Perfect Pitch (11 page)

“Jesus, woman,” he said when she couldn’t resist the urge to catch one of those pearls in her teeth. He caught his breath, and the flexing of his abs distracted her. She knelt on the floor beside the couch, leaning into the soft leather.
 

She needed to feel the planes of his belly, to trace the cords of the sharp angled muscles at his hips. Her fingernails stood out against his tawny flesh. She saw that he was watching her and the fire in his gaze excited her, almost as much s his touch had against her over-heated skin. She flexed her fingers carefully, tapping each nail against his belly, tracing the golden line that thickened from his belly to the waistband of his jeans.

She worked the button slowly, grinning as he twitched beneath her. She took care with the zipper, slipping her hand inside his jeans to protect him from the metal teeth. His cock leaped against her palm as she eased him free of his boxers, and she closed her fingers tight around him.

He was longer than she’d imagined, and thicker around. His erection curved up toward his belly, and he groaned when she traced a vein down his length, pressing hard with the edge of her fingernail. “First,” she whispered, “I’ll hold you, stroking from the base of your cock to the tip.”

He shuddered as she matched action to words, and she knew he was remembering the phone call she’d just quoted. Five nights ago. He’d been in Detroit. He’d pitched seven and a third, giving up a single run. She’d told him she was impressed, that she wanted to reward him. She’d promised to bring him to the edge once for every inning he’d completed, before she gave him full release.

Now, she delivered on her promise, tightening her fingers around his cock, sliding up the entire velvet length of him then, even tighter, down. Her breath matched his, quickening, growing harsh. She pulled her hand away just as his entire body tensed. He collapsed back on the couch and gasped, “Just finish.”

“That was one,” she said, reaching across the table and salvaging one of the glasses. The ice had melted completely, but she took a sip of the bourbon-tinged water. When she held the glass to his lips, he gulped it down greedily.

“Second,” she said, quoting her earlier words. “I’ll try a taste.” She wrapped her hand around his shaft, holding him steady. Even as he moaned her name, she touched her tongue to the tip of his cock, licking up a single pearly drop. She traced around the entire head, teasing the firm rim of flesh that rested just above her fist. From the corner of her eye, she could see his fingers clench, the cords of his wrist popping like iron wires. She teased him one more time, tasting another drop of salt, and then she pulled away with a toss of her hair.

He was breathing through his teeth, panting as if he’d just completed an inside-the-park home run. “Sam,” he said. “Enough.”

“Third,” she said.

“No third,” he gasped.

“But I
promised
,” she said.

His laugh sounded strained. “And you
never
break your promises, Summer Queen.”

He had a point there. She had promised the Summer Fair that she would remain the perfect ambassador. She’d be quiet and chaste, a suitable role model for little girls and their ancient grandmothers, alike.

But the Summer Fair couldn’t object to behavior it didn’t know about. Sam had no intention of telling anyone connected to the Summer Fair about this night. And she was pretty sure DJ wasn’t going to be trumpeting the news to every newspaper in the state of North Carolina.

“I suppose,” she said, drawing out the second word, as if she were just forming an idea, “we
could
skip right to seven.”

“Skip,” he begged. “Now.”

She laughed and slipped her hand under the front edge of the couch, retrieving the last purchase she’d made that afternoon. She’d driven over an hour to find a drugstore that was far from Wake County, even though she’d worn sunglasses, even though she’d stuffed her hair under a baseball cap and slouched in a heavy jacket that bulked up her figure. She’d paid for the shiny black box with cash, and she’d tossed away the receipt before she slipped back into her car.

She drew out a string of foil-wrapped condoms. “Seventh,” she said, back to rewarding him for the innings he’d completed.

He reached for one, but she slapped his hand away. “No you don’t,” she said. “I told you how this would go.”

And she had—over the phone, blushing at words she’d never dared to say out loud to any man before. She’d heard his breathing grow heavy. She’d reached down and fingered herself, felt how slick she was, how ready for a man who was hundreds of miles away.

