Seduce Me

8

The early evening ocean breeze had kicked in. It whistled over Sam and Jack, along with the sounds of the waves hitting the beach and the traffic on the highway.

Jack followed Sam up the back steps of the café to her apartment, watching as she pulled her keys from her tiny purse and unlocked the door. She stepped aside, holding it open for him, and in the swirling jade depths of her eyes he saw good humor, intelligence and… hunger. For him.

Thank God, he thought, and would have dug right in if it hadn't been for what he also saw there.

Affection.

Not the love-your-body, or make-me-feel-good-tonight kind of affection, nothing as shallow or as easy as that, but something far more, far deeper. He took a shuddering breath, wondering how to react.

A part of him wanted to run like hell.

Another part wanted to stand still and do as he'd never done before-absorb it, go with it.

Nurture it.

Clearly he was losing his mind. No woman had ever really gotten to know him for his sake, and no woman was likely to start. Not even Sam, who lived on the busy highway above a cramped lunch café and didn't seem to care about his celebrity or money-a woman who, until a week ago, wouldn't have known him from any other Jack.

But she knew who he was now, and if he'd learned anything over the years of being hounded by the public, by the press, by every single person around him, few people were unaffected by his celebrity.

Nope. As he'd told her during their midnight swim, he didn't want a relationship, no matter how tempting. Glorious as Sam was, and stimulating and beautiful and amazing, that hadn't changed.

"Stop thinking so hard, Jack," she said softly. "This isn't complicated. I just want to help soothe your pain."

Another confusion, as he hadn't told her his knee ached today. In fact, they hadn't really talked about that, or what he used to do for a living. She had just teased him about being retired.

He was used to dates who expected him to be the "star" the press had made him out to be. The simple truth was, women liked his celebrity, they wanted the perks that went along with it, and they expected him to provide them.

He'd known from the very beginning that Sam would be different. She still had no idea how damn attractive that had been to him. But now she'd casually mentioned his knee, which meant she had more than just a passing knowledge of him.

"You're not going to fit in here very well, it's really tiny." She took his hand and pulled him into the kitchen, which though as small as a closet, was warm and inviting. The floors were scarred hardwood but clean. Her table was made of wood, too, with two mismatched chairs that somehow worked in the place. Her cabinets had no fronts. Inside them, everything was neat as a pin.

"How long have you lived here?" he asked.

She lifted a shoulder. "Since I started working for Red full-time."

"Your uncle?"

"Yeah. And when he retired a few years back, buying this building was a natural fit for me. Of course, I'm mortgaged to my ears and I'll be paying out of said ears even after I am dead and buried…" She laughed. "And sometimes the home budget means eating whatever's left over from downstairs, but it's a small price to pay to belong somewhere."

He'd paid cash for his multimillion dollar home in the hills and hadn't thought twice about it. Having a ridiculous amount of money, he rarely looked at the prices of things, and he never, ever, had to eat leftovers to keep to his budget. Hell, he had no budget.

Sam looked at the chairs, then at his large frame and, with a small smile, shook her head. She led him out of the kitchen and into the living room, which was also small, warm and homey. Two bare windows looked out to the ocean. There were more beat-up wood floors here, and a surprisingly large, forest-green sofa that was plumped up with pillows and looked so inviting he nearly sighed.

The entire apartment couldn't have been more than six hundred square feet, not much more than his own huge large entrance hall, and yet he'd never felt more at home than he did right now.

"Sit," she said. "I'll be right back."

His body twitched at that promise, but when she came back, she hadn't slipped out of her clothes, she wasn't holding a condom between her teeth and she wasn't looking at him with heat in her eyes-all three fantasies which had been whipping through his head since she'd disappeared.

In her hands was a pale green bottle. "The healing ointment," she said, and sat on the coffee table right in front of him, between his sprawled legs.

An unwittingly erotic position that made his fantasies even harder to let go of.

She looked into his eyes. "What's the matter?" Other than being hard as a rock and you being oblivious to what you're doing to me, nothing. Nothing at all. "How did you know my knee is killing me? Or which one, for that matter."

"You're favoring your right one here and there." She opened the buttons down the sides of his sweats from mid-thigh to the hem. She uncapped the bottle and poured some of the stuff into her hands, rubbing them together, her gaze dropping to his right knee, and the six-inch-long scar running down the side of the kneecap.

"It smells awful," he said, wrinkling his nose.

"But it will feel heavenly." She put her hands on him, and he hissed in an involuntary breath.

"Cold? Sorry."

"No, it's…" Heavenly. Only he had no idea if that was because the stuff was soothing or because her hands were on him, rubbing slowly, so achingly slowly, that the rest of him wished it could cry out and feign hurt, too.

"How long since the surgery?" she asked quietly. "The last one? Nearly eight months now. It's fine. It's healed."

"And yet you left basketball."

