Pressure Point (Point #2) (19 page)

“Think about it,” he requests softly, and I nod. A hand lifts to stroke the trail of hair from the crown of my head to between my shoulder blades. He repeats the soothing process. Instead of calming me, his touch sends licks of desire lapping at my body. I can’t help myself, squirming at his touch.

“Don’t do that,” he rumbles.

“Blake, I’m ready.” I’m breathless, shifting to enable our eye contact again. He’s not doing a good job of hiding his own lust—eyes dilated, expelling hot breaths quickly, hands becoming more aggressive in their strokes down the length of my back.

“Stella…” Regret flashes in his eyes then he brushes a tender, chaste kiss across my lips. “Not yet. Tonight you showed me that I haven’t earned your trust yet. I haven’t made it clear that I’m all in for this relationship. That’s okay,” he hurries to say when I open my mouth to argue, “but I don’t think we should make love until you know that I’m not walking away again.”

Make love.
The phrase echoes in my mind, pleasing me endlessly to think that he would refer to our coupling in such a tender way.

“I guess that makes sense,” I reluctantly admit.

With a pained expression, he shifts me off his lap and into a standing position. Then he begins clearing the table of our used dishes. “This is the only way that I’ll keep my hands off you,” he mutters, sending me into a fit of laughter.

“It can wait,” I finally agree.

But for how long?

Self-awareness is a bitch. Okay, most of the time it’s pretty useful to be in touch with my emotions. Except for now. Like I said, from where I stand in the doorway of a three-bedroom casita suite of the
Four Seasons
Sedona, self-awareness is a bitch. I only know about the three bedrooms because Cam, Blake’s closest friend, teased us as we checked in. Now, surveying the sitting room, fireplace (is that necessary in the desert?),
ten
person dining table, and warm Sonoma-themed color pallet, I’m aware of every nerve on my body humming with anxious anticipation.

What am I doing here? I am not ready for this. Blake’s right, I shouldn’t have sex with him because I am not prepared for the consequences. He’s a man, one who can afford magnificent hotel suites. He owns two freaking professional sports teams!

Self-awareness is functioning at one hundred percent. Fretful, apprehensive, uneasy—all of those describe me perfectly. What was I thinking getting on the team airplane with him this morning? I’m going to meet Blake’s father this weekend for the first time. Ever! Then there will be tons of football people, probably celebrities…

Blake interrupts my frantic inner dialog by calling my name from deep within the cabin where he led the bellhop toting our luggage.

Reluctantly, I break through the invisible threshold preventing me from entering the little house, following the timbre of his voice past stunning views of the Crescent Butte Mountain (according to the bellman) and, I notice, a hot tub and a privacy wall. The bellhop passes me on his way out and I offer a stiff farewell. I’m wound tighter than a brand new watch.

“What do you think?” Blake’s unaffected, an arm extended to invite me to move next to him. I press up against his side, reveling in his warmth. “What’s wrong?” He drops a lingering kiss to the crown of my head, a trickle of reassurance dripping through my veins.
He wants you here; you made the right decision. It’s Blake, and he hasn’t done anything to break your trust. Stop fighting this.

Leaning my head back, I allow my lips to tilt up when our eyes meet. He’s watching me with unabashed adoration. All the worries slip away, and I’m filled with a sense of calm and anticipation of the excited variety. Did I say self-awareness is a bitch? I meant it’s a blessing. “I’m thinking about how glad I am to be here with you. I’m thinking that you know how to woo a woman. I’m thinking about how comfortable I am around you.”

He cuts me off, not allowing any more of my confessions to spill out because he covers my lips with his. It’s a tender, unhurried touch. His fingertips trickle down my back, one hand curling around the curve of my bottom and fitting me snuggly against his taut body.

“That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear.” His forehead falls against mine, but Blake’s eyes remain closed. A pained sigh escapes from his lips.

“You sound like holding me hurts,” I tease him.

“Snow White, it hurts more than you know. There’s nothing that I’d rather do than act on that confession, but I’ve got an owner’s meeting that I need to attend on behalf of my father.” Glancing down at his watch, Blake swears softly and shakes his head in frustration. “We need to make an appearance at the team dinner tonight, but then you are all mine.
Capisce
?”

I giggle at his fumbled Italian. “Are you taking lessons from my father?”

With a peck to my nose, Blake smirks, “Trying to speak your language, Snow White. I have to shower and then run out. I’m sorry that I’ve got to go so fast.”

Clucking my disagreement, I unravel from his embrace and unzip my rolling suitcase. “We talked about your obligations on the plane, Blake. It doesn’t bother me. I brought my computer, and I have a crazy demanding client who needs my attention.”

An arm hooks around my waist, hauling my back to his front. Kisses rain from my temple to the crook of my neck, tickling me along the way. “Which client is that?”

“A behemoth of a stadium on the west side of town.” I nearly choke on my laughter when fingertips dance across my ribs. “Don’t!”

With little trouble, he lifts me into the air and sends me flying onto the duvet covering the king-size mattress. My legs fall to either side of his hips as he leans forward with a mock snarl on his face. “Don’t what?”

The mood shifts from playful to sexually charged in the exhalation of one shallow breath. If I arched my back at the right angle, I’d brush against him and… Blake’s molten gaze sends goosebumps along the back of my neck. Reality sets in and I remember that he has a meeting.

Breaking the sensual spell, I prop myself up then reach out to clutch a handful of his pale blue shirt and yank him toward me. “Don’t fall,” I gasp as he nearly topples over my body. At the last second, he rolls to his side, breathing heavily. One arm drapes over my waist. I love that he’s always touching me, wanting to be near to me.

