floated from her rocky start with her best friend, to which of the players kept the dirtiest locker area, to an upcoming ballet performance at Lincoln Center. Jared would rather drive rusty nails through his fingers before suffering through the ballet, but one look at the way Chyna's eyes lit up while she talked about it and he knew the first thing he'd do tomorrow was find tickets.

He didn't realize how long they'd been sitting until the attendant came to their table to tell them the restaurant would be closing in fifteen minutes. He checked his watch. It was a quarter to midnight.

“Where did the last two hours go?” Chyna asked.

“I'm not sure. I don't think either of us was too concerned with the time.”

“No.” She smiled. She averted her face, reaching for the small handbag she'd carried in, but Jared didn't miss the blush that had returned to her cheeks.

He braced his hands on the floor, hoping to God that his hyperaware body didn't betray him when he stood. He'd managed to calm himself down, but his control was tentative at best. One lick of her lips and he would be hard as concrete again.

He steadied himself on his feet and was able to help Chyna from the floor.

“Oh,” she groaned. “I've been sitting here for way too long. I don't care how good a shape you're in, the human body isn't designed to stay in one position for an extended period of time.”

Jared bit back the comment that nearly slipped out. If Samantha had made that same remark he would have
countered with a suggestive reply about all the different positions the human body could get itself into.

But Chyna was not Samantha, and he had no business thinking about
positions,
or Chyna's body getting
into
those positions, or his body
joining
Chyna's in those positions.

Just stop,
Jared pleaded with himself. He was two seconds away from embarrassing himself and guaranteeing there would not be a second date.

The attendant brought the bill, and Jared slipped a couple of hundreds into the leather portfolio before setting it on the table. He took Chyna by the hand, resting his palm against the small of her back.

“Okay, Jared. I eat here often enough to know that the bill didn't come even close to two hundred dollars. What did you leave…a seventy-percent tip?” she asked as they exited the restaurant and headed down the street toward the bakery where he'd met her for dinner.

Jared shrugged off her question. “We occupied one of their tables for over three hours. Consider it rent.”

She huffed out a derisive laugh. “The way you ball players throw money around is just…I don't know.”

Jared stopped walking and captured her elbow, halting her steps. “I don't just throw money around,” he said.

“How can you say that when you were willing to pay three thousand dollars for a bottle of wine?” she asked.

“I didn't say that I don't enjoy myself. I work hard for my money, Chyna, and I don't consider splurging on a bottle of good wine wasteful. Now if I bought ten bottles of wine, brought them home and took a bath in them,
that
would be wasteful.”

Her mouth twisted in a wry grin. “I heard about Lester Franklin's Perrier-Jouët bath after the Sabers won their division last year.”

“He's lucky the garbage collectors didn't tell the press that he's a raging alcoholic,” Jared snorted. “I respect money too much to ever do something that irresponsible, but I won't live like a pauper, either. I make a good living. Why not enjoy it?”

She remained silent, shrugging her shoulders.

Jared captured her hands and squeezed them lightly. “Is the money issue going to be a problem between us?”

Her brows hiked up. “There's an
us?
When did that happen?”

“When I sucked couscous from your fingers,” he answered. She choked on a laugh. “Come on, Chyna. You know you enjoyed yourself tonight.”

She pulled her hands away and continued her stroll toward the bakery. “I'll admit you were a bit of a surprise. Any man who will listen to me rant about the
Grey's Anatomy
season finale is pretty darn special.”

They arrived at the narrow storefront of the Patisserie, stopping under the bakery's blue-and-yellow-striped awning. Jared trailed his fingers along her arm. “So, when do we get to do this again?” he asked.

“Let me get back to you on that,” Chyna said after a pause. He was about to counter her brush-off, but she held her hand up. “I have a paper I'm working on for school, and I don't want to commit to anything until I finish the rough draft.”

Jared accepted her answer with a reluctant nod. “Guess I'll have to live with that,” he said. The little voice that had warned him about moving too fast reared its head again, but Jared mentally swatted it away as he shifted forward and lowered his head. “In the meantime, I think I need something to tide me over while I wait for your answer,” he whispered, bending slightly and claiming her lips in a slow, gentle kiss.

The contact sent a shock of arousal spiraling through his bloodstream. Her lips were warm, tangy with the flavor of the spicy food they'd eaten at dinner. Jared brought his hand up to caress the back of her neck, tilting her head to the side and deepening the kiss.