His gaze lifted from her fingers on his flesh up to her eyes. "Fine and healed to walk are one thing. Fine and healed to play on a NBA court is another entirely."

"That must have destroyed you."

In all this time, no one had ever just put it out on the, table like she just had, not even his family. Avoidance had been done in love and affection, but it had hurt regardless. "Yes," he said a little thickly, shocked to find his emotions so close to the surface. "It did for a while."

"So what do you do now? With your free time, I mean."

"Let the general public dunk me at carnivals."

"Surely you needn't have been forced out of basketball entirely. You could… I don't know. Coach. Announce. Ref-"

"I do. I run leagues and ref for the rec center. Not exactly demanding, I know, but the change of pace was good. Now I watch late night TV without worrying about curfew. I eat what I want, drink what I want. I exercise for fun instead of necessity, and I no longer have to answer to a committee on every little decision I make, including, but not limited to, what kind of shoes I wear and how many hours of sleep I get a night."

"That must be… freeing."

"Yeah. So is not having to be a role model when I never asked to be one. So is walking onto a court and knowing there's no pressure, only fun."

"And you really don't miss it?"

Her heart was in her eyes. For him.

He stared down at her hands on his knee, and then put his hands on her, resting his palms on her thighs. Easy enough to do, since she sat between his sprawled legs. "I've something better to talk about. Massaging you, for instance."

She laughed. "I can't believe the lines you have. Do you expect me to fall for them? Really?"

"Are you saying you don't want me to return the favor?" Leaning in, he took a nibble out of her shoulder, gratified to hear her suck in her breath. "Because I've got great hands, Sam."

A helpless little moan escaped her when he started a trail of open-mouthed kisses back up to her throat. "Are you just trying to avoid talking?"

His hands gently squeezed her thighs and then moved to her waist. He lifted her from the table and set her on his lap.

Perfect. "Why would I do that?"

"I don't-" Another sexy little half whimper when he took the lobe of her ear lightly between his teeth. "I don't know."

"I have nothing against talking," he murmured, and made his way down her jaw, his hands encircling her, gliding up and down her slim spine. "You talk all you want." Mouth to her ear now, he added, "While I kiss you from head to toe."

Laughing, she leaned away from him. "Your knee must feel all better."

"Actually…" He stretched it out. "Yes. Much."

She smiled sweetly. "Good." Rising, she grabbed the bottle and held it out to him. "You can take this with you. Rub it on a couple of times a day-"

Her words were cut off when he tugged her back down, pulled her against him and covered her mouth with his. A little overwhelmed, Sam went still for a second.

Apparently he took this for a challenge because he softened his hold immediately, as if instinctively knowing she could resist his aggressive hunger, but not slow and seductive desire…

He slid a hand into her hair at the nape of her neck, the other arm banding low on her hips, all while gently, tenderly, playing at her mouth with his knowing, talented one. He kissed one side, and then the other, and then slowly licked her lower lip until she let it tremble open.

And only then did he glide his tongue against hers in an age-old dance that had her hips mimicking the motion, and giving away what her mind had resisted but her body had no intention of withstanding.

"Your bathing suit is still damp." Over the material of her dress, his hand slipped down her back again, lower this time, over the curve of a buttock, which he palmed.

Her eyes drifted shut, and she let out a little shiver of anticipation.

"Cold?" he murmured, pulling her even closer, his hands warm on her body

"No."

His gaze met hers, his fingers spread wide on her belly now, the very tips just brushing the underside of her breast, which tightened in its eagerness. "Sure?"

She nodded, silently admitting it wasn't a chill giving her goose bumps and hard nipples.

A soft smile curved his mouth, which he touched lightly to hers, just as the hand on her back softened its grip as well, soothing now as it stroked the length of her. "You really did invite me up here just to put that lotion on my knee, didn't you. Not to have wild, uninhibited sex-"

"That's right." She laughed, touched her forehead to his. "But I've thought about… wild, uninhibited sex. A lot. Does that count?"

"Oh, yeah." His sigh was long-suffering. "I guess it's another cold shower night for me."

That got a choked laugh out of her. "Another?"

"I spent a half hour in one after the midnight bodysurfing event."

"What, the ocean wasn't cold enough for you?"

"Not with you in it."

He saw a cocky smile break over her face, and he groaned. "Oh boy, now I've done it, I've given you even more power over me."

"I have a feeling you never let anyone have power over you," she said.

"Not often, I'll give you that. That lotion is good stuff. What other magic do you have?"

"That was it. My one trick."

Cocking his head, he studied her, a small smile playing on his lips. "I doubt that. You're an interesting woman, Sam. I like that. I like you."

"I'm not so interesting."