That night, words had made her ache with need. Now, she could act on that sensation.
 

She took her time rolling the condom over his cock. She’d never done that before, never dared to take the lead in any sexual relationship. He sucked in his breath as her fingers led the way, gliding over his heated flesh as she smoothed out the protection.
 

She was astonished by the power she had over him. One touch of her fingernail, there, at the base of his shaft, and his body arched toward her. A quick brush of her palm against the muscle of his thigh, and he was clutching at the edge of the couch.

And through it all, he stared at her. He drank in her every movement, studying her as if she were a painting in a museum. She licked her lips, and his gaze intensified, scorching her without his ever moving a muscle.

That power, that force gave her the courage to follow through on everything she’d once brazenly described. She straddled him, gasping as the coarse hair on his thighs brushed against her bare skin. She settled her hands on his shoulders, steadying herself even as she held him still.

His fingers closed over her hips, urgent, begging. Fire poured into her from his super-heated palms, and he groaned as she shifted, finding a new balance.

The tip of his cock rested against her ready flesh. She leaned forward, just the slightest of movements, and she felt him leap in response. He wanted her. He needed her, as much as she needed him.
 

She caught her breath and eased back, taking him into her body one inch at a time.

She meant to keep control. She meant to take him slowly, filling her core with the heat of him, with his solid, driving length. The muscles in his neck stretched tight; he gathered in a breath and held it in perfect stasis. His fingers gripped her hips, speaking volumes, even though he never said a word.

Her thighs tightened at the incredible sensation of fullness, at the pulsing power that bound them together. She was the one in control here. She was the one measuring out how much each of them would feel.

“Samantha,” he breathed.
 

And that undid her. He’d whispered her name over the phone that night, spun the syllables into an entire encyclopedia of wonder and lust and yearning. She’d known then that he’d found his release, that her mere words had brought him over the edge.

She raised herself up, nearly crying out at the sensation of his flesh pressing against hers. With impossible control, she lowered herself again, taking every inch of him until the fullness made her gasp. She clutched his shoulders as she set the rhythm, rise and fall, each pass taking them both closer to the sparkling edge of the galaxy that whirled between them.

His hips rose to meet her, perfecting the timing she’d begun. Her body strung tighter. She caught her breath, prolonging the moment, stretching out the perfect knife edge of the sensation that began to spin loose inside her body.

For a heartbeat, for five, for ten, she balanced on the edge of forever.

And then her need screamed through every fiber of her body. She could not hold back, could not play the game for even one more second. She gripped his shoulders and threw back her head, crying out as her thighs gave way beneath the rolling waves of pure sensation.

As she collapsed against his chest, his body rose to meet her. Once, twice, three times, and his back arched. His lips parted with a wordless cry, and his fingers splayed wide, holding her, cradling her, possessing her, even as his body pumped into hers.

She was laughing, crying, making noises that might have been words. His arms folded around her, and his knotted muscles pulled her close, as if he were trying to merge her into his chest. His heartbeat pounded through her, mastering her own, and she forgot how to breathe, how to speak, how to
be
in any way separate and apart from him.

Centuries later—or so it seemed—their hearts finally slowed and their breathing returned to normal. She gradually become aware of the room around them, the gaping windows with the tailored shades that she’d pulled closed well before midnight, the empty glasses on the sleek coffee table, the tangle of clothing on the floor—hers and his, knotted together like lovers.

She felt the chill of the North Carolina spring night. Unbidden, a shiver started at the top of her spine. The more she tried to still herself, the more the shudder grew, until she felt DJ laughing beneath her. Before she could feel indignant, he shifted her gently, moving them both to a seated position. He collected a cashmere throw from the arm of the sofa and draped it around her, gathering it carefully beneath her chin.

Even then, even when he was at his most tender, she couldn’t help but notice the flash of his eyes as he took in the curves of her breasts. She knew she wasn’t imagining things, either, when he pulled the blanket closer. The brush of his palm against her belly couldn’t be accidental. He grinned as she sucked in a breath.

