Scored Page 7

  He shoved his hand through his hair, said something, then his attention settled my way.

  For a moment we were alone in the room. No one else existed. Just him and me and the very real, very alive memory of our kiss. The piano music faded into a muted tinkle, my peripheral vision blurred and I forgot to even breathe.

  I was completely captivated by his heated gaze. It was like he was seeing into me, right down to my core. Damn, did he know how much I wanted him? Did he want me?

  Finally, I remembered to breathe and quickly returned my concentration to my Kindle. I could barely trust myself not to smile or acknowledge him in some way. How could I? We were in public. Fellows was sitting next to him, for heaven’s sake. The shit would really hit the fan.

  But all I really wanted to do was rush to him. Beg him to kiss me like he had in the elevator. It didn’t matter what his reasons were, I just wanted to feel his mouth on mine all over again. His tongue probing and exploring, the heat and scent of his body wrapping around me.

  I squirmed on my seat. God, the thought of more than a kiss with Lewis Tate. If he was such an expert kisser then goodness only knew what he would be like between the sheets. I noticed I was jiggling my foot and balancing my sandal on the end of my toes. Hurriedly I stopped. What was I doing?

  Thinking about sex, that was what. And not any old sex. Sex with the England captain who was sitting on the other side of the room and looking like a goddamn invitation to sin on the grandest scale imaginable.

  I risked another glance at him.

  Fuck, he was still staring at me. I tried to tear my eyes from his. But it was hard. So hard. I had to ignore my hedonistic self and resist the temptation to sin.

  And that is exactly what it would be. A sin. Lewis Tate was not supposed to be thinking of anything other than hitting the back of the net. How could I be letting myself get carried away with thoughts of distracting him? I was truly terrible. Surely kissing him in the elevator would be considered an act of treason or first-degree sabotage by the majority of England fans.

  I reached for my drink. There was no way I would look at him again. I’d quickly finish the martini and hotfoot it back to my room. Lock and bolt the door then ram a chair up against the handle so I couldn’t go out until the next match.

  That would be the safest thing to do.

  There was movement amongst the players. Taylor got up and wandered past the bar. He glanced my way and nodded a hello.

  I smiled back and popped an olive into my mouth. Dropped the stick into the now empty glass and chewed slowly.

  Fellows was on the move also.

  My way.

  Fuck.

  He was giving me that Medusa-stare again. I could feel my feet chilling already.

  He stopped right in front of me.

  “I don’t believe we’ve been officially introduced,” he said, his lips barely moving as he spoke.

  “Nicky Thomas,” I said. “Kick Magazine.”

  “I’m sure you know who I am?”

  “Of course, Mr. Fellows. It’s very nice to meet you.”

  He sat in the chair opposite, folded his arms and surveyed me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. He took his time, not in an appreciative way but in a disdainful, irritated way.

  I swallowed. The bitter taste of anger was already lacing my mouth. Who the hell did he think he was giving me the once-over like that?

  “Well, Nicky. I’m only going to say this once.” He leaned forward, giving the impression of friendliness or perhaps even intimacy.

  I lifted my left eyebrow. “Go on.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing in this hotel and even less why you’re in this bar. But I suggest you get the hell out and then stay the hell away from my players.” He paused, sucked in a deep breath and appeared to be harnessing self-control. “Do your job, if that is what you feel you must do. But do not, I repeat, do not make yourself available for conversations with the England team. They are here to relax between matches not be harassed by press.”

  “Mr. Fellows, I can assure you I too am here to relax between matches and write up my reports—on the games. I have no idea what makes you think I’m making myself available for conversations with your players.”

  “I’ll tell you why.” His nostrils flared and I noticed an icky blob of saliva in the corner of his mouth. “Because several of my guy’s have allowed their attention to drift your way since we came in here. Not only that, I heard all about your transparent bikini. Seemed you made quite an impression on young Taylor and that…” he waved his hand toward me, as if outlining my body, “is most definitely not what I want my youngest defender thinking about.”

