“You are,” she replied distractedly. “By four.”
She went low, driving past him, and he stopped her not with his body but with his hand on her wrist, pulling her up while the ball bounced away down the court. The tug brought her back against his body, chest to chest, hip to hip. “We’re done,” he said. “I win.”
His hand still firmly gripping her wrist, he kissed her, hot and slick, his stubble rough against her lips, the sweat stinging in her abraded skin. But she couldn’t stop, couldn’t back away. It felt so natural, like all their games before should have ended this way and didn’t, like this was the natural conclusion to their running scrimmage that was so much more than a game. It was a fight, a struggle against themselves, against each other, against the timing that made anything more than basketball possible.
It was over. His mouth, hot and questing, only confirmed what she knew deep inside. For better or worse, the wait was over.
His lips dragged from her mouth, along her jaw, to nip at her earlobe. “Take me home with you.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
She snagged her jacket, knotting it around her waist while he grabbed both the ball and his shirt. “Leave it off,” she said when he thrust his arms into the sleeves.
He stopped. She would have sworn he was blushing, but he did as she asked, tossing his shirt over one shoulder, holding the ball between his wrist and hip as they walked. They’d barely merged with the wooded darkness under the trees lining the sidewalk when he wrapped his arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet, walking her backward down the path with her toes a couple of inches off the pavement.
“Jamie,” she said, torn between nerves and laughter. “Put me down. I’m too big for this.”
“Kiss me,” he replied.
At this angle her face was an inch or so above. Kissing down wasn’t new to her; she’d actually dated a couple of rugby players shorter than her, but this felt powerful, like she was claiming Jamie Hawthorn for her own. He tightened his arm around her waist and gave a soft grunt when her mouth met his, like it left him weak. The night felt magical, the freedom to press her body against Jamie’s, let skin slide against skin, feel the muscles shifting in his arms and shoulders. He carried her like she weighed nothing at all, all the way until the path merged with the sidewalk, when he put her down.
“Where are we going?” he murmured against her mouth.
She turned around, striving for a calm facade to present to whoever might be watching as they made their way into the neighborhood. “It’s not far,” she said, then cleared her throat, trying to make conversation to ease the tension. “You didn’t get my address from Ian?”
“Nope,” he said.
She shot him a look. “Why not?”
“Creepy,” he said in a singsong voice, making her laugh. “Why? Do you want me to climb in your window and watch you sleep?”
“Jeepers. No,” she said firmly. “Never.”
By the time they reached the cracked sidewalk leading to her front porch, she was all over goose bumps. He noticed, crowding close as she fumbled her key out of the zip pocket in her tights and unlocked the door. Heat pumped from him like an old radiator, hot enough to burn, steamy, tantalizing. She leaned into it. He leaned back, and when the lock turned they both stumbled into her living room. With a thud and a window-rattling crash he kicked the door closed behind him, and for a long, luminously charged moment, they stared at each other. Sweat streaked his face, but he showed no signs of being cold.
A long shudder wracked her. “Come on,” he said, gripping her wrist again and heading for the lone door off the combined living and dining room. They ended up in the hallway. Two doors led to bedrooms. She watched him sum up her office and discard it, then stop and stare at her unmade queen-sized bed, then discard that and head purposefully for door number three.
She’d bought the house because she’d always loved old Craftsman homes, and the previous owner had renovated both the kitchen and the bath, restoring them to period detail but with modern appliances and functional plumbing. They’d taken out the charming but impractical claw foot tub and replaced it with a big shower tiled on three walls, glass on the fourth. Jamie hummed with approval at the body jets and reached for the control, turning the water to steaming hot.
Then he crowded her into the glass and kissed her, hungry, intent, purposeful. His skin was hot to the touch. When she bent her knees and licked his throat, she tasted sweat and the desire seemingly seeping from his skin. He was hard against her from his chest to his pelvis, cock and thighs and knees bumping against her while his hands burrowed into her hair, loosening the elastic until she winced and it dropped to the floor at her feet.