Slap Shot, page 11
“Secrets?” He leaned in and whispered in her ear. “You bet. So many. You have no idea.”
“Is that right? I don’t see any jeweled pins.” And she ran her hand slowly through his hair. “No. Don’t feel any either.”
And just like that, he went from soft to raging, pounding hard like this was an erection he’d been saving all his life. He hadn’t had time to distance his pelvis from hers. There was no way she didn’t know, but she would probably pretend she didn’t.
But he was wrong and she didn’t move away, either. “Well, hello,” she said.
What a woman. He shook his head and smiled. “I am a bad, bad boy.”
“But an incredible dancer.” She moved in closer. “Did you have lessons?”
“Hardly. Unless you count getting passed around by the older girls at the annual smelt feed the spring I turned fifteen because I’d gotten some height on me.”
She raised one eyebrow and tilted her head. “I doubt it was only because you were tall if you’ve always been this pretty.”
She might have a point. He hadn’t lost his virginity to Hope Zielinski in that VFW hall cloakroom, but she’d taught him some things that still served him well today.
Bro Code or not, he’d like to show them to Gabriella. And that wouldn’t have anything to do with emotional availability.
The song would be ending soon. Bryant felt a little panic. He didn’t want to let her go, but if he didn’t, he might never. Gabriella was the kind of woman a guy would think about for the rest of his life after he’d settled for someone else. He didn’t want to be that man—which meant he ought to run.
But on the other hand . . .
“Song’s almost over.” She sounded wistful—as wistful as he felt.
He locked Emile and the Bro Code in a box and put it on the shelf with every other bad or distasteful thing that he’d ever encountered.
He ran his knuckles down her cheek and she sighed, all sweet-like. “It doesn’t have to be for us.”
“I don’t date hockey players. Ever.”
“I’m not asking you for a date. And I’m emotionally unavailable. Seven good women and a puppy dog told me so.”
“Are you physically available?”
He twirled her to give himself time to process. “Is that what you want?” he said close to her ear.
The song moved into the chorus. It would be the last.
Gabriella leaned her head back and looked at him through half-closed eyes. “I have a feeling you might do something right.”
“You still haven’t answered me.” He moved his hand to the small of her back. “What do you want, Gabriella?” If she was just flirting, fine. He’d walk away, no regrets. But he didn’t think she was.
“I’m not looking for a man. I’m looking for a friend.” She moved the hand on his shoulder up to his neck. “And if that friend happened to be the most beautiful man in the room, a moment in time with him wouldn’t be amiss.”
He laughed and hugged her to him as the song faded away. “And this is what I would say to the most beautiful woman in the room: It won’t be a moment. I’m only Swifty on the ice.”
• • •
The music was over. The correct thing to do would be to step away from Bryant, applaud, and let him escort her off the floor.
But just then, Gabriella wasn’t into correct. From the moment Bryant rescued her, she’d felt something warm and wanting. Despite her flirting, she wasn’t sure she would have gone through with it—it being what she was about to go through with—but when Bryant had stroked her cheek the same way Emile had stroked Amy’s, any contemplation she’d had was over.
That sweet, tender gesture had made her feel a different kind of longing—not to be alone, not to be sad. It had made her want some semblance of what her brother had now—even if it was brief and imitation.
“This way.” Bryant took her hand and moved slowly toward the spot where he’d found her. She wondered if he was going to leave her there—but she didn’t need to wonder long. “Through this door,” he said quietly and headed toward the same door that she’d been going to use for her escape route earlier.
“Where does it go?” For all she knew, it might open into a fiery pit of hell. The Davenports had everything else—grand salon, multiple parlors, music room, verandahs for every direction. Why not their own private hell?
“No idea where it goes.” But he surged on as if he did. “The Saint probably knows, even if he couldn’t tell if it was south or west. Should we find him and ask?” He tilted his head until his hair fell in his eyes. “Or should we just go with it, then? Huh? Just you and me?”
“That door could be a trap. There could be a ledge on the other side. We could be tricked into falling into a dungeon.”
He laughed and moved them closer to the door. “I’ve got to say, I’d be all right with that if it was a private dungeon—because Gabriella Charbonnet, I can’t wait to kiss you.” He brought his face very close to hers, and for a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to wait. “Have you ever done anything crazy, Gabriella—really insane? Like go through a door without knowing if it was bedroom or a kitchen?”
“I don’t think houses like this have bedrooms on the ground floor.”
He smiled squeezed her hand. “Then I guess we’d better find some stairs.” And he opened the door.
Not a ledge with a dungeon or a fiery pit. Just the dining room, with servants replenishing the buffet. The hungry hordes couldn’t be far behind. There were also two huge floor to ceiling china cabinets full of crystal—hundreds of pieces.
“Beef Wellington? Highball glass?” Bryant asked as he rushed her toward another door—one that led to a wide sun porch, that led to the outside, which is where they landed before Gabriella could catch her breath.
She almost told him she couldn’t leave the party, had to stay, meet Amy’s family, be charming. All that was true, but she could do it later. Pickens had said the party would go late.