  A million words were backing up in my mouth. I wanted to hurl some abuse at him. Tell him to go fuck himself. But I didn’t. I flicked the case of my Kindle shut and sat forward, the same way he was, so we were face to face. “I’m quite entitled to be in this hotel and in this bar and—”

  “We’ve pretty much booked out the entire hotel. How come you, when you’re only press, have managed to get a room?” The sneer in his voice made my hackles rise further.

  “Not that I need to explain, but there was a mix-up and it was stay here or sleep on the streets.” I smiled sweetly, although there was nothing sweet about the mood he was setting me in. “The bikini, I apologize for that, I was completely mortified by the whole incident, and as for your players, Mr. Fellows, they really are your problem not mine. Perhaps if they’d been allowed to bring their wives and girlfriends to Donetsk you wouldn’t have to worry so much about their straying attentions.”

  His cheeks flushed to a pock-marked mauve and his jowls wobbled as he shook his head. “Miss Thomas, as I previously stated, I will say this only once. Stay the fuck away from my players.”

  A little devil on my shoulder poked me with his fork. “And if I don’t?”

  “If you don’t then when England doesn’t lift the cup I’ll point the finger at you. Hold you to blame for distracting Taylor or Bryers or whoever else fucks up. The whole country will be after your blood. You got that?”

  “That’s a ridiculous threat to make.”

  “Oh, yeah. Try me.” He stood, shoved his hands into his pockets. “You would be wise to leave now and not make more of an enemy of me than you already have.” He turned and walked away, irritation sizzling off him.

  My hand itched to hurl something at his departing back. My Kindle, my empty martini glass. Anything that would thwack good and solid against his pompous, misogynistic fat body. But I didn’t. I stayed sitting very still, not reacting to the adrenaline speeding through my veins.

  It was one of the hardest things I’d ever done.

  Five minutes later, I stomped back to my room. Not because Fellows had told me to, but because that had been my plan anyway.

  Trouble was, the elevator filled my head with memoires of being backed against the wall and kissed. The corridor made me think of Lewis standing outside my door, looking anxiously around and hoping no one would see him slipping into my room. How fucking dare Fellows order me not to invite conversation with the players when it was one of them seeking me out. I’d done absolutely nothing to encourage his attentions.

  Nothing.

  I let myself into my room and my gaze settled on the chair Lewis had occupied the evening before. Without him sipping tea, all big and gorgeous and broodingly charming, the place felt empty. As though it had a void waiting to be filled with his presence.

  After setting aside my purse and Kindle, I found a classical music channel on the TV. It was soothing and I hoped it would settle my nerves. I was much better these days at controlling my temper. There would have been a time in my teens I would have definitely hurled something at Fellows as he’d walked away, or resorted to some incredibly colorful language during our conversation. But I tried to be more lady-like these days. After all, I knew he was a stuck up prick with weird ideas but he was never going to admit that or even see that, so why waste the e
nergy on him.

  It was all very well telling myself that, but not reacting to his lunacy was another thing. Anger nipped at my heels and I paced the room. There was no getting away from my frustration. It was like another living, breathing part of me.

  I flicked on the kettle, found a chamomile teabag and wondered if I should check my emails. Perhaps it would distract me.

  But there was nothing new to read, no updates from friends on Facebook, no more instructions from Reg. I sighed and tapped it closed a little harder than I should have, then went to pour my tea.

  A knock at the door caught my attention.

  Trying to suppress a bubble of excitement that it might be the one person I wanted to see but had been forbidden to, I looked through the spy hole.

  A deep blue eye stared back at me, unblinking.

  I started a little, pressed my hand to my chest and tugged the door open.

  “I saw Fellows talking to you and I just wanted to check you were okay,” Lewis said then glanced toward the elevator.

  “Yes. I think so.”

  He frowned. “Can I come in?”

