AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I guess I’d better get used to this room.”
“Sorry.” With his hands in his pockets, that sweater enhancing his eyes and the planes of his face, he was flat-out delicious.
“You don’t have to apologize for a snowstorm. I’ll call Annika.” She whisked herself inside the bedroom she’d claimed, and rested her back against the closed door. Her pulse was jumping. Shit shit shit.
A night in a hotel room alone with her ex. Lacey might have to write a whole new article after this.
Thirteen
In life, as in baseball, sometimes you had to just laugh at the way things turned out. Like the time he’d fielded the perfect double play ball and fired it off to the wrong base. Or the time he’d bobbled an infield fly and then tripped over it in the dirt. Or the time he’d been distracted by a Billy Club sign in the crowd and gotten nailed by a single to the chest.
That was exactly what this situation was—a single to the chest. But he couldn’t let it knock him off his feet the way that one had. He had to shrug it off. Play on. Adapt.
Both of the suite’s bedrooms had their own bathroom. When he heard Jenna’s shower go on, he figured he should do the same. As the water coursed over him, he tried not to picture Jenna in her shower. Was she humming, the way she used to? Soaping her smooth curves? Had the scar from her c-section faded away? What about the scar on her scalp, from when a fishing hook had gone awry? He’d rushed her to the Urgent Care because the amount of blood that clotted her blond hair made him lose his shit.
When they’d closed it up with nothing but a butterfly bandage, she’d teased him for his panic. He’d been nineteen at the time, and that might have been the moment when he realized that he loved her.
He soaped his private parts, wishing he could take the edge off the semi-arousal he’d been experiencing ever since Jenna had rubbed his neck in the truck. He’d be a more responsible platonic companion if he could get some release. But somehow it felt wrong to jerk off when Jenna was right there in the same suite.
What if she was pleasuring herself? Maybe she’d taken down the shower wand and was directing the flow of water between her legs. And maybe she’d slide her hand down there too, find her own nub in that soft nest of hair. Rub herself until her body trembled and her nipples turned a deep blood-flushed rose. Maybe she’d touch them. Squeeze them. Run the water over them until they were hard and peaked. She’d have to bite her lip to stop the moans. And when she came, she’d…
Fucking stop it.
He came out of his trance to find his hand on his cock. It was rock hard and hot to the touch. Shit. There was no way he was going to get his erection under control with Jenna right next door. He’d have to just bang it out.
He came hard into his fist, his other hand braced on the shower wall, his jaw clenched. Taking one for the team, he told himself. If he was distracted by wanting Jenna, bad and risky things could happen tonight.
Anyway, maybe his little fantasy had been right, and she’d done exactly the same thing? He knew she still responded to him physically. That was why he’d been so surprised when she rubbed his neck. She was usually meticulous about not touching him.
Not that he’d complained. No one had ever been able to soothe away his post-game aches and pains like Jenna. Not even the team trainers. She knew exactly how to touch him and she had a sensitivity that he responded to on some kind of molecular level.
Out of the shower, he vigorously toweled himself off, lecturing himself the entire time on not crossing any boundaries with Jenna. Their post-marriage relationship worked because they respected each other’s boundaries. If he ruined that, it could take a long time to rebuild the trust they’d established. And that would have cascading consequences he didn’t even want to think about.
Do not mess around with the most important thing in your life, he told himself. And no, it’s not fucking baseball.
Once he had himself in firm control, he dressed in his tux—Dior, purchased on the advice of his agent who told him that there would be galas and fundraisers in his future and that he needed to be prepared.
Then he went into the common area of the suite and stopped dead.
Jenna stood between the TV cabinet and the couch, messing with the clasp of a necklace. Her head was tilted down, her hands fumbling at the back of her neck, and she made it look so graceful that she could have been a statue. Woman Donning Necklace.
Her position gave him a quick minute to soak in her appearance without her noticing. She wore a sleeveless sheath dress with a heart-shaped neckline that left her delicate collarbones and shoulders bare. Its color was a shimmery misty green with a metallic sheen. He hoped it had some kind of slit, because it hugged her body so perfectly that he wasn’t sure she could walk in it. Maybe that was why she was barefoot. Her toes were digging into the carpet as she struggled with the clasp. She’d painted her toenails silver.
That time he’d painted them for her and they’d gotten carried away and unknowingly spilled the entire bottle on the bedroom floor while he was licking her to a shrieking orgasm …
Stop that. Why were these memories sneaking into his brain like this? After so many years of carefully keeping them at bay?
He cleared his throat. “Do you need help with that?”
She glanced up. She’d put on makeup—mascara and something shimmery on her eyes that made them shine like the moon. “No. I got it. I just have to…” She twisted her face as she focused on the clasp. His fingers itched to help her. It would take him half a second, and he could just ignore the soft skin and the baby hairs that always curled up at her hair line.
Boundaries, jackass. Boundaries.
“Got it!” Triumphant, she dropped her arms and straightened her dress. “Is this dressy enough? I have shoes,” she added quickly. “Not going barefoot.”
“You look perfect.” No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep the burr of desire out of his voice. She caught it, too. He scrambled for a fix. “Unless you’re planning to wear your snow boots. Then I might worry.”
“What else would a small-town girl from Lake Bittersweet wear?” She skipped to the door, where she’d left her boots, and jammed her feet into them. As if performing for a photographer, she kicked one foot behind her, then shifted to the other, adding various comically sultry expressions to her poses.
