Game On

chapter 7


CLARA COULDN’T QUELL THE LITTLE tremors that continued to zing through her nervous system as Luc quickly smoothed down her skirt. For the sake of her dignity, or perhaps give her a moment to recover from a body-racking orgasm, he positioned himself between her and the lift.

“I’m so sorry, ma belle. I was so completely lost in you I forgot where we were.” Luc nosed her ear, whispering over her breathy panting.

They remained so completely still, they might have been mistaken for a Rodin. Only their labored breaths betrayed them as a horny couple who hadn’t made it to the bedroom. Clara prayed the intruders couldn’t hear the erratic pounding of her heart.

They were stumbling, obviously drunk, their uneven footsteps muffled by the carpeting, and one let out a belch as he walked by.

“Hmm, beer, body odor, and fish. There’s a winning combination.”

Clara inhaled deeply, still fighting for clarity from the passionate haze. “I guess we should take this inside,” she whispered, and gave Luc a wicked smile. She traced a thin trickle of sweat from his temple, across his cheekbone—

Sweat. Sweat!

He was sweating, she was sweating. Sweat smelled. He mentioned body odor. And fish. She probably reeked! The long walk, the humidity, the cream between her legs…

Her cheeks burned with humiliation. She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back. “I need five minutes,” she squeaked.

“What?”

“Alone. In my room. Wait here.”

Clara slid her key card, once, twice, three times before it finally opened and pushed her door in without looking back at Luc. She rushed to the vanity, opened her makeup bag, pulled out lipstick, deodorant—which she uncapped and applied with one hand—wee bottles of shampoo, conditioner, mousse—but where the hell was her body spray? No, it didn’t matter. Body spray wouldn’t begin to help. She needed a shower. A quick one. She’d keep her hair dry and her makeup intact so he’d never know. She’d be no more than two minutes. Two more minutes to towel off, slip into her robe, and open the door for Luc.

Luc!



Her heart raced at the thought of him standing in the hall. She mustn’t keep him waiting.

“I’ll be right there,” she yelled, hoping he could hear her through the closed door.

She stripped, leaving her sundress in a puddle on the bathroom floor, and jumped under the spray before it had a chance to warm up.

She reached for the soap. Bugger! She’d left it next to the sink, out of reach. No worries, there was another bar on top of the toilet tank. Clara ripped the paper off the miniscule rectangle and ran it over it over her arms. Before she could get to the nether regions, it flew from her wet fingers. Bugger, bugger, bugger! She reached down to pick it up from the bottom of the tub, inadvertently sticking her head under the spray.

“Bloody hell!” She carefully blotted the water from around her eyes so her mascara wouldn’t run. She had one foot out of the tub when she realized her neck and breasts were still soapy.

“Don’t—” Bugger! The water bounced off her shoulders right into her face, “—go away!” she shouted.



Luc pressed his forehead against the door and tried not to concentrate on the uncomfortable throbbing between his legs. He hadn’t felt this horny since Tracey Vanderboom let him get to second base after junior prom. Ah, Racy VanderBomb, they used to call her. Back then, it was adolescent hormones. What was his excuse tonight? Merde! He’d almost screwed Clara in a public hallway. She was so sweet, so f*cking tasty and beautiful, he wasn’t thinking of anything else but what he was doing to her. What she was doing to him.

Five minutes had to be up. He looked at his watch, surprised to see it was five in the morning. He’d been so entranced by her, so completely swept away that he didn’t notice the hours passing. It was almost morning.

Morning! He had a meeting with Bartel in three hours. He still had to shave, shower, and read those newspapers he’d stuck in the backseat of his car. He didn’t care about sleep… that he could do without if it meant another hour with Clara.

“Clara? Are you okay?” He took his impatience out on the door, slapping his palm against the wood. “I don’t care if your room is a mess.”

There was no answer from inside. What was she doing? His stomach twisted when he came to the only viable conclusion.

She’d had second thoughts. Regrets.

From the moment he set eyes on her, he knew she was classy, a real lady, and clearly shy. And he had ravished her like some kind of wild beast, a rutting animal.

Disgusted with himself, he dropped his forehead against the door. “Clara?” he called, his throat sore and tight.

He thought he heard a muffled voice, could almost picture her, crying into a pillow, embarrassed over what happened in the hallway.

“I’m sorry, Clara,” he said, trying to sound calm and understanding. “Please, just open the door.”

Another barely audible reply. The sweat on his brow turned cold. It sounded an awful lot like, “Just go away.”

Luc stood in hall, disbelieving. He stared, trancelike, as the second hand made three full rotations around the face of his sports watch, desperately hoping he’d heard wrong, desperately wishing the door would swing open.

It didn’t.