The minute she opened her mouth and welcomed his tongue inside, the desire coursing through his veins moved swiftly to his groin, stiffening the erection that had been threatening to erupt all night. He ran his hands down her spine, settling them at the small of her back, pulling her body flush against his.

She melted against him, arching her back and sinking into his embrace. But then her hands snaked up his chest and gently, but firmly, pushed him away.

“Stop,” she said, her breath coming in shallow, rapid pants.

Jared took a step back, his breathing as ragged as hers. His gaze settled on Chyna's lips, dusky rose and slightly swollen from their kiss.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I just…it was moving a little too fast.”

“That's okay, Chyna. I was only expecting dinner tonight, remember?” he said with a tinge of humor to his voice.

She picked up on it, returning a shy smile. “I had a lovely time,” she said. “But I think it's time for me to go.”

“Let me walk you to your door,” he offered, hating the thought of her leaving him, even though their date had lasted several hours longer than he'd anticipated.

“This is fine. I don't live too far from here.”

“I don't like the idea of you walking home alone at this time of night,” he said.

“I've been doing it for years.” She laughed. “No,
really. I think the chivalrous thing is kind of sweet, but I'll be fine.” She took a step forward and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek. “Thanks for a lovely evening, Jared.” She gave him one last smile before pivoting and walking down the street.

Jared stood under the striped awning, staring at her retreating form until she turned and disappeared around a corner. He wasn't an expert at having meaningless flings, but Jared had a feeling he'd gotten this all wrong. What he was feeling at the moment was as far from meaningless as a person could get.

But he wasn't complaining.

C
hyna placed the overloaded laundry basket she'd carried up from her parents' basement next to the other two at her mother's feet.

“Do you have enough starch, or should I make a store run?” she asked her mother, who was ironing the collar of her housekeeping uniform into a fine point.

“I have a secret stash in the cabinet under the sink,” her mom answered with a wink.

Chyna drew several shirts from the basket and draped them across the arm of the sofa, smoothing out whatever wrinkles she could.

“Chyna, you don't have to do that,” her mother said.

With a sigh, she said, “I figure you can use whatever help you can get. You look so tired, Mom.”

Selena McCrea shrugged the shoulder that was working the iron back and forth. “I worked a double shift at the hotel yesterday.”

“So put this away and rest for a bit,” Chyna implored. “The laundry doesn't have to be done this very minute.”

“If I don't do it now, it'll only continue to pile up. I spent most of last week bringing your father from one doctor appointment to another. I didn't get any housework done around here. Thank goodness my next shift doesn't start for another few hours.”

“You have to work again tonight after working a double shift yesterday?”

Her mother set the iron on its base and held out her hand. “What else am I supposed to do, Chyna? I don't have a money tree, just a fake ficus.”

Fake ficus,
Chyna mouthed with her. The saying had been a staple of her childhood. “I worry about you, Mom.”

“I know, honey, but you don't have to. I'm used to it.”

“Yeah, that's the problem,” Chyna murmured. Her mother had spent so many years working double shifts that her body would probably recoil if she actually took a day off.

“I'm sorry I haven't been around to help out more, but with work and school, and this new job with the Saberrettes…” Chyna swallowed down the excuses. They all seemed trite as she took in the dark smudges under her mother's eyes. It didn't matter what she had on her plate, if she didn't make time to lend her mother a hand after the years her mother had spent working to provide for her, what good was she?

“I promise to help out more, Mom,” Chyna offered.

“You have enough going on. I can handle everything around here. Even with that cranky man upstairs,” she said with a tired smile.

As if to add the punctuation to her mother's state
ment, a stream of heavy coughing filtered down from the upstairs bedroom.

“Should I check on him?” Chyna asked.

Her mother raised a hand. There was one last cough and a loud wheeze, then nothing. She shook her head. “He's fine.”

The coughing started up again, worse than before.

“Then again,” her mother said, setting the iron down.

“No, Mom.” Chyna put a hand to her shoulder. “I'll check him. I wanted to say hello before I leave anyway.”

She walked up the narrow steps that were covered in the same threadbare paisley runner that had been there since she was a little girl. Without thought, she automatically skipped over the second to the last step to avoid the creak that had been there as long as the runner.

