her earlobe. Or at least she assumed it was accidental. However it happened, her knees wobbled.
“I …” His hand was low on her belly, holding her in place against him. “Wait—what are you doing?”
“We never really got to say hello in private.” He tightened his grip. “Hello, Rainey.”
If his voice got any lower on the register, she’d probably orgasm on the spot.
“It’s been too long,” he murmured against her jaw.
Telling herself that no one could see them, she pressed back against him just a little. “I don’t know about too long.”
A soft chuckle gave her goose bumps, and then he was gone so fast she nearly fell on her ass. When she spun around, she got a good look at that gorgeous face—the square jaw, the almost arrogant cheekbones, the eyes that could be ice-cold or scorching-hot depending on his mood. And no matter what his mood was, there was always the slight suggestion that maybe … maybe he belonged on the dark side.
It was impossibly, annoyingly intriguing. He was impossibly, annoyingly intriguing, and yet he called to the secret part of her that had never stopped craving him. She headed toward the building, and he easily kept pace. Between the field and the building was a full basketball court, with a ball sitting on the center line.
Mark nudged it with his foot in a way that had it leaping right into his hands. He tossed it to her, a light of challenge in his eyes. “One on one.”
“Basketball’s not your sport, Coach.”
“And it’s yours?”
“Maybe.”
“Then play me,” he dared.
“We’re wearing the same color shirt. Someone’s going to have to be skins.” She had no idea why she said it, but he smiled.
“I guess that would be me.”
She shrugged as if she could care less, while her inner slut said “yes please.”
“I guess—”
The words backed up in her throat when he reached over his head and yanked his shirt off in one economical movement, tossing it aside with no regard for the fact that it probably cost more than all her shirts added together.
Her eyes went directly to his chest. His skin was the color of the perfect mocha latte, and rippled with the strength just beneath it. She let her gaze drift down over his eight-pack, and—
“Keep looking at me like that,” he said, “and we’re going to have a problem.”
She jerked her gaze away. “I wasn’t looking at you like anything.”
“Liar.”
Yeah. She was a liar. She dribbled the ball, then barreled
past him to race down the court. She could hear his quick feet and knew he was right behind her, but then suddenly he was at her side, reaching in with a long arm to grab the ball away.
She shoved him, her hands sliding over his heated skin. Catching herself, she snatched the ball back, then executed a very poor shot that went in by sheer luck. Grinning, she turned to face him and plowed smack into his chest.
“Foul,” he said.
“What are you, a girl?”
That made him smile. “Gee, wonder where Sharee gets her attitude from?”
“Actually, she gets that from her abusive alcoholic father.”
Mark lost his smile and dribbled as he studied her. “It’s a good thing … what you’re doing here.”
Feeling oddly uncomfortable with the compliment and the way his praise washed over her, she snatched the ball and went for another shot. Competitive to the bone, Mark shouldered his way into her space, grabbed the ball and sank a basket far more gracefully than she’d done. Dammit. She took the ball back and elbowed him when he crowded her.
He grinned, a very naughty grin that did things to her insides. “Is that how you want to play?” he asked.
“Dirty?”
“Playing” with him at all was a very bad idea. But as always with Mark, her best judgment went out the window. Or in this case, down the court where she took the ball. Her feet were in the air for the layup when he grabbed her and spun her away from the basket.
Oh, no. Hell, no. She struggled, and they both fell to the ground. He landed with a rough “oomph.” Lying on top of him, she looked down into his face, extremely aware of how he felt sprawled beneath her.
His eyes were heat and raw power. “Foul number two. You play panicked, Rainey. Am I making you nervous?”
“Of course not.” Face hot, fingers even hotter after bracing herself on his bare chest, she scrambled off him. She walked along the side of the rec building to the storage shed to put the ball away.
Mark had picked up his shirt and followed her, pulling it on as he did. Then he backed her to the shed.
“You really don’t make me nervous,” she said.
“You sure about that?”
Before she could answer, he kissed her, slipping a hand beneath her shirt at the base of her spine, trailing his fingers up her back. The kiss was long and slow and deep, and her hand came up to his chest for balance.
And absolutely not to explore the tight muscles there.
By the time he broke it off, she realized she’d let one of his legs thrust between hers, and she had both hands fisted in his shirt. Clearly she was sex-deprived. That was the only way to explain how she was riding his leg, breathing like a lunatic, still gripping him for all she was worth. She stared up at him, unable to access the correct brain synapses to make her mouth work. By the time she managed to speak, he’d smirked and begun walking away.
Dammit! “I’m not nervous,” she called after him. “I’m annoyed, and I won our game!”
“You cheated.” He shot her a look over his shoulder. “And payback is a bitch.”
AFTER LEAVING THE FIELD, Mark attempted to put both Rainey and their kiss out of his head, which turned out to be surprisingly difficult.
Rainey had always had a way of worming beneath his skin and destroying his defenses, and apparently that hadn’t changed. He’d missed her in his life—her sweet smile, her big heart, that way she’d had of making him want to be a better person than he was.
He picked up pizza and beer, and took it to the Welcome Inn.
As per their agreement, Casey and James had been at the construction site all day, just as their Duck counterparts were doing in their chosen community a couple hours south of them, just outside of Santa Barbara.
The two Mammoth players had been brought back to the inn by one of the workers. Mark had purposely stranded them in Santa Rey without a car, wanting them to be at his mercy—and out of trouble, with no chance of finding it. He located them in Casey’s room, hunched over the yellow pages of the phone book arguing over food choices.
James looked up. “Did you know that there’s no room service here?”
Mark lifted the three pizzas and twelve-pack. “I’m your room service tonight.”
“Sweet.” Casey looked very relieved as he tossed aside the phone book. He stretched and winced. “There’s no whirlpool. No hot tub. No spa—”
“Nope.” Mark took the sole chair in the room, turning it around to straddle it. “There’s no amenities at all.”
“Then why are we—”
“Because you two screwed up and are lucky to still have jobs.”
They sighed in