Game On

chapter 24


LUC STOOD JUST BEYOND THE glass doors of the arrival hall, leaning casually against a pillar, his breath-catching handsomeness freezing her in her tracks. He held a single rose.

“Excuse me,” someone behind her said. She’d unintentionally blocked the flow of people, but she didn’t care. She only cared about the man standing yards away, looking her up and down.

She moved forward, surprised her legs still had the strength to carry her. A silly grin spread across her face, and she was helpless to stop it. He was here, for her. The Luc Bisquet. Waiting for Clara Bean. Her insides melted to drippy goo, but she somehow managed to keep moving toward him, through the sliding doors, one foot in front of the other.

It was like a romantic film. In Hollywood’s version, she’d be played by someone cool and chic, like Carey Mulligan or Emily Blunt, and Luc…well, there was no actor gorgeous enough to play him, nor one that could fill a leather jacket quite so well.

Emily/Carey/Clara would look up and see him, her face would brighten, she’d drop her bags—because there are never wheelie carts in movies—and run into his arms. He’d twirl her, and they’d kiss with such passion, everyone around them would stop and applaud. The overture would begin and he’d say, “What took you so long? I’ve been waiting all my life…”

But this wasn’t a movie. It was Clara Bean: Diary of a Selfish Little Girl featuring a character who still had a career-ending secret and a self-conscious unawareness of her own body odor. And as much as she wanted to throw herself in his arms, she wasn’t really that kind of girl. Instead, she gave a nod and said, “Biscuit.”

“Bean,” he smirked. “What took you so long?”

Her heart leapt.

“The flower is starting to wilt.”

She took it and smiled, touched he came and was sweet enough to think flowers. “It’s lovely, thank you.” Watching his expression, she brought the flower to her nose and inhaled. His expression didn’t change, aside from looking inordinately pleased with himself, which could only mean he didn’t know.

She sighed with relief. “My bags were last off.” Thank God, thank God, thank God she’d taken the time to freshen up. “And thank you for coming. It’s a lovely surprise, but I could have met you at the hotel.”

Luc put a knuckle under her chin and tipped her head back. Clara white-knuckled the flower stem as he dipped to kiss her. He paused, inches from her mouth. “I couldn’t wait that long.”

It was a soft, undemanding kiss, dry and simple yet bursting with promise and things unsaid. Clara pressed a hand to her stomach to keep the butterflies in check.

“Get a room,” someone heckled.

“Yes, let’s,” Luc whispered.

The taxi ride to the hotel pushed her to new levels of self-control. Clara looked out the window, tried to absorb the city, the buildings, the honking traffic, while doing her best to not focus on Luc’s every breath. Conversation was unnecessary because they both knew if they spoke, they’d have to make eye contact and looking at one another without touching, without clinging, without tearing each other’s clothing off, was nigh impossible, a Herculean task. It was far easier to ignore one another, ignore the heat between them, and let the silence act as a buffer. She clung to the stem of the rose and pretended she was alone in the taxi until her knee bumped against Luc’s thigh on a sharp turn and reminded her she was in the company of the finest man on planet Earth. He cleared his throat in response, as though he, too, was thrust into the same combative zone of lust versus restraint. The driver, bless his cotton socks, cracked a window open and the October wind diluted the thickened air.

“I already checked you in,” Luc said as they pulled up to the hotel. He passed her a registration envelope, his hand lingering on hers a second longer than appropriate. “Why don’t you go on up,” he said in a suggestive tone. “I’ll bring your suitcase and take care of the driver.”

Clara’s limbic system soared into overdrive while her cerebral cortex warned it was not okay to rip a man’s clothes off in a public foyer.

“Right, cheers,” she said, and scrambled out of the backseat before the limbic system won. It was just like him to be considerate enough to let her go on ahead to freshen up.

A tingle of anticipation crept up her spine as she sought out the bank of elevators. Would it be another suite, another whirlpool tub? Would there be views of the Hudson River? Or was it the East River? She had not yet read her New York guidebook.

As she waited for the lift, Clara brought the flower to her nose, inhaled deeply, and reached into the depths of her memory to imagine the scent of a single rose. Light, spring-after-a-rain fresh. The very recollection made her floaty and content. All that worrying for nothing. The angst, the sleeplessness, the eternity masquerading as three short days…it was over. She could enjoy the next few weeks in Luc’s company, and, as prescribed by Lydia, throw herself into the temporary affair with reckless abandon. Enjoy, avoid emotional attachment, and move on.

As the lift arrived at lobby level, Clara opened the slim folder for the room and floor number and noticed the registration form clearly stated Clara Bean, single occupancy.

Single. The box under number of occupants held a bolded 1.

The rose fell from her fingers as the steel doors slid shut.



The room was indeed a single. One untouched king-sized bed, one bathroom with nary a hint of male presence, one standard hotel-issue television set with a non-HD curved screen. Bugger!

Had she deluded herself? Had she read too much into the soft touch of his lips at the airport, mistaken its lightness for restrained passion when it was merely a simple, meaningless greeting?

Did this have something to do with Valentina’s appearance? Had her sheer stunningness reminded Luc he could do better than barely-above-average Clara? Or maybe Val was still here? Maybe she had followed Luc to New York and was in this very hotel and he had gotten two single rooms to keep up appearances.

