He didn’t deign that one with a reply, instead pulling her closer and sighing in contentment as she rested her forehead against his chest. She was tiny compared to his hulking frame, almost too delicate for him to touch. Silence reigned and their steps slowed until they were simply swaying in time with the music. Well, he was swaying. Frankie just leaned against him, arms wrapped around his waist.
“Sweetheart?” he said eventually, craning to look at her face. Her eyes were closed, and her sleepy murmur made his heart ache. Bless her, she was dead on her feet.
“Come on, you. Let’s get you to bed.”
Keeping his voice low, he disentangled her arms and bent to scoop her up. His body, all his male instincts, howled at being denied the chance to claim her body, taste the delights she’d offered and he’d denied earlier in the limo. But taking a woman when she was half out of it, on booze or through tiredness, just wasn’t his style. When he made love to her for the first time, he wanted her to remember every moment of it.
She murmured an argument, but he ignored it as he settled her into his arms. A cute, curvy little armful as he strode across the living room and into the short corridor. Her bedroom was easy to locate, the oriental decor so Frankie that it made him smile. She’d always loved anything with an eastern influence. He hadn’t been surprised when Damon told him she’d taken a year out to go traveling there.
A soft sigh left her lips as she nestled against his broad chest, arms looped around his shoulders. The trust she placed in him was implicit, unlooked for, and very much appreciated. She trusted him to look after her, to not take advantage even though he wasn’t the kid she remembered, but something far worse. An adult man with the means, motive, and opportunity to just take what he wanted. If he wanted.
He held her tighter, almost overwhelmed by the feelings coursing through him, and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead.
“Time to get you into bed, sweetheart.”
Keeping his voice low, he walked around the large double bed and scootched down to flick the duvet back before placing her as gently as he could on the crisp sheet. Another sigh escaped her, a small pout on those perfect lips and a frown forming on her brow as she complained about losing the warmth of being next to his chest. Her hair spread out over the pillow like a dark halo.
For a second Gray couldn’t think of anything but getting them both naked, crawling in under the covers and pulling her into his arms to warm her up. Trouble was, if he did that, it wouldn’t stop at sleeping. The circular argument he’d been having with himself since the limo kicked itself into motion again. Fuck, why couldn’t he just get a night off from having a conscience and just take what she’d offered earlier? Just one night. That was all he asked.
He sighed. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you warm again soon. Just work with me, would you, babe?”
Turning her onto her side with gentle hands, he exposed the zip that ran the length of her lower spine. Its metallic rasp sounded in the silence of the room as he pulled it down, revealing the delicate skin beneath then reached up to undo the straps of the halter-top. The gentle slopes of her shoulders flowed into the soft curve of her sides to a nipped-in waist he ached to touch and caress. Unable to resist, he indulged the temptation, stroking her satin skin with a reverence he’d have felt stupid admitting to in the daylight. Now though, he closed his eyes at the touch, all his male instincts latching onto the soft sound of pleasure she made as he touched her. God, she was ripe for the plucking.
His cock throbbed savagely in his pants, as if to remind him that what they both wanted was within reach. All he had to do was turn her on her back, and shove her skirt up past her hips. One quick yank would deal with her underwear and he could be hilt deep in her softness before he could say the word.
No. No happening. So not happening. Not tonight anyway.
Thinking of the least sexy thing he could conjure up…the lads stinking, sweaty, and bloody after a match…he focused on the task in hand. Back on her back, the dress was easy to slide from her shoulders and he had to bite his lip as the fabric fell away from her breasts. Encased in black satin with a racy red stripe and only just constrained by the cups, they were a sight to test any man’s resolve.
“That’s it, doll. Just lift your hips a little,” he urged, smiling in triumph as he pulled the dress free. Oh fuck. She wore thongs. Sexy little thongs that only just covered the essentials. A thin sliver of fabric easy to shove to the side so he could stroke through her wet folds…
Fuck. He was a pervert, a complete, bloody pervert.
