step, the thrust of his rampant cock preceded him. The growing shadows only emphasized the bulge of his bicep, the taut swell of his ass, the rhythmic bunch and release of his thigh muscles as they walked.
He slicked his hand down her arm, and the controlled grace in even such a small, meaningless movement literally took her breath away.
He ran a distracted hand through his wet thicket of hair, and it fell into place like magic.
He smiled, and those heavy-lidded olive-green eyes went lambent, his dimples appeared, and she turned liquid enough to pour onto the sand below.
His face was handsome, of course. It was always handsome.
With her, it was also soft.
Muscles alone wouldn’t shatter her, but that stubborn, intent, beautiful softness could.
And it did, as he spread her out on that blanket-covered lounger, rolled on one of the condoms she’d packed, knelt between her legs, and made love to her. God help her, made love, because there was no way she could call it fucking, and only a fool would term it casual sex. There was nothing casual about it.
He stroked her thighs with his hands and traced her collarbone with his tongue as he moved inside her. He moaned her name. He nuzzled into her shoulder and whispered to her about how much he loved her body, her eyes, the way she held him tight inside and out.
His hands on her breasts were reverent, his eyes on her face gentle. He was attentive to every sign of pleasure and eager to give more. It was all slow and deliberate and tender, the near-violence of their desire secondary to the unspoken emotions between them.
She’d never, ever wept during sex before. But when she came again with a long, low cry, her voice shook from more than just intense pleasure. His face buried in her neck, his gentle fingers still caressing her clit, he came too. His hips jerked, and his groan vibrated against her still-wet skin.
Afterward, eyes dry once more, she produced the bottle of edelweiss-scented oil she’d found at that odd Alpine spa and put the massage lesson she’d taken that morning to good use.
After the group class, she’d asked the instructor about wrists. Specifically, the best ways to relieve pain in that area without causing further damage. Still, before she started, she made Lucas promise to tell her if she was hurting him.
She must not have done too badly, because he didn’t say a word. Instead, he simply sat beside her quietly as she rubbed and rotated his wrist and gave him the sort of attention, the sort of care, he needed.
All the while, he looked at her steadily, his face set in solemn lines.
Since it wasn’t an expression she’d ever seen directed her way before, she didn’t know how to interpret it. So she avoided his eyes and focused on his battered joints and made certain she was giving him absolutely everything she could in this moment.
Because in less than seventy-two hours, once she returned to her daily life, her daily routine, she was pretty sure whatever she had to give him wouldn’t be enough. Not for a man who deserved the world. Not for a man who deserved a woman who could hand him that world.
The right partner for Lucas would do so without hesitation. Without a job that sometimes took all her available energy.
Without half a lifetime of baggage, of intimate failure, tripping her in the attempt.
She rubbed his wrist and tried to forget the future and made love to him again in the gathering darkness of the tent. And this time, he couldn’t see her cry.
At some point in every competitive, high-quality rally, the moment of decision arrived.
If sloppy, unforced errors didn’t end the point prematurely, both players generally focused on keeping their shots within the court and biding their time. Waiting for their opponent’s shot to fall short. Waiting for that opponent to move out of position. Waiting for a small mistake.
Sometimes, though, a mistake never came. If so, a decision had to be made.
One way or another, the rally would end. The only question was who would force the issue. Who would be the aggressor. Who would take the risk.
Lucas hadn’t minded that risk, that responsibility.
In fact, his career had thrived on it.
Sometimes he’d choose a drop shot, one landing as close to the net as possible. If the other player didn’t get to the ball in time, the point was over. If the other player did get to the ball