When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)(62)

“I’m not a virgin, and I’m not running scared. I’m just not good at transitions, and you know this is going to ruin everything. Next to Rachel, you’re sort of my best friend.”

“Exactly what a sex-starved man does not want to hear.”

“You’re right. I’m being stupid.” She slipped off her Cavatina3 and set it on the bathroom counter, followed by her poison ring, her Egyptian cuff, and, finally, her Stars ball cap.

She shook her hair out of its ponytail and took another deep breath. She was going to do this. She was going to forget that she’d fallen in love with him and simply enjoy it. This was about her body, not about her heart. She turned the knob.

He was sitting on the floor outside the door, his back against the wall, looking bored. “Sorry to tell you this,” he said, “but I’ve lost interest.”

“Regrettable.” She sat cross-legged on the floor next to him.

He bent one knee and propped his elbow on top. “Here are all the reasons you and I can never have a serious long-term relationship.”

“Keep talking dirty to me.”

“You’re completely dedicated to your career.”

“True.”

“In the world of opera, the sun pretty much rises and sets on you.”

“A slight exaggeration, but go on.”

“You’re a first stringer. A superstar.”

“Thank you.”

“And I’m a man who’s tired of playing backup.”

“Understandable.”

“I’m not designed to hold your purse while you sign autographs.”

“Hard to envision.”

“Or hand you a water bottle when you come offstage.”

“Environmentally unsound, those plastic water bottles, but I get your point.”

“In conclusion . . .”

“There’s a conclusion?”

“In conclusion, you’re a first stringer, Liv. And I could never be happy running around after you playing your backup.”

“So, you’re saying . . . ?”

“It’s not possible for me to have a serious relationship with you.”

She cocked her head. “You agree? We’re doomed?”

“Completely.”

“Fantastic!” She swung herself over him, braced her knees on each side of his hips, and kissed him all over. Long, deep kisses. Kisses that had nothing to do with love, only with need. The kiss changed shape, grew hungrier. He plowed his hands under her sweater and fumbled for the clasp of her bra.

Which didn’t exist. Because . . . sports bra.

He tugged at it.

She hopped off him. “Just for you.” She stretched out her arms and pulled him up. With her hands against his chest, she drew him to the bed, pushed him down on it, and tossed aside his shoes. Stepping back, she gave him her most seductive Delilah smile and tugged her sweater over her head. It was time to play. Not to think. Not to let her feelings surface. Only to enjoy.

She might be self-conscious about her utilitarian underwear, but it didn’t seem to bother him—this gorgeous man with his kryptonite green eyes and hell-raising body.

He leaned against the bed’s many pillows to watch her. She took forever unzipping her slacks and sliding them past her hips. She bent over slowly, offering up a prime view of her cleavage, as she stepped out of them.

Utilitarian bra. Serviceable underpants. She looped her hands behind her head, tunneled her fingers through her hair, and lifted it, letting it slither over her hands and wrists, all the time smoldering him with her eyes.

“You . . . are . . . killing . . . me,” he said in a rough rasp.

Her voice was liquid smoke. “Enjoy your death.”

Playing the seductress. This was what she did onstage. Carmen. Delilah. Crazy, sexy Lady Macbeth. Her body was performing as it had been trained to perform, but performing only for him—this strongman she had under her power just as Delilah had bewitched Samson.

She moved her hips, toyed with her hair, and contemplated how to most gracefully, most seductively, get a sports bra over her head without breaking the mood.

A dilemma for any woman, but she was not any woman.

She turned away from him and surreptitiously slipped the bottom band above her breasts so it wouldn’t catch. She gracefully crossed her arms. A twist, a tug with her thumbs, a determined pull without any visible sign of effort . . . Just like that, she had the ugly thing over her head. She dangled it from her fingertips and dropped it to the floor.

She let him take in the expanse of her back, the long ridge of her spine. She tucked her thumbs in the rear band of her briefs. Toyed there for a bit, teasing him as if she were about to take them off, only to remove her thumbs and leave them in place.

A soft groan came from the bed. Slowly, still in her briefs, she turned to face him, her breasts bare to his gaze. His eyes were half lidded, lips parted, the portrait of a fully clad, fully aroused man.

She smiled. You, my love, might be the king of the gridiron, but I, I am La Belle Tornade.

Once again, she reached for her hair, lengthening her torso, emphasizing her breasts. Reveling in her power. Until he said the most extraordinary thing.

“Sing for me. ‘Habanera.’”

For an instant she thought this was one of his desensitizing exercises, except horrifically ill timed. But those half-lidded eyes, his husky voice, told her otherwise. This was the seduction he wanted, a seduction no woman from his past, from his future, could offer. Only her.