When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9)

“He’s fast, he’s aggressive, and he’s smart. I’m proud to be on his team. Nice talking to you.” Thad took Olivia’s arm and made his escape.

Behind him, one of them groused, “We didn’t even get a picture.”

Liv slipped her hand through his elbow. “Pick six?”

“The idiot threw the ball right into traffic,” Thad grumbled. “Their safety picked it off and ran it in for a touchdown. Six points.”

“Pick six, I get it.” She grinned and shook her head. “Idiot.”

“It’s not funny.”

“Oh, it’s funny, all right. Some singers I know could learn a few lessons about team loyalty from football players.” She stopped without warning, backed him into the window of the Burberry store, and kissed him, right there in the middle of Michigan Avenue.

He didn’t know what had brought this on, but he wasn’t going to argue about it. It was a long, deep kiss. Her hands looped around his neck. Her lips parted, and so did his. Their tongues met in an intimate romp. His hands went to her waist. Her breasts pressed against his chest. This was the prelude to everything he’d been waiting for.

“Ew!” A teenage girl’s shrill giggle dumped cold water all over that kiss. “Get a room!”

He released their kiss and gazed into a pair of dewy, diva-dark eyes that made Liv look as young as those teenagers snickering behind her.

“Omni?” he whispered.

She nodded. A short, barely there nod, but a nod nonetheless.

He took her hand. They jaywalked . . . jaywalked! . . . across six lanes of Michigan Avenue traffic with horns blaring and drivers cursing.

Still holding hands, they stormed through the doors of the Omni. He had just enough sense left to steer her away from the registration desk. “Wait here.” No need to have both of them standing at the desk without a single piece of luggage.

He made quick work of registering, paying with the emergency cash he’d borrowed from Henri until he got to his bank. He didn’t care about the Wi-Fi code or the hypoallergenic pillows they offered. All he wanted was a room. And a bed.





14




It wasn’t like in the movies. Thad didn’t crush her against the wall the instant the hotel door banged shut. They didn’t rip off each other’s clothes, mouths welded, or pull at each other’s hair, or drag each other to the floor, so overcome with lust they couldn’t make it to the bed. It wasn’t like that at all.

First . . .

They didn’t have condoms. Which wasn’t really a problem. They’d had a talk about this earlier. Neither of them had any STDs, and she was on the pill. The real issues were . . .

They’d let this go on too long, built it up too much, put too much pressure on themselves.

She said she had to pee, locked herself in the bathroom, and breathed the long, deep inhalations and slow exhalations of an opera singer with magnificent breath control . . . except when she was singing.

He knocked on the door. “I’m coming in.”

“No! I’m throwing up.”

“You are not,” he said from the other side.

“I think I have a stomach virus.”

“I think you have a chickenshit virus.”

“That, too.”

“I’ll wait.”

She turned on the faucet and washed her hands. She was used to seeing herself in wigs and tiaras. She was not used to seeing herself in a Stars ball cap, but she liked the way it looked on her head. Sporty. Carefree. Everything she wasn’t. “Can I have this hat?”

“No.” From the next room.

“You must have dozens of them. And you won’t let me have one?”

“I’m not feeling generous right now.”

“I understand.”

She reluctantly took off her fleece jacket and slipped out of her sneakers, but kept the cap on. “I’m getting undressed.”

“You do that.” He didn’t sound happy about it.

She pictured the beautiful underwear tucked away in her suitcase and the plain pair of sporty briefs she’d pulled on instead, along with an ugly, flesh-colored sports bra. What had she been thinking? That she’d pop into a gym for a quick pickup game?

Since she’d barely had three hours of sleep last night, she was lucky to be wearing underwear at all.

“Confess,” he said from the other side of the door. “You’re a virgin, right? That’s your deep, dark secret and why you’re running scared.”

“I’m not a virgin, and I’m not running scared. I’m just not good at transitions, and you know this is going to ruin everything. Next to Rachel, you’re sort of my best friend.”

“Exactly what a sex-starved man does not want to hear.”

“You’re right. I’m being stupid.” She slipped off her Cavatina3 and set it on the bathroom counter, followed by her poison ring, her Egyptian cuff, and, finally, her Stars ball cap.

She shook her hair out of its ponytail and took another deep breath. She was going to do this. She was going to forget that she’d fallen in love with him and simply enjoy it. This was about her body, not about her heart. She turned the knob.

He was sitting on the floor outside the door, his back against the wall, looking bored. “Sorry to tell you this,” he said, “but I’ve lost interest.”

“Regrettable.” She sat cross-legged on the floor next to him.

He bent one knee and propped his elbow on top. “Here are all the reasons you and I can never have a serious long-term relationship.”

“Keep talking dirty to me.”

“You’re completely dedicated to your career.”

“True.”

“In the world of opera, the sun pretty much rises and sets on you.”

“A slight exaggeration, but go on.”

“You’re a first stringer. A superstar.”

“Thank you.”

“And I’m a man who’s tired of playing backup.”

“Understandable.”

“I’m not designed to hold your purse while you sign autographs.”

“Hard to envision.”

“Or hand you a water bottle when you come offstage.”

“Environmentally unsound, those plastic water bottles, but I get your point.”

“In conclusion . . .”

“There’s a conclusion?”

“In conclusion, you’re a first stringer, Liv. And I could never be happy running around after you playing your backup.”

“So, you’re saying . . . ?”

“It’s not possible for me to have a serious relationship with you.”

She cocked her head. “You agree? We’re doomed?”

“Completely.”

“Fantastic!” She swung herself over him, braced her knees on each side of his hips, and kissed him all over. Long, deep kisses. Kisses that had nothing to do with love, only with need. The kiss changed shape, grew hungrier. He plowed his hands under her sweater and fumbled for the clasp of her bra.

Which didn’t exist. Because . . . sports bra.

He tugged at it.

She hopped off him. “Just for you.” She stretched out her arms and pulled him up. With her hands against his chest, she drew him to the bed, pushed him down on it, and tossed aside his shoes. Stepping back, she gave him her most seductive Delilah smile and tugged her sweater over her head. It was time to play. Not to think. Not to let her feelings surface. Only to enjoy.

She might be self-conscious about her utilitarian underwear, but it didn’t seem to bother him—this gorgeous man with his kryptonite green eyes and hell-raising body.

He leaned against the bed’s many pillows to watch her. She took forever unzipping her slacks and sliding them past her hips. She bent over slowly, offering up a prime view of her cleavage, as she stepped out of them.

Utilitarian bra. Serviceable underpants. She looped her hands behind her head, tunneled her fingers through her hair, and lifted it, letting it slither over her hands and wrists, all the time smoldering him with her eyes.

“You . . . are . . . killing . . . me,” he said in a rough rasp.

Her voice was liquid smoke. “Enjoy your death.”

Playing the seductress. This was what she did onstage. Carmen. Delilah. Crazy, sexy Lady Macbeth. Her body was performing as it had been trained to perform, but performing only for him—this strongman she had under her power just as Delilah had bewitched Samson.

She moved her hips, toyed with her hair, and contemplated how to most gracefully, most seductively, get a sports bra over her head without breaking the mood.

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