But there on a dark terrace with more than a little nip in the air, Bryant folded her against him and his mouth was on hers.
She got lost in his mouth, lost in his arms, lost in everything about him. She wanted him. Not with a forever kind of want. Probably not even with a tomorrow kind of a want. But not just a sex-tonight kind of want, either. This was different. She’d wanted men before—wanted sex, though it had been longer ago than she cared to consider. It wasn’t just about the warmth in her loins, though there was plenty of that and—angels above and demons below—this man could kiss, oh yes, he could.
There was a steady, familiar, belonging feeling to being in his arms—all backlit with fire.
He lifted his mouth from hers. “It’s time to go.” His voice was shaky.
“Where?”
“No idea, but we’re going there.” With that, he took her hand and rushed her toward a door across the way that led inside. “If I were building a house and I put the dining room there”—he seemed to be talking to himself—“I’d put the kitchen here.” He opened the door. “Yes! Stairs.”
He pulled her inside and they were in a tiny anteroom with a staircase and built-in glass case after case of every kind of drinking vessel known to man.
Bryant noticed, too. “Mary Lou Davenport sure does love her some glasses.”
“I can see why she didn’t want us drinking out of cans and bottles at this party. She has to justify owning all this crystal. These probably aren’t even her favorites—stuck off like this under the stairs.”
“The Harry Potter of barware?” He pulled her to him and kissed her again. Now she’d had an outside kiss and an inside kiss—and they both had turned her inside out.
Gabriella pulled away. “The kitchen’s right through there. I can hear the pots and pans banging. Do you want me to sneak in there and get you a beer?”
“Tempting, but no. I want you to go up those stairs with me. Come on.” He took her hand and in a flash they were halfway up.
“Wait!” Gabriella said.
“What?”
“This is the part where I’m supposed to say, what if we get caught and that we aren’t supposed to go upstairs without being invited, let alone in the house of the man who owns your team.”
He smiled—part amused, part sexy, all “come and get me.”
“So, are you going to say any of that?” He smoothed some escaped wisps of hair off her face.
Not a chance. She felt his smile reflected on her own face. “No. I’m not. I just wanted you to know—”
“That you’ve never done this kind of thing before?”
She laughed. “I really haven’t. Not that I expect you believe it.”
“Oh, I do believe it.” He kissed her again. Stairs kiss. Just as good. “But what right would I have to give a damn if you had?”
The door opened below and they heard footsteps. It was a good thing they both had legs long enough to take two steps at a time or they would have gotten caught. Finally, they were upstairs in a long hallway.
Bryant put his hand on the first doorknob he saw.
“Bryant?”
“What?” He looked over his shoulder at her.
“Not the master bedroom. That would be taking things too far.”
“Agreed.” He opened the door and looked inside. “I don’t think we have anything to worry about.” He pulled Gabriella inside and locked the door. He was right. The room was pretty, but not overly plush and on the small side. Definitely not a master. “No way Mary Lou would sleep in here. Not a glass in sight.”
Gabriella dissolved in laughter and held her arms out to him.
Chapter Eleven
All kind of sloppy, corny thoughts went through Bryant’s mind when he looked at Gabriella.
Goddess among women. Eyes like the sky. Skin like silk. Lips like—well, he didn’t know about that one. Maybe it was a good thing he’d been more interested in his slap shot and right hook than tenth grade poetry. If he’d preserved any more poetic thoughts, his brain might turn to rose petals and Cupid poop. The puzzling thing was, why had he only noticed her lately? It wasn’t like she’d turned from a gawky fourteen-year-old to a woman who’d come into her own. She’d been a woman five years ago.
She took a step closer to him. “We don’t have a lot of time. We’ll be missed.”
“Right.” And she was. “I’m going to touch you.” He ran his hands up her arms, over her shoulders, and cupped her cheeks. She looked surprised. No doubt, she’d expected him to touch her in more interesting places—and he would. He’d get to that. But it had been a very long time since he’d made love to a woman he’d taken the time to touch. “I want to touch you in your public places.”
She laughed and placed a hand over his. “I have public places?”
No. Come to think of it she didn’t. Public places would imply that she had places that anyone could touch. Unacceptable.
“Only as opposed to private places.” He lifted her chin and kissed her—gently teasing her lips and drawing her tongue into his mouth as he stroked the back of her neck and her arms. It had never struck him before that kissing was such an intimate act. She tasted like red wine, which he’d never liked until now. Just when he thought he couldn’t become more aroused, she let out a low moan and his penis set a personal best record. He opened his mouth wider because he wanted more, wanted to give her more—and he did for a long time, until breathing wasn’t optional.
“If this hockey thing doesn’t work out for you,” Gabriella said against his mouth, “you could give kissing lessons. If kissing were an Olympic sport, you’d be the winner. Then you could go on to coach other winners.”
“You’re good for a guy’s ego.” He reached into her hair and started searching for those little twinkle pins. He was going to take that hair down.
“Don’t take my hair down,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t fix it again. I had it done at a salon. We have to go back to the party, so you can’t take it down unless you know how to put it back up. Do you?”
