Authors: Wylie Snow
She exhaled when the team left the ice. It had been such a tense hour, she hadn’t taken a full breath once.
Her phone rang, loud and echoey in the empty arena. “Yes?” she blurted, biting back tears.
“It’s me,” Riley said. “You guys okay?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m just down the road grabbing a coffee.”
“Please come now.” Clara tried to whisper but her voice broke with emotion. “I think he’s catatonic.”
Chapter 32
“T
hat Riley?” Luc asked, his
voice giving her a start.
He spoke.
Thank you God
, he spoke. “Yes, yes, it’s Riley. He’ll come and take you out of here,” she said in the calmest voice she could muster. “We’ll go back to the hotel and have a nice cup of tea and you’ll feel loads better.”
Luc grabbed the phone from her. “Ry,” he scowled. “How could you leave me here without food?”
Clara didn’t hear Riley’s exact response, but she did hear what sounded like a lot of cussing. In two languages.
“
Mange de la merde,
to you, too.” More unintelligible words from Riley’s end, but this time, she heard a chuckle.
“So, uh… are you alright?” she said tentatively, reaching for her phone.
“I will be when you get on my lap and make me forget where I am.”
Clara threw herself into his arms. Shaking with relief, she searched his face for some clue to his state of mind. She expected his mouth to be tight or scowling, his eyes to be liquid or fiery. There was nothing but weariness. “You’re not horribly angry with me, are you?”
“I don’t know if angry is the right word. Blindsided, maybe.”
“But you’re alright now? Now that you’ve acclimated?”
“Still a bit off balance.”
Clara swallowed the disappointment rising in her throat. “I just tried…I just thought…I just wanted you…I spoke to some doctors, did research on post-traumatic stress disorders, I even called some therapists, off the record, of course, and they suggested a method called behaviour modif—”
He kissed her. Right in the middle of her explanation. He kissed her, and she stopped talking and kissed him back.
“I know what you were trying to do,
ma belle
.” He cupped her face, kissed her nose, her cheeks, her chin. “And I appreciate it.”
“So you’re all better then?” she asked, taming his mussed hair.
He closed his eyes and gave his head a shake. “No, love,” he said sadly. “Not now. Maybe not ever. I’m sorry.”
Clara’s heart thumped to the bottom of her gut. She’d failed, let him down. “No, don’t be sorry. I thought I could fix you,” she whispered and rested her forehead against his. “But you don’t need to be fixed, do you? You’re perfect, just the way you are.”
“That’s a matter of opinion, I guess, but this is progress. I liked this, liked hearing the practice. But I can’t be here. This isn’t my place anymore.”
She nodded against him.
“One thing I can’t figure out,” he whispered. “How did the trench coat play into this scheme?”
“Oh, never mind,” she said with a sigh of defeat. “That was just me trying too hard.”
“How do you mean?”
“Behaviour modification.” Clara got off his knee and unknotted the belt, feeling ridiculous but resigned to confess all. “It was to make you forget your negative feelings about hockey arenas.” She pulled the jacket open, revealing her wardrobe beneath: a lacy red thong, a matching corset with demi-cups that pushed her assets to unnatural heights, and black thigh-high boots. “And replace them with positive ones.”
“
Mon dieu!
You should have opened with that.”
Clara shrugged and started to close her coat.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Luc said, yanking it back open. “And to think I’d avoided therapy all these years.” He pulled her down on top of him. Clara straddled his lap and nuzzled his neck while he slid his hands under her coat, touched her, explored every inch of bare skin with deft fingers.
He showered hungry kisses down the side of her face, her neck, and ran his tongue along the blade of her collarbone, then buried his face in her cleavage. “You taste like kettle corn,” he murmured. “Do you remember what that tastes like? A little sweet, a little salty, buttery smooth, and leaves you wanting more.”
Emotionally on edge, Clara’s mind and body reacted instantly. She reached down and sought the heat between his legs, felt an urgency to connect with him, to make the un-comfortableness of the past couple hours disappear. “Seems we have a high-sticking situation, Monsieur Bisquet.” She flicked the snap on his jeans and slid the zipper down with teasing deliberation, his erection swelling under her touch.
“Do I get a penalty?”
“I might send you to the box,” she purred suggestively. Who knew hockey terms could be so deliciously dirty?
