Game On

chapter 25


CLARA AWOKE TO THE DELICIOUS feeling of Luc’s hand cupping her breast, his lips on the back of her shoulder, their calves entwined. She moaned and stretched, content as the proverbial cat, horny as the proverbial rabbit. The bedside clock read six thirty, but it was the collection of foil packets next to it that caught her attention and gave her the first naughty thought for the day.

“Sorry to wake you, ma belle, but we have someplace to be.”

“How soon?”

“Couple of hours. Why?”

She’d never been more aware of time, of how one day turned into the next. She wasn’t going to have him much longer, but while she did, she was going to enjoy him, enjoy the sex, and pretend he wasn’t going to look at her with disappointment in his eyes when and if he ever discovered her truth.

She turned in his arms, threw her leg over Luc’s hip, and wrapped her fingers around his cock, already semi-erect. Selfish little girls took what they wanted, so why not?

A satisfied sound came from his throat as he hardened under her touch “I think we’ve time to—” But he didn’t finish because she’d already sheathed him and was guiding him in.

Luc’s movements were slow and lazy. He teased her entrance, sliding inch by inch, then pulling out before coming back a little deeper, until he finally filled her.

Clara clung to his shoulders. The position wasn’t optimal for depth, but she ground her hips against him, relishing the stimulation of her tender, throbbing *oris.

They watched each other with sleepy-eyed tenderness until their eyes screwed shut and their breathing turned to hot, shallow pants.

And though she would go to her grave with this little fact, while her muscles convulsed around him, while he whispered of God, of passion, of her, Clara heard the strains of Ave Maria.

She was glad she didn’t tell him her secret and ruin everything. And she wouldn’t. Not yet. Not while she was busy falling deeply and irrevocably in love.





“Before you dress, come here and listen to this,” Luc said as they wrapped themselves in plush white hotel robes.

“The mysterious podcast?” she asked, fighting the urge to finger comb the wet black curls at his neck.

“Yes. Bartel keeps bugging me about whether you’ve heard it yet. He called the morning you left. He’d conferenced in Riley and Spencer James and a half a dozen people from marketing, went on and on about his predictions coming true and how BMG was once again on the cutting edge.”

Luc cracked his laptop open and queued up the file. Clara sank into the chair and concentrated on the progress bar. For her own sanity, she needed something to stop her eyes from zinging back to Luc like a spoon to a magnet. She needed to maintain some semblance of composure. It was undignified to lust after a man’s body so… so hungrily.

“Our blog was discussed on a radio program called ‘Morning Ride with Hodgins and Marcy’ based out of Chicago. At first I’d thought Riley must have changed my report to save our asses because there was no way in hell I thought he’d let me get away with the chauvinist bullshit I’d submitted.”

“Mine was rather suspect, too,” she said, recalling the piece she’d typed while she fantasized about Luc and that glass table. Less than a week had gone by, yet it felt like years.

“Just listen,” he said as the audio file began.

“Hodgie, you know who my celebrity crush is, don’t you?”

“Marcy, most of Chicago knows who your celebrity crush is. And for those who’ve been living under a rock for the past decade, we’re talking about ex-pro-hockey-player-turned-sports-analyst, Luc Bisquet.”

“So Hodge, I flipped open my morning paper and see Luc’s killer smile staring back at me, enticing me to check out a web link, so I go click on it and my hot buttered Biscuit is featured on some blog about dates.”

“The fruit?”

“No Hodgie, not the fruit—but I understand your confusion, not having been on a date since 1996! It was on how to get your woman to go to a hockey game with you, that kind of date. He and this other journalist, whatever her name is, are co-reporting on sports and restaurants, like a perfect date night combination.”

“I don’t care how fancy the post-game food is, Marcy, there’s no way I’m getting my girlfriend to anything with that much testosterone in the air.”