“Yes. I do. I can fix it up way better than before.” He put his hand on either side of his head and wiggled his fingers. “I can put in flashing lights—got some in my pocket for such emergencies.”
They laughed together and hugged, friendly and sweet-like. He kissed her brow.
“So no hair taking down?” he asked.
“Afraid not. How about if I let you take off my dress?”
“You would win the Olympics of best ideas.” Suddenly, he couldn’t wait to get her naked—naked and next to him. There was a time and place for public touching, but that time had passed. He reached behind her, expecting a zipper, but found buttons—tiny buttons and about four million of them. He leaned his head on her shoulder. “The maker of this dress has true hatred in his soul for me. So I’m guessing if you won’t let me take your hair down, tearing your dress off is completely off the table.”
“I’ll do it.” She reached behind her and in a matter of seconds, her dress was in a puddle around her feet on the floor.
“How—” He was going to ask how she had undone the buttons from hell so fast, but the sight before him left him speechless.
She was oblivious. “There’s a zipper hidden under the buttons,” she said—just stood there talking like the mere mortal that she could not possibly be.
Apart from getting it off as fast as possible, he had never concerned himself with an opinion on women’s underwear before, but he’d never seen any like this. It was a fair bet it hadn’t come from an outlet mall like the one his mother and sisters shopped at for school shoes, Easter hats, first communion clothes, and the like.
No. Gabriella’s underwear was that watered-down grape Kool-Aid color like her dress, but see-through and lacy. The bra was low cut and covered the lower half of her small, perfect breasts, and the thong was little more than a triangle of lace and some strings. None of that was unusual. But above the thong, just below her belly button, sat a wide band of lace with ribbons and hooks that attached to her stockings. The whole outfit sparkled like magic, but it was probably just the little beads sewn onto the lace.
The sight of it all sent his cock into a frenzy, not unlike a rabid dog being chased with a water hose. That dog wanted out of his pants.
Her spectacular body would have been more than sufficient to drive a man to beg, but it was mostly that lacy stocking holder that put him into a completely senseless state of mind. If he wasn’t careful, he’d start drooling. Women didn’t wear stockings anymore—or if they did, they wore panty hose, the singularly most unattractive item anyone could wear. But this lace thing—that was a different story.
Garter belt. That’s what it was. No wonder he couldn’t think of what it was called. Hockey players wore garter belts to hold their socks up, but this was no Bauer or Shock Doctor version.
He let his eyes drift to her legs. What legs—miles and miles of perfect legs, plenty to wrap around him with some to spare. The parts he’d already seen—knees, ankles, calves—had made promises about the secret parts. And those promises were well kept.
His voice was shaky and he was sweaty. “I have to say, I never saw anything like you in the VFW cloakroom in St. Sebastian, Michigan.”
“No?” She stepped closer and brushed the hair off his face. “I don’t have a twin in St. Sebastian, Michigan?”
“Girl, there’s no equal to you in any VFW hall on any planet.” He ran his hand over the garter belt. It felt soft from the silk and rough from the lace and beads. “Do these little beads hurt you?”
“No.”
And he could stand it no more. He grabbed her against him, filling his mouth with hers, grinding her pelvis against his. Oh, yes. A tall girl had her advantages. They fit together like Legos.
“I want you, Bryant Taylor,” she whispered again his ear. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.”
“That’s a lot of want.” When he cupped her breast, he was shaking like a fifteen-year-old virgin man-child who’d just been given the go-ahead from the girl he’d just been hoping to dry hump. “You are the most beautiful woman in this world, or any world.”
“That’s a lot of beauty.”
“Uh huh.” That was all he could say with his mouth on the soft part of her neck.
She sighed, shuddered, and stroked the same spot on his neck. “How did you know about that spot? Perfect . . . perfect.”
His hand drifted from one breast to the other, stroking lightly until her nipples were hard. Only then did he bend his mouth to suckle her there through the silk.
She moaned and reached for the buttons on his shirt. “Tell me again why we looked for a bedroom and not a closet.”
“Because it has a bed.”
“Yet, we’re standing up and you’re still wearing everything you started out in.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.” He picked her up, laid her across the bed, and stripped completely while she watched.
“Oh, my.” She smiled with appreciation.
“I work out.” He found the condom in his wallet and threw it on the nightstand.
She smiled. “You’re good at it.”
“I’m going to take your fancy little bra and panties off you now. But will you leave on the rest of it?”
She laughed. “The garter belt and stockings?”
“That would be the ones.”
“If you won’t mess up my hair.”
He gave her an evil little look. “Which hair?” And he stripped off her thong. That’s when he discovered the only hair she had was on her head.
She burst out laughing. “If you could see the look on your face!”
Then he was entwined with her, skin on skin, silky legs against his, her hands everywhere, stroking, urging him on. He did his best to return the favor, and from the sounds she made, he wasn’t doing a half-bad job. He almost lost it completely when she took his cock in her hand and stroked it against her garter belt.
“I might have a garter belt fetish,” he said into her ear. “Yes! Do that again.”