Or perhaps the drama of the past few days gave Luc pause for thought and he realized they’d moved ridiculously fast, catapulted their relationship to stage seven in less than as many days.

There was a very good chance sleep deprivation and extreme stress had messed up her judgement so thoroughly that—

A loud knock interrupted her mental flagellations. She went to the door and checked the peephole but saw no one. She opened the door and looked up and down, but the hall was completely empty. With a shrug, she closed the door, only to hear the knocking again, and realized it was coming from the closet.

“What the—”

Not a closet. Luc was standing in a connecting room holding her rose. “You dropped this in the elevator.”

“Clever boy,” she said with a cheek-splitting grin. “I thought you’d grown tired of me.”

“I didn’t want to appear presumptuous.”

Luc lifted her suitcase onto the luggage rack with ease, as if the bright orange heavy baggage sticker meant nothing. A dash of lust coursed through her as his biceps flexed.

“So? Why did Charlie drag you back to England?”

“That’s a dreadfully boring story, and we should probably go check out the restaurant,” she said a little too quickly.

His eyes locked onto hers and she could see the question forming on his face before he spoke the words. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Why, what did Val tell you?”

“Val?” He narrowed his eyes for the briefest of moments, then shook his head. “What does she have to do with this?”

He was so beautiful, so trusting. She couldn’t bear lying, but she couldn’t bear losing him, not when they had only a handful of moments left. Less than three weeks—so fleeting! It took her three weeks to get a reservation at Gordon Ramsay’s in Chelsea, and that flew by.

“It’s just that she was with Lydia in Italy, and I guess they didn’t get on too well, and I think she went and complained to Charlie. But that happened before I got there, so I don’t know the details and really, that’s all water under the bridge now, so shall we go check out the restaurant? I understand it’s a casual affair, so we needn’t gussy up.”

“I’m not sure I followed all that,” he said with a puzzled oh-you-women smirk. He pulled Clara toward him. “But I don’t think a public venue is the best place for me at the moment.”

“Why? Are you alright?” Clara asked, concerned he was having a wobbly moment of anxiety after the crowded airport.

“Fine, but I’d have a hard time controlling myself,” he said, his voice husky with lust. He cupped her cheek, sliding his fingers into her hair. “And the only thing I have an appetite for is you.”

It felt so good to be back in his arms. So right. She wanted him. Naked, skin to skin. “I need to shower first. It’s been a very long day.”

“Don’t think I can wait that long.”

Me either. “Want to come with me?”

Luc made a noise low in his throat and kissed her. Tasting him again after so long set her heart fluttering and her toes wiggling.

Clara didn’t know whose bathroom they were headed toward as they backward walked, undressed, and kissed. They eventually made it into a glass shower stall and became two slippery bodies pressed together, desperate, grasping, and hungrily devouring each other under a spray of hot water. His need seemed as raw and frantic as hers. She didn’t even try to stifle her mewls and moans.

Standing with her back to him, Clara pushed her derriere against his erection. She reached up and hooked her arms around the back of his neck and brought his open mouth down on hers. While their tongues parried, Luc roamed her body, learning her curves. His touch felt degrees hotter than the water.

He took a bottle of shower gel and squeezed an arc of soap across her chest. He entwined his hands with hers and led her on a guided exploration of her own body. Together, they lathered her chest, her ribs, her torso. They palmed her breasts, pausing for him to roll and pinch her diamond-hard nipples until she writhed against him.

Then lower, over the swell of her hips and around her belly button. Sensually, slowly, he moved toward her thighs until their joined hands slipped between her legs. She tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let her go, not even when he slipped their fingers into the seam of her sex. She bit her bottom lip as he pressed the pad of her own soapy digit against her *oris.

“Like this,” he said, directing her movements, showing her how he wanted her to touch herself before leaving to explore the rest of her.

Clara didn’t want to stimulate herself when there was a steely cock pressing against her backside, waiting, hot and impatient. She didn’t want to come first, she wanted to feel him, wanted to taste him, wanted him to impale her, now. She reached behind her and gripped his hard length.

“Not yet,” he growled and took her hand, moved it back to her p-ssy. Again, he pressed her fingers into herself. “Keep going,” he ordered, strumming with her. “Don’t stop.”

She obliged while he massaged her buttocks, coaxed her legs further open, and reached underneath to spear her with his fingers. Clara gasped as a gush of heat rolled through her.

“That’s it, love,” he said, leaving her channel to spread her slick juice up her backside.

Oh God, she couldn’t hold on, couldn’t keep up, but if she slowed her pace, his hand came back over hers, setting her back into the rhythm he demanded. Dangerously close to dropping to her knees, she cried, “I need you inside me. Please Luc, now.”

I need you to make me forget that I don’t deserve you. I need you to make me forget who and what I am.



At last, he leaned her over and plunged into her from behind, every deep thrust hitting her at an angle that made her gasp, that made her plead for more. He gripped her around the hips and drove into her, relentless, a machine bent on total domination, while she clawed at the tiles and moaned his name until an orgasm rendered her speechless.