  “Do you think you should?” Wouldn’t that just be aggravating the situation further? The more time I spent with Lewis the more time I wanted to spend with him, and that would end badly for everyone, especially my heart. Guys like Lewis Tate dated super-models, glamour girls, Hollywood starlets not sports journalists. This was just a glitch in my fate. Soon everything would get back to boring normality.

  “If I think so is the answer to my question of are you okay then yes, I do think I should come in.” He didn’t wait for my response, just pushed into the room.

  I stepped away, Fellows’ words ringing in my ears—do not make yourself available for conversations with the England team. Well, I wasn’t. Lewis had sought me out for the second time. He was making himself available for conversations with me.

  Lewis shut the door and walked across the room.

  I retreated toward the end of the bed. Half turned away from him. He was just too tempting. Too damn gorgeous, and the impulse to fling myself at him, strip him naked and lick every inch of his body was almost overwhelming.

  “Nicky,” he said with a frown.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “According to Fellows no, I shouldn’t, but let’s get this straight. I don’t give a fuck what he says. He’s my manager when it comes to the game but he’s not in charge of me when I’m off the pitch. In case you hadn’t noticed I’m a grown man. I can decide for myself what I do and don’t want to do.”

  The sharp tone of his voice rang around the walls and I turned, surprised at his vehement declaration.

  He folded his arms. “I go along with his no-wives-or-girlfriends rule when we’re playing big tournaments for the sake of the younger players. Taylor, for example, is fresh from leaving home. Give him free rein in a place like this, a wallet full of cash and stardom gone to his head and he wouldn’t be able to think of anything but getting laid, and we need him out there on the pitch. We need his mind to be focused on one thing only—defending.”

  I hesitated for a moment. “And is that what you’re thinking about?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Getting laid.”

  He cocked his head and gave an irritated huff. “Give me some credit.”

  I glanced down at my dress, plucked a tiny bit of fluff from my abdomen. “I’m just trying to understand what you’re doing in my room again, Lewis.” Maybe he was a sadist and enjoyed seeing women fall for him then tossed them aside and watched the carnage.

  “You really want to know why I’m here?” His voice was low and serious.

  “Yes.”

  He moved over to me, did that thing again where he filled my vision and flooded all of my senses. He cupped my cheek in his palm and his gaze latched onto mine, soft but somehow burning with intensity. “I’m just a guy who likes a girl, Nicky. That’s why I’m here.”

  He’s just a guy who likes a girl and that girl is me?

  Warmth from his hand seeped right through me and settled in places that begged for attention. My heart swelled with the words he’d just said. I was a girl who liked a guy too. But there was so much in our way. Was here and now even vaguely professional for either of us?

  “We can’t do this.”

  “We’re not doing anything,” he murmured, sliding his other arm around my waist and pulling me close.

  I rested my hands on his chest, felt the small hard points of his nipples beneath my palms. “I think we are doing something,” I said, struggling to keep a shake from my voice. The feel of his body, solid and defined, was sending my hormones into a tail-spin. I tried desperately to think rationally. “Fellows said if England lost he would point the finger at me.”

  Lewis’ jaw tightened and the beautiful softness left his eyes. “He’s out of line saying something like that to you.”

  “Well I know, but…”

  “But what?”

  “He seemed pretty confident when he said he’d make sure the whole country was after my blood if England lost.” I gave a small shudder. “Not a nice thought to go to sleep on, actually.”

  He was quiet for a moment, his lips a flat line. “I won’t let that happen.” He slid his hand from my cheek and took a lock of my hair between his thumb and index finger, rubbing it gently so the strands fanned out. “No one will hurt you because of me. I promise.”

  “That’s a big promise to make.”

  “It simply makes us equal.”

  His heavenly scent and the low murmur of his voice was settling my nerves. “Equal?”

  “Yeah, you’ve promised to only use my name in your reports when writing about football. Nothing else that is said or happens between us will be in the public domain.”

