When Stars Collide (Chicago Stars #9) - Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page 0,74
sure of it.” He trailed his fingers from her collarbone between her breasts to her stomach and lower. She gazed along the length of his body and fell back on the bed. He grinned, covered her, and they were kissing all over again.
She made him lie still while she explored, taking in everything she’d been yearning to see. Testing what pleased him. What pleased her. Marveling that a man who’d devoted his life to such a violent sport could have such a perfect body.
Then it was his turn. At first, she gave his curiosity free rein, but enough was enough. She settled on top and used him in the most exquisite way until they were bound together in a tumultuous, heart-stopping free-for-all. Not love. Only play.
Afterward, they napped.
He bent her over the arm of the easy chair.
They dawdled in the shower.
Held each other.
“Shit!” He shot up in bed.
She followed the direction of his gaze to the bedside clock. “Merde!”
It was nearly seven thirty. Their first Chicago client dinner began in half an hour. They scrambled for their clothes. She didn’t bother with her bra. He stuffed his bare feet into his sneakers and shoved his socks in his jacket pockets. They dashed from the hotel and out into the cold Illinois night.
* * *
Thad beat her to the dinner, but by less than ten minutes, and considering she’d had hair to untangle and makeup to apply, he was impressed with how quickly she’d pulled herself together. She’d arranged her hair in some kind of low, twisty bun that nested at the nape of her neck, and put on one of those pencil dresses she wore better than anyone. He hoped he was the only one who could see the faint red marks she’d tried to hide. By tomorrow, the marks she’d left on him would show up, but they’d be under his clothes. He’d have to be more careful with her next time.
And there definitely would be a next time.
It was the best sex of his life, like being in bed with a dozen different women. Her quicksilver changes of mood, of character—virgin to vixen—her sensuous movements and beautiful body, the laughter in her dark eyes, the danger. She’d sung for him just as he’d fantasized. “Habanera.” He had the uneasy feeling that she’d spoiled him for other women. Which was unfair. How could any woman compete with a trained actress of Olivia’s stature? But Olivia hadn’t seemed to be performing. Instead, he had the distinct feeling she’d shown him exactly who she was.
“Who’s your favorite player, Thad? Other than yourself?”
It took supreme effort to bring his attention back to the effusive, overly cologned male owner of a chain of Illinois jewelry stores sitting next to him and chomping on filet mignon.
Thad had several prepared answers to this question, but since this was Chicago, only one would do. “Gotta be Walter Payton.” Depending on where he was, he sometimes went with Jerry Rice or Reggie White. Maybe Dick Butkus. He tended to stay away from quarterbacks. How would he compare the great Stars QBs—Bonner, Tucker, Robillard, and Coop—against guys like Montana, Brady, Young, and Manning? Maybe—one day—Clint Garrett. Those kinds of comparisons messed with his head.
His dinner companion nodded approvingly. “Walter ‘Sweetness’ Payton. Greatest running back of all time.”
Jim Brown might have argued with that, but Thad nodded.
At the other end of the table, Liv was enduring her own interrogation from the bearded husband of a department-store buyer. “So how’s come you never went on American Idol?”
He could sense her trying hard not to grit her teeth. “American Idol isn’t really an opera competition.”
His own dinner companion had launched into a monologue about Peyton Manning, and Thad nodded without paying attention. His conscience was giving him trouble.
“You and I can never have a serious, long-term relationship.” That’s what he’d told Liv, and he remembered how happy it had made her. But he and Liv had different ideas about what “long-term” meant. In his mind, they’d sail on the lake this summer and maybe even head to the Caribbean after the football season was over when she had a break between her gigs.
In her mind, she was dumping him in two days.
After what had transpired between them, that was unacceptable.
Unthinkable.
* * *
There they were . . . plastered all over the Internet. An enlarged photo of Liv and him.
The Diva and the Quarterback Lock Lips on Chicago’s Mag Mile
Only the Chicago Tribune, his hometown newspaper, put his name first.