"You run a café that serves sandwiches like ham, seaweed, artichoke hearts and mozzarella cheese on whole wheat, and yet you can't make brownies to save your life. You're a natural around kids and yet the thought of settling down with a man in a relationship gives you hives-"

"You're not exactly one to talk-"

"But this is about you." He touched a finger to her cheek. "You're nervous dangling above a small tank of water and yet you'll surf in the ocean." Laughing, he shook his head. "A bundle of contradictions, but the sexiest bundle I've ever seen."

"You're not that different," she said, but her words faded away when he ran a hand from her toes up her calf, to just beneath the material of her sundress. Breathing became a challenge.

"Really?" he whispered. His fingers played with the back of her knee in a way that made her want to let her legs fall open.

She kept them together by sheer will. "No. Not that different at all."

"How's that?" he asked softly, that little smile still dancing around his mouth. He knew exactly what he was doing to her. "Because I don't cook. And as for kids, I'm not a natural."

That made her laugh. "Yes, you are. Kids love you. They think you're a role model."

"I'm no one's role model."

"And yet children love you anyway." His fingers slipped up a few inches higher on the back of her leg, and her words stuttered to a halt. "Uh…" Where had she been? Oh, yes… "I know you had a hard time in the press, being labeled difficult-" Those fingers spread wide on the back of her thigh now. "A-and a prima donna." Now his fingers tightened imperceptibly before purposefully relaxing. Her gaze shot to his face. "That one hurt, I bet," she said, reaching out to put her hand on his chest. "But the truth is, you're too private for any of those things they say about you to be true."

"I was not a saint, Sam."

"Good, because I've never been a saint, either. Saints are boring. In any case, the past is the past."

"Yeah, thankfully." His hand danced over her skin to her thigh, his thumb making lazy circles on the very inside of that thigh.

Her blood hummed.

She put her hand over the material of her dress, halting his movement because she couldn't take it. "And I can say all this to you, because as I mentioned, we're very alike, you and I."

"I prefer the differences." His first finger stretched out of her hold and barely, just barely, skimmed over her bikini bottoms.

Her entire body jerked, but she wasn't ready to let loose with him, no matter what her hormones were begging. "Do you-"

"Do I…?"

She looked at him. "Ever feel like your life is in a sort of holding pattern? Almost… stalled?"

He went very still, his gaze intent on hers. "Maybe."

"I wonder about it, especially since I met you," she whispered. "Can people outgrow their life? Because I'm just starting to worry that I have."

"Maybe we only outgrow parts of it," he said just as quietly, suddenly as serious as she was. "And maybe new pieces fall into place."

"That's pretty intuitive for a man who doesn't like to think about the future."

"I thought that wasn't a problem for you."

"Oh, it's not. Actually, it's one of the reasons you're so damn attractive," she admitted. "Because this is all very in the moment, very loose and carefree."

He looked at her for a long moment. "Right up your alley, is it?"

"Yep. No pressure, no worries."

"No pressure, no worries," he repeated softly, and smiled. "Then why aren't we jumping each other's bones and calling it a day?"

"Because even women with commitment phobias have their boundaries." She stood up, and smiled down at him. "And one of my boundaries is knowing what I'm getting myself into. Before falling into bed with someone."

"Hey, what you see is what you get," he claimed, but he also stood. She walked to the door, opened it, and hoped like hell he wouldn't touch her again, because if he did, she'd cave faster than a cheap suitcase.

With a sigh, he moved to the door as well. Night had fallen. He eyed it, then her, and then smiled. "Time flies with you."

She looked out into the black sky, a little surprised to find it so.

"I still owe you some basketball lessons," he said. "And in return, I have a favor."

"Hey, I paid for those lessons."

"Relax, this one will amuse you. I want you to teach me to surf."

She gaped at him, then laughed.

"Is that so strange?"

"No, but…" She shook her head. "Why do you want to learn to surf now?"

"Because you do it."

Oh. Oh, how… lovely. "I've been surfing since I could walk, Jack."

"So teach me."

"You're crazy."

He grinned. "But you like crazy."

"I do," she admitted.

"So you'll teach me."

What the hell. "Okay. You teach me some basketball, and I'll teach you to surf." In the spirit of fun, she thrust out her hand for a handshake. "In fact, I'll even go first. Meet me here next weekend. Saturday morning, five-thirty."

"A.M.?"

"A.M."

Jack stared down at her hand, then into her eyes, his slow smile full of wicked intent as he hauled her into his arms and planted a kiss on her that left her head spinning and her body weeping.

"Make it six-thirty," he murmured against her mouth.

"Six." She licked her bottom lip to get the last taste of him. "Or no deal. The surfing's best first thing in the morning."

Another sexy smile, along with a sigh. "Six, then." Then one more long, hormone-rattling kiss, and by the end of it, her knees were knocking.

"'Night," he whispered.

"'Night."

"Sweet dreams," and he walked out into the night.

Smiling like an idiot, she dreamily watched him go. This was perfect, surface only, fun only, just the way she liked it.

But at the thought, her smile slowly faded.