“She might change her mind, Hodgie. Let me read you what my Luc has to say about the first part of the date. They had dinner at Silk and Ivory. Have you been there, Hodge? You’ll want to go after this. My Biscuit talks about the atmosphere, yadda, yadda, yadda, ah – here’s the good part: The portions were as generous as advertised but this poses a potential problem, so gents, be warned. While you lustfully admire the way she unhinges her jaw to span a wedge of sourdough bread, she’ll admonish you for not paying attention to the conversation. My advice? Keep the charm on high-burn between courses, ignore as best you can the waitresses in their skimpy tight black minis and, once the main course arrives, encourage her to tell you about her childhood, her relationship with her parents, anything that will leave you free to masticate your juicy Kobe beef in uninterrupted, blissful peace. To make up for your silence, order the most decadent dessert on the menu. In this case, it was the mocha maple chocolate cake, with two forks. Do you see why I love him so, Hodge? He’s macho, considerate, and funny as hell.”

“And what does what’s-her-name say about all this?”

“Oh, you’ll love this, Hodge. She writes, Preparing for my first live hockey game was more daunting than I’d imagined, my initial struggle being wardrobe choice. What outfit does one wear to an ice hockey arena that’s also suitable for a pre- or post-game dinner? Too dressy and you risk looking woefully out of place while too many layers can look bulky and unsexy. And what on earth will he think of your woolly knickers if the date ends in the bedroom? On the other hand, will the lace demi-cup bra under your cashmere sweater give appropriate nipple insulation in an icy arena or simply serve to alert everyone to the fact you’re both chilly and horny? (Note to my fellow hockey virgins—the arena was surprisingly un-chilly. Apparently, they freeze the ice from beneath!). Isn’t this priceless, Hodge?”

“Does what’s-her-name actually say anything about the game?”

“Her name is Clara Bean—her bio says she’s a British food critic—and yes, Hodge, she has quite the interesting take on the fighting. I was not at all prepared for the regular tossing of gloves. I am admittedly not a connoisseur of athletic pursuits, but I don’t recall ever having read that Tiger Woods clubbed a fellow golfer in the ankles, or that a Williams sister beat her opponent about the head and body with a racket. These hockey fellows seem to take an inordinate amount of pleasure in initiating hand-to-hand combat for no discernible reason, at least none which I observed. It got me thinking that perhaps they don’t need referees on the ice, but mothers. Mothers who would send them to kneel in corners for their misdeeds rather than these lenient striped-shirted gentlemen who insist on sending them to sit in a private rinkside booth to watch the game like a VIP. That’s not a punishment. Making them clean blood off the ice with a toothbrush during intermission, that’s a punishment.”





“That was funny stuff, love.”

“Hm. Yours not so much. At least from your date’s point of view.”

“I did it to piss you off,” he said tipping her chin up and planting a kiss on her forehead. “In fact, I wrote it while you were showing off your chilly nipples to my former best friend.”

“I’ll have you know that I kept my jacket on the entire time.”

“Really?” Luc planted a kiss on the top of her head.

“And a thick woolly scarf and gloves.”

“A bit overdressed, eh?” he chuckled.

“I hardly had a fashion guide to consult.”

He brought her to her feet and straight into his arms. “Did you really hate the game?”

Clara looked at him with a secretive little smile. “Did you not read the rest of the article?”

“Ah, no. I got caught up in Valentina drama.”

“Let’s just say I wrote it whilst high from the excitement.”

“You found it exciting?”

“Why do you look so shocked? I thought it was thrilling. Absolutely brilliant. I loved it, and I can’t wait to see more. I’ll watch it on the telly with you if you like.”

“No, no. It’s always better live.”

“I’m thinking of getting a team shirt to wear, just like the other fans.”

“A jersey. Which team?”

“I don’t know. It would depend on the color, I suppose. I’d look horrid in purple, and the entire yellow-green spectrum makes me look sallow.”

Luc chuckled while Clara buried her face in his neck. If he wasn’t smitten with her already, this conversation would have done it. She was everything—beautiful, accepting, witty, and passionate. “I have a drawer full of old jerseys, and none of them are purple. You can take your pick.”

Clara went completely still in his arms. “You mean a real one? One you played in? Sweated in?”

“They have been washed.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she whispered and squeezed him tightly. “I’d love one, thank you very much.”

“There’s more I haven’t told you.”

“Hmm?” she said against his shoulder.

“We made such an impression on Hodgins and Marcy, the BMG phones have been buzzing with requests for live interviews. We’ve got one scheduled tomorrow here in New York, and the marketing people have warned me to expect the same in Philly and Washington, and…we have a photo shoot this morning. We’re a hit, darling!”