Teeth gritted so hard he thought they’d break, he eased her stockings down her legs inch by inch as his cock and balls took turns reminding him what a fucking cunt he was for putting them through such torture. Grimly he ignored them, each brush of his fingers against her satin skin a pleasure and a torment all rolled into one as he pulled the barely there nylon from her legs and dropped them on the other side of the bed.
“All done, sweetheart. You get comfortable.”
Quickly pulling the duvet over her and removing temptation, he hung the dress up on a hanger on the back of the door and returned to the side of the bed like he was some sort of bloody homing pigeon. She looked so peaceful lying there. His lips quirked. Like an angel. How corny was that?
Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to her lips.
“Tomorrow night, Frankie. You won’t be sleeping. I promise you that.”
Chapter Four
Sunlight and the sound of muted traffic outside the window brought Frankie slowly from the depths of sleep. Murmuring with contentment she snuggled under the warmth of the duvet and resolutely kept her eyes closed.
In no way, shape, or form a morning person, she had to be dragged kicking and screaming from her bed in the morning, especially if she didn’t have to get up early to catch the tube. Since she was now freelance, there was no tube. All she had to do was drag her sorry backside into the kitchen, grab a mug of coffee, preferably strong enough to stick to the inside of her ribs, and boot the laptop up.
Not today though. Her head ached, and the unsettled feeling in her stomach told her she’d had more than her normal couple of glasses last night. What on earth had she been drinking? Cautiously she opened one eye, and when the light didn’t try to slice and dice her eyeball, opened the other to look around.
Her bedroom looked back, same as it always was. Oriental-print wallpaper, dark wood furniture, slatted blinds that cast the morning sun onto the bed and turned it zebra-like with stripes of light and shadow.
Groaning, she turned over and looked at the clock. Ten thirty. The numbers of the display dragged another groan from her. She’d never slept this late in her life. And she had the Johnson-Briggs merger details to look over before the end of the weekend, which she’d planned to do this morning so she could have all of tomorrow to herself.
Being freelance was great, but there was no safety net of a monthly salary, or paid holidays. If she didn’t work, then her bills didn’t get paid. Since she was serious about standing on her own two feet, she really would rather keep her own roof over her head instead of going cap in hand to her mum and dad to beg for her old room back. Besides, the last thing she’d heard, Damon had turned it into a weight room before he moved out.
Damon. Just the thought of her brother brought forward curses foul enough to make a soldier blush. It was Damon’s fault she was in this mess. The next thought broadsided her, tackling her and taking her out in a slicker move than any she’d ever seen on a pitch.
Gray.
Her date had been little Leighton Gray. Only he wasn’t so little now. Instead he was massive, and muscled, and fucking
hot.
The events of the previous night replayed in her mind in not just Technicolor but full-on high-definition as well.
She’d gotten drunk, flirted with her baby brother’s friend, he of the aforementioned hotness, all but assaulted him in the limo—a bloody limo of all things—and then, when they’d finally gotten back to her place after she’d teased them both mercilessly she…
Couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember a fucking thing.
She could remember up to getting home, dropping her keys. The dance in the moonlight. Oh my God, the dance in the moonlight. If ever she could have conjured up her perfect romantic evening, that would have been it. Moving gently to the music, strong arms to hold her tight and make her feel safe, protected, even though there was nothing she needed protection from. Unless it was her own idiotic behavior, throwing herself at a man at least eight years younger than she was.
It was the drink. Had to be. She didn’t drink, only socially and then only a couple before she switched to water. It was a rule she stuck to with the discipline of a religious fanatic. She’d seen enough of her colleagues use alcohol as a coping mechanism. No way in hell was she going that way. It got ugly fast.
Oh God, what had happened? A quick sweep of the bed next to her revealed cold sheets. Didn’t look like he’d slept in the bed with her, but she wasn’t worried about sleeping. What else had they done? And why the fuck couldn’t she remember? And she wasn’t sore in any…ah, intimate areas.