“Oh fuck, yeah,” he groaned.
“Riley’s coming in a few minutes.”
“I only need a few minutes.”
“Then let’s get this game on,” she said, sliding off his knee.
Clara stood and slid her thumbs along the waistband of her thong. She played, pulling one side down to reveal a naked hip, then the other, before sliding them off, slowly, over her long black boots.
“Are you trying to kill me?” There it was, that low, gravelly sex voice that made her insides melt and her pussy fill with cream.
“Just make you suffer a bit.” Hell, in for a pence, in for a pound, she decided and propped one stiletto-heeled foot on the chair back, next to his head. “Penalty time. Two minutes for high sticking.”
Luc groaned and looked heavenward before sliding forward so the back of her thigh was propped on his shoulder.
“Call Riley,” he said, “Tell him I need another ten minutes.”
Clara could barely punch the numbers into her phone while Luc teased her, toyed with the soft lips of her labia, before spreading her open with his thumbs and delving into the hot wetness.
Riley’s “Yo, I’m in the elevator, hold your horses!” came at the exact moment Luc’s tongue grazed the tight bundle of nerves at her apex. She couldn’t have held in the gasp even if she’d been prepared.
“Clara?” Riley sounded alarmed. “You okay? What’s wrong?”
“Need ten more minutes,” she managed to say.
“More.” Luc’s voice was muffled, but his intentions were clear.
“We’ll meet you in the coffee shop in a half hour,” Clara blurted before another moan could escape.
The hard tip of Luc’s tongue circled her clitoris. Perhaps this wasn’t a great idea to do whilst standing. She gripped his shoulders for balance.
Luc inserted a finger into her channel, sending another jolt of pure electric heat from her scalp to her toes. He added another, filling her, pushing deeper, while his tongue found a rhythm. He stroked harder, faster, until her body trembled for release.
Swirls of color swam in Clara’s tightly shut eyes. She’d never…not in a public place…and the taboo of it had heightened her senses, made the very act feel more urgent.
“In me, in me, in me,” she said, “I want you in me.”
“No condoms,” he mumbled.
Clara reached into the pocket of her trench coat and pulled out a string of foil packets. She tore one off while he wiggled his jeans lower, and sheathed him before mounting. She hadn’t yet settled her weight on him when he grabbed her by the waist and thrust his hips up, impaling her with a force she felt all the way up her spine.
“Oh yes,” she moaned, tossing her head back. She wanted to scream, to shout, to yell, but somewhere in the back of her mind, she was concerned with the acoustics in a twenty-thousand-seat arena.
He drove into her without mercy, taking as much as she could give. Unlike their soul-connecting passion a handful of nights ago, this was
fucking
. This was a pure animalistic coupling. Hot monkey sex. He gripped her hair and forced her to look into his eyes as he took her. He grunted, low and dangerous, with every thrust, claiming her with a primal fierceness that scared her, thrilled her, made her feel wanton and reckless.
For the first time since they’d been together, Luc came before her. For the first time, Clara got to witness his release with unclouded vision. His brow furrowed, his lids slammed shut, the cords of his neck bulged, strained, the muscles of his shoulders and arms bunched under her fingers as his body released a massive force of energy.
She made that happen.
It was powerful, momentous, and damn, it felt good to hear the one singular word he muttered when it was done.
“Clara.”
Chapter 33
C
lara stood in front of
her suitcase, deciding between a cami-and-cardigan or dress shirt. “How will I know what to wear if you don’t tell me where we’re going?”
“You look fine as you are,” he replied.
“I’m in my bra!”
“That’s good, too.”
Clara dug to the bottom and pulled out a three-quarter-sleeve sweater. Thin enough for indoor temperatures and basic black, suitable for any occasion. “Shall I take my handbag? A notepad? My toothbrush? Does it involve lots of walking because my feet still hurt from wandering the Smithsonian.”
“No, no, no, and yes, wear comfortable footwear.”
“But if I wear my tennis shoes, you tower over me.” Clara glanced at her watch. “Will we at least have time for some sightseeing between this surprise and the game tonight? Because I’d quite like to have a glimpse at that phallic symbol thingy on the Mall that Dan Brown says holds all the Masonic secrets.”