He carried her into the bedroom. Somehow, he tossed away the decorative pillows at the top of the bed. He threw back the comforter and nestled her on the most perfect mattress she’d ever felt. When he climbed in beside her, she thought her body would explode from the overload of sensation. He draped his arm around her, nestling her close to his chest, and she felt the pad of each of his fingers sear into her belly. He edged one leg between hers, pinning her, claiming her, and then he nuzzled the nape of her neck.

She was certain she would never fall asleep—not with the heat of his body reminding her of everything they’d just done, of all the sensations he’d rocketed through her body. But she closed her eyes, and she relaxed against his solid heat. And, against all odds, she slept.

Sam nestled deeper beneath the heavy comforter, stretching her legs toward the foot of the bed. The sheets were soft as satin, inviting her to settle back into sleep, to ease the gentle ache in her thighs, across her belly. She stretched again and scrunched the down pillow beneath her head, teetering on the edge of dreams.

Heavy comforter. Soft as satin. Down pillow.

Sam wasn’t in her own bed. She was far from her well-worn quilt, her often-washed cotton sheets, her deflated foam pillow that she’d been vowing to replace for months.
 

She opened her eyes to find herself awash in a sea of charcoal gray. Half a dozen burgundy throw pillows slouched against the cream-colored wall, as if they’d been tossed there in a storm. Which, in a way, they had. Sam remembered now how she’d come to be in this king-size bed, how DJ had carried her here with effortless strength.
 

Now, she reached out for his pillow. It held his scent, the soft bite of cedar, but it was cool to her touch. She rolled over, squinting to make out the numbers on the nearby clock. 11:32. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so late.
 

Alarmed, she sat up in bed, reflexively gathering the covers close around her. “DJ?” she called, but she didn’t actually expect a reply. The house was silent, heavy, and she was certain she was alone.

That certainty was cemented by the note that waited behind the clock. The letters were neat and masculine; they looked like they’d been dashed off with a sturdy felt-tip pen. “House-Breaker—I guessed you took your coffee light and sweet. I’m at the park till eight. Dinner tonight? DJ”

His initials twanged a bowstring deep inside her, and she realized her entire body ached, the pleasant reminder of a long night’s exertion. She reached past the note for the huge silver mug that weighted down the nightstand, its rubberized lid hinting at the hot caffeine it contained. Slipping open the lever that allowed her to drink, she caught a breath of pure Colombian steam.
 

The coffee was heaven in a cup. She closed her eyes as she swallowed, picturing DJ’s capable hands loading up the coffee-maker, measuring out sugar, pouring cream. She imagined him gliding into his bedroom, gazing down at her as she slept. She wondered if he’d touched her hair, if he’d pulled the covers closer about her shoulders. Sipping more coffee, she wondered how the morning would have progressed, if DJ hadn’t needed to work that day.

If
she
hadn’t needed to work.

In a flash, Sam remembered she had an obligation that afternoon—cutting the ribbon to open a new organic grocery store over in Cary. She downed a huge swallow of the perfect coffee and looked at the clock again. She should have just enough time to collect her clothes, to walk down the street to the corner where she’d left her car (lest she give away her presence when DJ returned home), to head home for a shower and fresh clothes, and then speed across town to the market.
 

Sighing, she left the refuge of the bed. She wasn’t surprised to find her clothes on the dresser, folded with military precision, even the crimson lingerie. She shimmied into her T-shirt and jeans, blushing as she thought about how she’d stripped down the night before, how she’d posed herself on the leather couch.

She’d known what she wanted, though. And DJ had given her the confidence to go after that—the sweet seduction of their shared phone calls, the flare of appreciation she’d seen in his eyes the moment he realized she was waiting in his living room. His obvious attraction had given her the permission she craved, to do things she’d only imagined in the past.

And now her mind was already working on the future. Dinner, DJ’s note had proposed. And what might he have in mind for dessert?