The door to her parents' bedroom was open, another string of coughs meeting her as she poked her head in.

“Everything okay in here?” she asked.

“China Doll? I didn't…didn't know you were…here.”

She walked into the room and perched on the edge of the bed. At one time, resentment toward her father surfaced nearly every time she saw him. But how could she feel anything but pity for what he had become: a weak shell of a man who could barely walk two steps without having to rest.

But he could have been
so
much more.

If only he'd stuck with his singing. Her father had been gifted with an amazing voice, but for reasons Chyna would probably never understand, he just gave up on his goals of singing professionally. It still infuriated her to think of how much their entire family had sacrificed for his aspirations, only to have him quit before realizing his dream.

She took a deep breath, suppressing her acrimony. There was no point in rehashing these old frustrations.

“Just stopped by to see how you two were doing,” Chyna said. “I'm sorry I haven't been by more often, but things have been so busy this summer.”

“How is work going?” he asked, then followed the question with a fit of coughing that had his body lifting from the bed.

“I'm getting closer to that promotion,” Chyna said. “I should hear something about it in the next few weeks.”

“And school?”

“I'll have my degree by the end of the summer semester,” Chyna said. “With honors, I might add.”

“That's my China Doll,” he said.

Chyna hesitated a moment, debating the wisdom of mentioning the freelancing job.

“I've got some news,” she started. “I took on a second job.”

A spark shone in her father's gray eyes that were so much like her own. “Working hard…like your old man used to…huh, baby girl? What's…the job?”

Chyna steeled herself against the inevitable backlash. “I'm the new choreographer for the New York Sabers cheerleading squad.”

A sour look came over her father's face. “You're never going to learn, are you, China Doll?”

Chyna's hand fisted at her side. “What's wrong with working as a choreographer?”

“It's a waste…of time,” her father said.

Chyna shot up from the bed. She paced along the area rug in front of the dresser. “I just don't get you. Most parents encourage their children's dreams. You've spent your entire life trying to squash mine.”

“Because I know…what it's like to never see your dreams…come true.”

“You never
gave
your dream the chance to come true, Dad! God.” She raked a stiff hand through her hair. The resentment she'd tried to stave off returned full force. “I lost count of how many days you missed work because you heard that there was some talent scout holding auditions. Then you'd back out at the last minute. How many birthdays and Christmases passed without anyone getting presents because you'd spent the money recording demo tapes? And where are those tapes now? Stacked in the closet because you never sent them to any of the record companies you claimed were just waiting to discover you.” Her voice shook with anger and disappointment. “After all the time and energy you spent on your music, you never did anything with it.”

Chyna pointed to her chest. “I'm not going to make your mistakes,” she said. “This position with the Saberrettes is a
paying
job. It's a huge stepping-stone.”

“It's a waste of time,” her father said, cutting her off. “You saw what happened…with me. How many times…do I have to tell you…to let that…silly dream go?”

“No,” Chyna said softly. She looked her father in the eye, years of hurt and resentment clogging her throat. “I refuse to let it go.”

Just because he'd given up on his dreams, that didn't mean she had to follow in his footsteps.

After all these years, how could he not see what his lack of ambition had cost his family? Her mother could barely keep her eyes open after working a double shift, because her husband was too sick to work at any of the meager jobs he'd held while waiting to be “discovered.” Last night, Chyna had nearly ruined her date with Jared because a lifetime of having to watch every single penny
had made it impossible for her to stomach eating in a fancy restaurant.

If her dad had seriously pursued his music, who knows what he could have become? Instead, he'd spent years going from one minimum wage job to another and singing for tips in neighborhood bars. He'd wasted his talent, yet he blamed everyone else for the way his life had turned out.

Chyna quelled the urge to lash out at him again. What good would it do?

With a sigh, she walked over to the bed. “I'm sorry for yelling,” she said, placing a kiss on her father's forehead. “I have to get going, Dad. I'll try to drop in again soon. Take care of yourself.”

“You, too…China Doll.”

Chyna pulled in a deep breath, wishing things could have been different. Wishing
he
could have been different.

She could spend a lifetime wishing—in a way, she already had—and it wouldn't make a bit of difference. Her father would never change. Thank God she'd learned from his mistakes.

When she arrived back downstairs her mother's eyes were glued to the television where a panoramic view of a golden beach at sunset beckoned like a hot bath after a long day's work.

