Rachel Gibson - See Jane Score

In the weak light of the parking garage, he unbuttoned her coat, then shoved his hand under her sweater. Her flat stomach was warm and he slid his hand to her breast. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her breast hardly filled his hand. Her puckered nipple poked the middle of his palm like a hard little raspberry, and his testicles squeezed and his scrotum tightened and his knees almost buckled. He slid his mouth to the side of her cheek and took a deep breath. This was the most sexual excitement he’d felt in a long, long time, and he had to stop.

“Luc,” she gasped, then she grabbed the sides of his head and brought his mouth right back to hers. She ran her hands over his shoulders and chest and kissed him like a woman who wanted to end up in bed. A hot openmouthed feeding kiss that had him thinking of security cameras and of the likelihood of arrest. He rolled her hard nipple beneath his palm and she wrapped her leg around his waist. He shoved his erection against her crotch. The heat of their bodies nearly did him in. He ground against her and forgot about stopping.

“Not here,” he said as he ended the kiss. “We’ll get arrested. Believe me, I know.” He tilted his head back and took a deep breath. “There’s a Best Western or a Ramada within a few miles.” He blinked. He was fairly sure there was anyway. “I’ll grab a room while you wait in the car.”

“What?”

God, he wanted her. He wanted to fall on top of her and stay there for a good long while. “We’ll have sex all night. Half the morning too. And just when you think you can’t take anymore, we’ll go at it again.” It had been a long time since he’d wanted it so bad that he could hardly think beyond the throbbing in his pants. “I’m going to fuck you real good.” She didn’t say anything and he looked down into her face.

She unwrapped her leg from his waist and lowered her foot to the ground. “In a motel room?”

“Yes. We can take my car.”

“No.”

“Where?”

She pushed his hand from her breast. “Nowhere.”

“Why the hell not? I’m hard, and I don’t have to stick my hand down your pants to know you’re wet.”

Her eyes were wide and a little glassy. “You’re talking to me like I’m one of your groupies.”

He’d never even thought of her in those terms. Had he? No, he hadn’t. “You don’t like wet? What do you call it?”

“I don’t call it anything, and I don’t fuck. I make love. Groupies fuck.”

“Jesus,” he swore, “who cares? When you get down to it, it’s all the same thing.”

“No, it’s not, and I care.” She shoved at his chest and he took a step back. “I’m not one of your women. I’m a professional reporter!”

He didn’t know who she was trying to convince. Him or herself. “You’re a tease and a damn prude,” he said and turned on his heels. He shoved one hand in the pocket of his jacket and his hand curled around his keys until they cut into his palm. He was sorry he’d ever met Jane. He was sorry he’d ever laid eyes on her, and sorrier that she made him so insane that he’d kissed her and now he was going home hard. Again.

As he walked to his vehicle, he heard her car start and by the time he unlocked the driver’s side door of his Land Cruiser, she was gone, the glow of her red taillights the last remnants of her.

That and the ache in Luc’s groin and the pounding in his brain and the knowledge that he’d have to see her again in three days.

I make love, she’d said. The first time he’d met her, he’d figured her for one of those uptight, probably-hadn’t-had-sex-in-five-years women. And he’d been right.

“ ‘Make love,’” he scoffed as he climbed into his vehicle and started it up. Jane didn’t want to make love. He hadn’t misinterpreted her signals. A woman who wanted him to “make love” to her didn’t kiss like a porn queen. A woman who wanted to “make love” wanted to take her time. She didn’t wrap her leg around his waist while he had her shoved up against a wall in a parking garage.

He backed out of the parking space and headed home. Someone should teach the little prude a thing or two about being a tease. But it wasn’t going to be him. He was through with Jane Alcott.

This time he meant it.

Juke: To Fake an Opponent

Three days after the parking garage incident, Jane sat in the press box at the Key Arena, staring down at the ice.

“Do we get free food and booze up here?” Caroline asked her.

“There’s free food and booze in the media lounge.” She’d brought Caroline along so that she’d have someone to talk to. Someone to help take her mind off her current man problems. “I don’t usually go there until later.”

Caroline was dressed in an extremely tight Chinooks T-shirt and equally tight jeans. She was dressed for a fishing expedition, and she’d already caught the attention of the guy operating the video for the game. He’d flashed Caroline up on the screen three times already.