“It’s called the Washington Monument, and yes, if we leave now, there’ll be plenty of time. In fact, if you hurry it along, love, we can go there first.”
The phone trilled beside her. “Let me just get that, then, and we’ll dash,” she said. “Hello? Clara Bean here.”
“Clara Bean…what
ever
shall I do with you?”
At the sound of Valentina’s voice, she turned away from Luc so he couldn’t see the blood drain from her face. “What
ever
do you mean?”
“For one, that stunt you pulled back at West Rosa’s. Though it was lovely of you to pre-order the fish for me. And the wine wasn’t half bad.”
Clara pressed her palm over the mouth piece and said to Luc over her shoulder, “Go ahead. I’ll meet you in the lobby.” She waited to see him open the door before turning her attention back to Valentina. “I thought you’d appreciate it.”
“Yes, well, cunning doesn’t suit you, Clara, so stop trying to emulate your friend. You don’t have her moxie.”
“That’s rather backhanded, but a compliment is a compliment. I’ll be sure to pass it along to Lydia.”
“Don’t bother. I can’t stand the queen bitch. But it is a nod to her shrewdness.”
“So I take it your meeting went well?”
“It was a step in the right direction. I’m back on the fashion show invitation list, but Lydia still managed to hog all of Colin Brastow’s attention when we were supposed to be there to further
my
purposes.”
“Yes, Lyds does get a lot of attention. Because she’s a
nice
person. People are naturally drawn to her. You should try it. You might find it works for you, too. The old flies-to-honey thing.”
“Ha, the problem with
nice
is it’s as slow as that honey and not for us fast-trackers.
Nice
is for the unambitious, for kindergarten teachers and cupcake bakers.
Nice
is fallible, it’s easily manipulated, it’s taken advantage of.”
Fine. Clara had it with being nice, too. So her tone was rather harsh, her volume on the loud side when she yelled, “Are we done yet?”
“Take you, for instance. You’re a
nice
girl, aren’t you, Clara Bean? Letting your boyfriend come to my apartment in the middle of the night to say goodbye…now that was
nice
.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You don’t know? You mean he never told you that he came to me during your last night in New York?” Val
tsked
. “Now that wasn’t
nice
of him, was it? Come to think of it, he didn’t play very
nice
when he ripped my robe off.”
Clara’s bottom lip caught between her teeth as her head exploded with images of what perfect Valentina must look like under her clothes. Like a Sun page-three model with their perky boobs and come hither smiles. She shook her head to dislodge the mental montage, but they were stuck like posters on a garage wall. Small black spots danced before her eyes. “You’re lying.”
“Please. I’ve better things to do. If you don’t believe me, ask him. And while he’s busy denying our parting kiss, you’ll be thinking about where he was putting his hands on my naked body.”
Clara was overcome with a sick, clammy feeling. Her skin broke into a sweat at the same time a chill ripped through her. She gripped the telephone receiver so hard—only to prevent herself from hurling it across the room and through the picture window—that it caused a shooting pain up her forearm. “What do you want from me?”
Val laughed. “Consider this a lesson, a favour from yours truly in excising your kitten-fluffy niceness so you can’t be used and stepped on. This is a man’s world, my friend, and unless you enjoy being a doormat, grow a set.”
“Are you quite finished?”
“I’m not sure,” Val said with her chiming laugh. “I suppose…unless I think of something else.” The line went dead.
Clara’s knees began to wobble, so she clutched the desk and concentrated on breathing. She wanted to scream, loud and long, but something in the air changed, and she realized she wasn’t alone.
“Who was that?”
Luc.
She turned to see him framed in the doorway. His voice was calm, but a vein twitched in his temple. “Who was on the phone, Clara?”
How long had he been there? What had he heard? What had she said? “Nobody. Never mind. Let’s just get out of here.”
Flustered and unable to face him, Clara dug into the pile of clothes in her open suitcase until she found her burgundy scarf and matching gloves, mumbling about unpredictable weather. She pushed passed him on her way out; wouldn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Haunted by the images Valentina had planted in her head.
He’d been acting strange the morning they left New York. Surly. Affected. Bloody hell, even Riley had noticed it. Even if Clara were inclined to disbelieve Valentina, she couldn’t banish the memories of that morning at the airport. Had he been pining over
her?