  “Of course, that is the ethic I work by and—”

  “And, I promise not to let Fellows harm you personally or professionally.” He stopped fiddling with my hair and rested his hand on my shoulder. A flash of uncertainly crossed his face. “Of course, it all depends on one thing.”

  I swallowed tightly. “And that is?”

  “Do you like me, Nicky?”

  There was a vulnerability about him in that instant, and if I wasn’t falling for him already with all the grace of super-sized tornado, I certainly would be now. “You’re one of my favorite players. I’ve admired you from afar for many years. But as a guy, who you are off the pitch, I…” I struggled to put my thoughts into words.

  He swept his tongue over his bottom lip. “Go on.”

  “Off the pitch I don’t know you very well, though what I do know, yes…” I smiled up at him. “I like you very much.”

  I felt him relax. “In that case we’ll figure this out.”

  He pulled me closer.

  I slid my hands upward, over his collarbones, and linked my fingers at his nape. The ends of his hair tickled my wrists, and my breasts pressed just below his pecs. Once again an image of us naked, writhing on the bed and giving in to carnal desires flooded my thoughts. I’d never wanted a man as much as I wanted Lewis Tate. There was just something about him that set me on fire.

  “Dance with me,” he said onto my lips. “Forget about all of the craziness. It’s just us in here, no one else. Nothing else.”

  He began to sway and I became aware of the violin music on the TV. It was a lovely gentle tune that wrapped around us, became part of us, and my body moved instinctually in time with it, in time with Lewis.

  “You even smell pretty,” he whispered.

  “Thank you. So do you, well…” I giggled. “Not pretty, manly I suppose.”

  “I’m glad you clarified that.”

  For a few moments we just held each other and moved slowly to the music. I was hyperaware of every section of my body that was touching his, from my chest right down to our toes that knocked occasionally.

  “I was worried,” he said, pulling back slightly. “After I kissed you in the elevator.”


  “Why?”

  “That you’d be angry with me.”

  “Erm, no. Actually, I liked it, very much.”

  “Me too.” His mouth twitched into a half smile. “But I hadn’t asked you. I just did it. I don’t know what came over me. It was like you’d put a spell on me or something.”

  I grinned. “I’m glad whatever spell was cast worked.”

  His face was so close our breaths were mingling.

  “Does that mean I can do it again?” he asked.

  Yes, please.

  “I think we just established that you don’t need to ask.”

  He stopped our gentle dance, paused for a second, then rested his lips over mine. His mouth was barely parted and his damp tongue just warmed the center of my bottom lip.

  I pressed myself to him. Touched the tip of my tongue to his and allowed myself to get lost in the deliciousness of his flavor and the way he was squeezing me tight. His arms were solid around me and I could feel the power harnessed within his muscles. He was so strong yet so gentle. It was an intoxicating combination that hit all the right buttons in me.

  Quickly the kiss intensified, not so that it became fast and frantic, just deep and soul-searching. I adored how he played with my tongue and explored my mouth. I gave as good as I got, drinking him up, catching my breaths when I could.

  Tangling my fingers in his hair, I pulled him closer. Delighted in the sudden zap of sensation that seared up my spine when he ran his hands down my back and cupped my buttocks. I had no choice but to give in to the heat and longing building within me. My pussy was damp and my skin greedy for every caress. Sex was taking over all my thoughts.

  He lifted me by my bum cheeks, onto my toes and trapped me tight against his body. I gasped into his mouth as the steely length of his erection prodded my abdomen.

  “Ah, honey, you’re driving me nuts,” he murmured, then kissed me again—eagerly, hungrily, as though he might never stop.

  If I’d thought I was turned on before, I was sorely mistaken, because now lust flowed in my veins like lava spewing from a volcano. Nothing could stop it. I had to get acquainted with the damn fine specimen of a cock that was jutting eagerly at my belly. A nuclear bomb could detonate outside the hotel and I wouldn’t notice. Lewis Tate was hard, for me. Life had never been so good.