Darby joined them a few minutes before the pregame entertainment was to start. His hair was stiff with gel, and his pocket protector was stuck in his black silk shirt. Jane introduced him to Caroline, and his eyes widened and his mouth fell open a little as he gazed at Jane’s beautiful friend. She wasn’t surprised by Darby’s reaction, but she was a bit surprised when Caroline turned her charm on Darby and reeled him in.

The pregame show started, and Jane knew that in about fifteen minutes she was going to have to go to the locker room and wish the team luck. She was going to have to see Luc for the first time since he’d kissed her and she’d lost her mind and wrapped her leg around his waist. Thank God she’d come to her senses at the last minute and hadn’t gone with him to a motel. That would have been bad for a lot of reasons.

There was no denying it, though, she’d fallen madly in lust with Luc. She was drawn to him, pulled like she was a magnet and he was a big hunk of metal, and there didn’t seem to be anything she could do about it.

She’d spent the past week on the road avoiding him as much as possible. Avoiding the man who irritated her, and angered her, and made her in-sides melt. For the most part, she’d kept herself busy. She’d interviewed Darby for her Single Girl column, and she’d written a piece about nice guys who finished last. She’d told her readers that they should avoid those guys who set women’s hearts on fire and instead give nice guys a second look. She’d quoted Darby and made him sound good, and in return he was supposed to talk her up to the coaches who still didn’t want her around.

She’d taken her own advice and done fairly well at avoiding the one guy who set her heart on fire. Then he’d backed her against that wall and kissed her. She should have been shocked and appalled, but seeing him come at her, his lids lowered to half mast and lust heavy in his blue eyes, she’d gone all weak and excited at the same time. The moment his lips had touched her, she’d given in to her heart and fed it what it so desperately wanted. Luc.

Even though her feelings for him were a tangled mess, she could no longer avoid the truth. She wanted Luc. She wanted to be with him, but she wanted to be more than just another woman to take to just another hotel.

More than a groupie.

He’d called her a prude. She was anything but a prude. She didn’t care if men used rough language during sex. She wrote Honey Pie, for goodness’ sake. No, she was no prude. She was a woman hanging on to her dignity, fighting him and herself. Fighting not to fall completely in love with an unattainable man.

If he ever found out that she was Honey Pie, she supposed she wouldn’t have to fight it anymore. He might never speak to her again. He might even hate her.

After he’d stood in her hotel room in Denver last week and told her it was her dress’s fault that he’d kissed her, she’d sent in the March serial she’d written featuring a handsome Seattle goalie. She’d been so angry and hurt and she’d pressed send and had zipped it across cyberspace.

If Luc found out and read the March column, he’d know he was Honey’s latest victim. She told herself that he should be flattered. That maybe he would be flattered. Not every man in America had the honor of being put into a coma by Honey Pie. But she really didn’t believe Luc would feel honored, and that made her feel a little guilty. Of course, there was no way he’d ever connect her with Honey. He’d never know what she’d done. That didn’t assuage her guilt, however.

Darby laughed at something Caroline told him and pulled Jane’s thoughts from Luc. For a brief second, Jane wondered if she should warn Darby that he wasn’t her friend’s type, that she’d probably throw him back, but Darby looked more than happy to be caught up in Caroline’s smile. Instead of warning him, Jane left him to figure it out for himself. She put her briefcase beneath her seat and forced herself to take the elevator to the ground level.

She glanced down at the navy blazer she wore over her white turtleneck. She buttoned the jacket to make sure it covered her breasts. Before Luc had mentioned that her nipples stuck out, she hadn’t really given them a lot of thought. She really didn’t notice her breasts much. They were small and weren’t her best feature, and she just figured no one else noticed them either.

No one but Luc.

Her feet dragged a little as she approached the locker room, and she stopped by the door and listened to Coach Nystrom’s inspirational speech. When he wound down, she straightened her shoulders and walked into the room. She refused to look at Luc, but she didn’t need to see him to know he was in the room. She could feel him watching her. And it wasn’t a good vibe.

“Hey, Sharky,” Bruce called out to her.

“Hey, there, Fishy,” she said and turned her attention to the rest of the team. She took her place in the middle of the room and recited the good-luck ritual. “Keep your pants up, gentlemen. I have something to say. It will just take a minute, and I don’t want you to do that synchronized jock-dropping crap. Traveling with you guys has been an experience I won’t forget. I hope this is your year to win the Stanley Cup.” She walked over to the team captain, who was in the process of pulling his jersey over his head. “Good luck with the game, Hitman.”