“This is the happiest that I’ve ever been.” I blurt out the words before I can stop myself. Everything about my hard, often impenetrable, man goes soft with my words: the touch on my stomach feather-light, the color of his eyes becomes melty chocolate. He doesn’t answer me, and deep down I know it’s because he can’t be the happiest he’s ever been when Zoe’s hurting badly. Instead, he conveys his bliss in the sweetest, gentlest kiss I’ve ever experienced.

I’ve finished responding to emails and found a bit of time for myself at the hotel pool a few hours later. Now I’m brushing my unruly waves, hoping they’ll cooperate tonight in the dry heat. Selecting an outfit to wear wasn’t hard; Violet practically picked all of my clothes. The event planner in her always knows what clothing is appropriate. In a red silk, sleeveless top, tight black skinny pants, and black booties, I’m wearing team colors and feeling like myself. The front door opens as I’m applying a coat of crimson lipstick. Blake’s not alone; I hear Cam razzing Blake like no one else dares to.

“Pretty whipped, eh?” There go Cam’s Canadian roots.

“Give me a break, thirty-one. You’ve asked about Violet only a dozen times and the girl is
engaged
to another guy.”

Whoa.
Violet caught Cam’s eye. That’s an interesting development and explains why he never mentions other women in the times I’ve hung out with him.

“Don’t,” Cam snaps. “I would never interfere. Insinuate otherwise and I’ll knock you out.”

Double whoa.
I’ve never heard Cam this tense. I make a mental note to interrogate Blake later. I slip my black wallet-on-chain bag on my shoulder and make my way into the living room where Blake and Cam have moved on to lighter topics.

“Stella,” Blake says when I enter the room. He strides across the tile and yanks me against him. He claims my lips in one of those possessive, back-off gestures toward Cam. Don’t get me wrong, I eat up his attention and the tender caresses against my back, but now I know that there’s no need. Cam’s got it bad for Violet, and I’m sad that he has eyes on a girl who’s completely lost on another man. Cam is kind and goofy and a great guy. He deserves to be happy, too.

Blake’s lips brush my sensitive ear lobe. “You look good enough to eat.”

I flash him a sly grin then turn to greet Cam, who’s wearing worry like it’s a Scrapers jersey. Feigning nonchalance, I don’t mention Violet or what I overheard. “Ready?”

The three of us walk together, crossing outdoor patios to reach the main lodge. Blake’s cell rings when we’re walking through the hotel lobby, and he offers an apologetic glance my way.

Cam places a hand on my shoulder, the unease still apparent all over his face. “Look, Stella, I don’t know what you may have heard back there, but I’m not trying to make a move on your cousin’s girl.”

“I didn’t hear anything, Cam.” His face goes lax with relief. Empathy laces my tone when I continue. “If I did, I’d never say anything. You’re a stand-up guy, and I can tell that you’re not the type to try to destroy a relationship. Further than that, I’ve suffered through unrequited romance, and it can be brutal. I don’t want anyone who I care about to go through that kind of turmoil.”

Cam’s intense stare doesn’t waver through my short speech. He watches me intently, not speaking until Blake claps him on the shoulder roughly. “Aren’t we here to celebrate? You two look like someone just died.”

“In a way,” Cam mutters, shrugging out of Blake’s grip. He walks away, heading toward the ballroom where the Wind players are wolfing down what Blake calls enough food to feed an entire zoo.

“What was that all about?” Blake asks with a note of concern. Cam’s supposed to be the smiley, happy guy.

“Usually he’s not Mr. Intensity, like someone I know,” I tease Blake. I fit my hand into his, interlocking our fingers.

“Mr. Intensity, huh?” Blake makes a mock stern face.

“Sometimes, but I like it.”

He drops a brisk kiss on my forehead and we head off after Cam. “What happened?”

“He knows that I overheard you two talking about Violet. Poor guy. We need to find him someone else.”

Blake squeezes my fingers gently. “You care about him.”

“If you care about him, I care about him. Isn’t that how a relationship works?”

Blake shoots me a tender look. “Not the ones that I observed between my father and his bevy of girlfriends. And none of the women I’ve dated have cared about my happiness more than their own. I notice, Stella. All your sweet gestures don’t go underappreciated by me.”

We’re still walking, but I’m floating high above the room in a cloud of bliss. Every word, every action—it’s all what I dreamed a relationship with Blake Campbell would be like. And better.

“There she is, the infamous Stella Baccino. You’ll have to tell your mother that I adore her biscotti. No one makes pastries like her.” The broad man approaching us must be Blake’s father. Though he has salt and pepper hair, not a follicle is out of place, like his son. Stewart wears navy slacks and a dress shirt with the same air of confidence and his eyes are all knowing, a trait he must have taught Blake.

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Campbell. Thank you, I will tell my mom. She’ll love to hear that you like her cooking. In fact, she’ll probably make you some anytime you wish.”

“Don’t tell him that. The old bastard might take her up on that offer,” Blake says affectionately. He releases my hand long enough to pull his father into a manly hug; they both pat each other on the back after they squeeze. It’s obvious that they care deeply for each other. I know that Zoe considers the music and athletic mogul to be an uncle of sorts, but she didn’t speak of him much. When he sweeps me into a hug of his own, I’m pleasantly surprised.
Ma would be, too,
a voice in the back of my mind reminds me. Clearly, family values are top shelf to the Baccino family.

“I’m Stewart, only Mr. Campbell in a formal letter.” He winks at me and puts a friendly arm around my shoulder, leading me into the massive ballroom. There are dozens of circular tables spread throughout the room and three multi-table buffet lines. I expected the mood to be somber, players focusing on the big game less than four days away. Instead, the atmosphere is jovial. Laughter rings out in abundance from the predominantly male occupants. I notice Cam talking easily with Trent Connors, the Wind’s quarterback.