Sitting up, she flung back the covers and stopped. She was still wearing her underwear. Bra and panties, all present and correct. If they’d had sex, then her bra and knickers should have been AWOL and the space beside her occupied, or at least bearing the trace scent and warmth of a large, very sexy body.
Her stockings were gone but a quick sweep of the room found her dress hung up neatly on the back of the door. Her stockings though, weren’t on the door; they were on the bottom of the bed, arranged in a shape. A heart shape.
“Oh…” Unbidden, her hand covered her mouth as a warm, fuzzy feeling spread out from the center of her chest. He’d undressed her and put her to bed. It was the only explanation and further complicated the enigma that was Leighton Gray.
He’d seen her naked. Heat flushed every inch of her skin, painting it scarlet. Oh my God, he’d seen her naked. Well, all but naked. Her underwear covered jack shit so he’d seen everything else. Her skin, the stretch marks from her constant battle with her weight. The appendectomy scar. The bulges, lumps, and bumps she hated all laid out on the canvas of the white sheet. The heat in her cheeks intensified and she moaned, barely recognizing the soft sound of distress as her own voice.
He’d seen her, with the light on. Him with that ripped, hard body. What must he have thought? That she’d really let herself go. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t pushed his luck, gotten her naked and had sex with her anyway. As soon as the thought went through her head, she felt ashamed. He was better than that; she knew he was better than that. Like a gentleman, he’d undressed her and put her to bed.
A shiver rolled through her at the thought of those big, firm hands on her body even if it was just to take her clothes off. She wished she’d been awake to feel it. Alone in her bedroom, she admitted to the desires she’d been pussyfooting around with all last night.
Right or wrong, younger than her or not, she wanted Leighton. Heat crawled through her body at the thought, taking up residence low down in her belly. Her hips jerked, liquid heat slipping from her pussy and dampening her panties as the scent of arousal filled the air.
Slipping from the bed she walked barefoot over the plush carpet, stopped in front of the mirrored door of the wardrobe, and studied her reflection. She wasn’t tall, only a couple of inches over five feet with an extra helping of curve she’d never been able to diet or exercise away no matter how much she tried.
She ran her hands up over her hips and waist, turning this way and that. What did he see? Did he like her curves? Her lips pursed as she cupped her breasts, pushing them together and striking a provocative pose in the mirror. For all of two point four seconds before her head started to pound again.
Grimacing, she dropped the pose and walked out into the main area of the apartment. She needed painkillers, coffee, and a shower. In that order. Then she was going to find a certain rugby player and ask him a few questions.
* * *
You’re gonna diet.
Frankie couldn’t help the laugh as she looked at the words on the screen of her smartphone.
“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. Like I’m ever off a bloody diet.”
And she wasn’t. Over the years she’d fallen prey to every fad diet or celebrity-endorsed craze there was, hoping beyond hope that this one might, just might, be the one that would magically melt the excess pounds from her hips and ass, leaving her with the svelte and slender figure she had in her dreams. She sighed. Like that was ever going to happen. There was no magic cure to losing weight; she’d finally accepted that. The problem was she sat on her ass too much and didn’t do enough exercise.
Besides, who the hell was sending her such a bizarre text message? Swiping her thumb over the screen, she flicked the sender details up and frowned. It was a mobile number but not one she recognized. How odd. She sighed and shoved the phone back into the front pocket of her jeans.
Probably a wrong number, or worse, a promotional text. A work colleague had been plagued by them after an ex put her mobile number on a list for revenge. She’d had to change the number in the end. She’d see if she got another one, and then she’d work out whether she needed to ditch the number. Besides, there was a silver lining. If she did change it, Robby wouldn’t be able to contact her anymore. Win-win situation.
“Just ’ere okay for you, duck?” the driver said as the taxi pulled into the parking lot in front of the south entrance of the Charnwood Road Stadium. She’d gleaned from Damon that they were training here today rather than the training ground farther out of town.
“Yeah, perfect.” Digging in her bag, she pulled out her wallet and paid the fare. “Thanks, keep the change,” she said and slipped out of the taxi quickly so the guy could get away to pick up his next fare.