“Watching the Travel Channel again?” Chyna motioned to the television.

“That's Corfu, Greece. It's one of the ports on this ten-day Mediterranean cruise.” The wistfulness in her mother's voice created an ache deep within Chyna's chest.

“You'll get there one day,” Chyna said.

Her mother looked away from the television long enough to give her a tired smile.

Chyna was a long way from being able to afford to send her mother on a Mediterranean cruise, but maybe if she got the promotion she could treat her to a spa day. Her mother deserved some time off, even if it was just one day to put her feet up and just
be,
for God's sake.

“I need to get to the dance school,” Chyna said, walking over to her mother and placing a kiss on her cheek. “You'll let me know if you need anything, won't you, Mom?”

“Of course,” she said.

Yeah, right.
Her mother could be standing in the middle of a desert and wouldn't admit to needing a glass of iced water.

Chyna grabbed her purse on her way out the door and headed for the subway, taking in the seventy-degree temperature and clear skies. Every time winter had her contemplating leaving New York for some place with sun, spring came along and reminded her of what was fabulous about this city.

She pulled out her cell phone to check the time. She still had an hour before she had to be back in Brooklyn for her first dance class. She was teaching jazz to the eight- to twelve-year-olds and later this afternoon she was leading an adult salsa lesson. She texted Valerie, another unpaid volunteer at the school, and asked her to download Gloria Estefan's “Caridad” from iTunes for today's lesson.

Before she could put her phone back into her purse, it started ringing. Chyna's heart immediately started beating faster at the number illuminated on the screen.

“Hello,” she answered.

“I've been trying to eat breakfast, but I don't have anyone to hand-feed me. Your sweet fingers have ruined me.”

Chyna choked on a laugh. “Unless you're eating couscous for breakfast, you should probably use a fork, not fingers.”

“Your fingers could feed me anything,” he said.

His words set off a scintillating chain reaction that tumbled to all her extremities. An acute, sensual awareness that had been simmering since last night's kiss rushed to the surface, heating her skin.

“Did you finish that paper you were working on?” Jared asked.

“It's not something I can finish in one night. I've been working on that paper for nearly two months.”

He groaned. “Are you telling me I have to wait two months before I can eat from your fingers again?”

“There will be no eating from fingers, no matter when you see me again,” Chyna stated. “Apparently, it's too much for you to handle.”

“Oh, I can handle it,” he said.

Sweet Lord. When his voice dipped to that deep, sexy timbre, it was all she could do not to moan.

“I really have to work, tonight, Jared. I'm nearly done. If I pull an all-nighter, I can probably complete the first draft.”

“Does that mean I can see you tomorrow?”

“Didn't you just see me last night?”

“Yes, and I really liked what I saw. Makes me want to see it again, and again and again.”

Her breath hitched at his admission.

“Jared,” she started. “I…” But she couldn't verbalize what she wanted to say. Because she wasn't exactly sure of what
to
say.

She'd told herself their date was a one-time deal. It didn't matter that she'd laughed more last night than she had in months. Or that for nearly four hours she hadn't
thought once about school or work or the rent check that was due in two days. God, it had felt
so
good to leave that stuff behind.

She could afford just one more evening of enjoying herself, couldn't she?

“What did you have in mind?” Chyna heard herself ask.

 

A devilish smile curved up the corners of Jared's mouth. Lounging in his media room, he flipped back to the previous defensive series on the muted television and pressed the play button.

“Since I was adventurous enough to try your Moroccan food, I thought I'd test your level of adventure,” he said.

“What kind of test are we talking about here?”

His grin widened at the reluctance he heard in Chyna's voice. “Jet Skiing,” he answered, bracing himself for her response.

“Absolutely not!”

Jared couldn't hold in his laugh. “Are you scared?”

“Not scared, just…smart,” she replied. “I try not to intentionally put myself in a position to suffer brain damage.”

“This from a woman who spent the last week practicing dance moves just steps away from three-hundred-pound guys crashing into each other?”

There was a pause before she said, “Touché. But I'm still not getting on a Jet Ski.”

Jared paused the film and walked over to the bar to grab a bottled water from the wine chiller. “Who would have thought there was such a coward hiding behind those pretty gray eyes,” he said.

“Don't try your reverse psychology on me. I'm not falling for it.”