It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars #1)(83)

There was a long pause. Her cheeks were flushed, her heart pounding. She was appalled at her loss of control, and she braced herself for his retaliation, but instead of exploding, he almost seemed distracted.

“Uh-huh.”

She gulped. “That’s all you have to say?”

The plane hit a patch of turbulence, pressing his hips more firmly against hers. Her eyes flew open as she realized he was fully aroused.

Looking vaguely embarrassed, he held up both hands. “It’s not intentional. I know you’re trying to make a point and I heard every word you said. Honest. But you kept wiggling while you were talking, and the plane started to bounce, and— I don’t know. It just happened.”

Her temper rekindled. “I’m not in any mood for this.”

“Neither am I. Not mentally, anyway. As for physically . . .”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

The jouncing continued, rocking their bodies together. Once again he shifted his hips, cleared his throat. “Are you—uh—seriously trying to tell me that you think you’re—uh—responsible for us beating the Giants?”

The mildness of his tone, the hot friction between their bodies, took the starch out of her. “No. . . . Not exactly. . . . Of course not. Well, maybe a little bit. . . . Partly. Yes, definitely partly.”

“I see.” He ducked his head and braced both hands on each side of the counter behind her. His hair smelled of pine and spice from his postgame shower. She could feel his thumbs against her hips. The plane continued to bounce and she fought to ignore the thrilling abrasion of her breasts rubbing against his chest.

“You’re a loose cannon,” he said quietly, “and I don’t like surprises.” His jaw brushed her hair as he spoke. “If you thought there was a problem with my coaching, you should have talked to me about it.”

“You’re right. Theoretically.” Her voice sounded as if it were coming from a distance. “But, you can be intimidating.”

Once again, she felt the soft caress of his jaw against her hair. “So can you.”

“Me?” Her mouth curled in a delighted smile. “Really?”

“Really.”

Her smile faded as she saw the way he was looking at her. She licked her lips. “I’m . . .”

“Hot?” His molasses drawl made that short word last forever.

She swallowed. “Warm.”

He smiled his Southern boy’s crooked smile, slow and easy, conjuring up endless humid nights. “Not warm, darlin’. Hot.”

“Maybe. . . .”

“Me, too.”

She could feel every part of him through her clothes. He thrilled her, he scared her. He made her feel as if she’d only been half-alive before they’d met.

His hand settled around her waist. “You and me. We’re . . .”

“Hot.” The word slipped out.

“Yes.” He dropped his head and took her mouth.

The lateness of the hour. The tension of the game. For whatever reason, the moment his lips touched hers, she lost all sense of restraint.

He scooped his big hands beneath her hips, and his elbow whacked the wall as he lifted her. Their bodies ground together. Her knee bumped into the door. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and gloried in the feel of him pressed so hard against her.

Their kiss turned into a wild oral mating, something primitive and ungovernable, fed by a passion that had taken on a life of its own.

With a hoarse exclamation, he lowered her onto the edge of the small counter behind her and shoved up her sweater and bra. Gathering her breasts in his hands, he lifted them to his mouth. She gripped his belt buckle, while she pushed her other hand under his shirt so she could feel the hard muscles of his chest.

Her thighs were splayed wide to accommodate his legs, and his mouth dived to encompass one nipple. Sliding his hand down over her stomach, he cupped her.

“Don’t ever . . .” he murmured against her moist nipple while he rubbed her through her slacks, “. . . wear these again.”

“No . . .”

“Only dresses I can pull up.” He unfastened her slacks, pushed down the zipper.

“Yes.” She grappled with his belt buckle, shoved up his shirt.

“And no panties.” His mouth left her breasts. He slipped his hand inside the cotton fabric.

Wet. Hot. He found her.

With a gasp, she pressed her open mouth against his bare chest. The hair was silky under her tongue.

“Here,” he murmured hoarsely. “Inside. . . .”

“Do. Yes. . . .” She worked at his zipper, but the fabric caught in the metal teeth halfway down. With a moan of frustration, she slid her hand inside, past the elastic band of his briefs to encircle him.

He made a strangled exclamation and lifted her while she stroked. His shoulder bumped into the wall. He braced his left foot on the platform that held the commode and worked at her slacks and panties, but their removal was difficult because of the confined space. She felt the wet cold of the basin on her buttocks and his heat in her hand. His upper arm hit one wall, his opposite elbow the other. He was finally forced to use the toe of his shoe to free her garments from their snare around her ankles. Kissing her deeply, he worked her with his fingers.

Her hand on him trembled. She had never done this to a man, but suddenly her hand wasn’t enough. It was too distant from her heart. She pushed him as far away as she could manage and slipped from the edge of the basin. Turning her hips to the side, she bent into an impossibly awkward position and parted her lips. A shudder swept through her as she lost a new virginity to him.