Page 24 of Playing for Love

What the hell was I doing comparing Tate to Gabe? As if Gabe was my standard? As if he was the one I was trying to get over instead of Paul. As if I had a choice. I knew he’d never be a choice, whether or not Denise got her diamond, whether or not she got tired of waiting and ditched Gabe. Because I knew Denise would never forgive me if I went for Gabe. Even after she ditched him, he’d always be hands off. That’s how Denise was. That’s how I was. It was a specific rule among our circle of girlfriends, not just one of those nebulous unspoken rules.

“This is gorgeous,” Tate said, following me through the short corridor to the living room. “Like you.”

I laughed at his cheesy line.

The apartment was a spacious one-bedroom and although I’d only moved in a couple of weeks ago, I was proud of how homey it was. Proud of the fact that I could afford it on my own and in fact had refused money from my mother and hadn’t touched the trust fund my father had left me.

“Let me get us some towels,” I said. “Make yourself at home.”

“I’ll stand until I’m dried off,” he said.

Tate was handsome, more so than Gabe. He was built for defense and piled with muscles, round and solid as rocks, like a sculpture, especially noticeable now that his wet shirt clung to him as if he were naked. He definitely had more muscle than Gabe, though he wasn’t as tall. He was six two to Gabe’s six five—not a distinction worth noting even considering that I was five ten. I could wear my tallest heels—I never wore them higher than three inches—and still not worry about towering over either of them.

Dragging my eyes from him, I headed down the hall to my linen closet to grab the towels, swearing at myself for continuing to compare Tate to Gabe. It wasn’t fair. Gabe belonged to Denise. I knew it, knew that whatever problems they had, they had a great sex life and that was likely enough to keep them together a long time, if not forever.

I often wondered how Denise managed at only five five to be with someone a foot taller than her, though she’d insisted it made no difference in bed. She’d made a point to tell us, our circle of girlfriends, that they managed spectacularly. Whenever she drank a few too many, which wasn’t often, admittedly, she would go into details, but I would find something else to pay attention to rather than listen. I couldn’t bring myself to hear about it. Didn’t want to know what I was missing, needed to stick to my late-night fantasies.

Bringing the two oversize bath towels out to the living room where Tate stood gazing out the window at the sheets of rain, I handed him one. He grinned.

“You should change out of those wet clothes,” he said. His voice held a vibration I hadn’t heard before, the kind caused by lusty tension.

I stood an arm’s length away, and he was soaked, but I could still feel his heat, the heat of his gaze, see him swallow as he watched me. I looked down, realizing now that my shirt clung to my body same as his did and that my nipples showed clearly though the fabric of my shirt and flimsy bra.

“Good idea. Be right back.” I took my towel and turned, not hurrying, but walking with more self-consciousness knowing he stared at my backside as I retreated. Hearing his soft chuckle hadn’t helped my poise. But dry clothes would.

I peeled off my shirt—an impossibly soft designer MK cotton-silk blend gift from my mother—and my jeans shorts, bra, and panties, tossing them all into the sink in my en suite. In the interest of time, I pulled on panties and a cotton knit polo dress. Sliding into some sandals, I combed my fingers through my wet hair as I went back to the living room.

Toweling off his own hair, Tate stood where I left him, his shirt slightly less clingy, but still wet.

“Maybe you should go home and get into dry clothes yourself,” I said. “Not that I want you to leave, but I wouldn’t want you getting sick on my watch.”

He nodded, taking me in. “You’re right.” With a lopsided smile, he slipped his phone from his pocket and tapped on it, presumably calling up an Uber ride.

“I can’t wait until I can get my car back. My brother said he’d drive it here for me, but not until next week.”

“Where is your family?”

“Ohio. My parents both work in our family business. A pizza place in Dayton. It’s tough for them to get away, but they have a big crowd for every game at the place and everyone in town comes to watch me play. They send me videos of the party after the game.” He shrugged, a half smile diminishing the loneliness I could tell was there.

“What about a special woman? It’s amazing that no one has snatched you up by now.”

He laughed. “I was snatched up twice already and let go. Things didn’t work out. But they will. Eventually.” He smiled and cleared his throat. “My mom says I’m too young to settle down yet.”

“What do you say?” I had no idea why I pushed him. I had no business getting this personal. I hardly knew him and I had half my heart still crushing on Gabe, forbidden fruit or not.

“I say let things happen as they’re meant to happen.”

I nodded. “I guess there’s no shortage of women to try out for the role of Tate Fontanna’s main squeeze.”

“Currently, only one. That I’m interested in.” He closed in then, dropping the towel on a chair and sliding a cool, hard-muscled arm around me. I shivered involuntarily and realized I wanted him to kiss me. I needed to test him again, test our chemistry, and felt that drugging anticipation as he lowered his face to mine. His mouth was a breath away.

“I’d love to kiss you Mia.”

“I’d love you to kiss me, Tate.”

He lowered his mouth, his lips grazing mine in a soft brush at first and then settling in, finding a place to meet in a warm pillowy cushion of flesh against mine, pressing and clinging, slightly parted. His tongue ran along the seam of my lips in a perfectly executed move, sensual and promising. I parted my lips and touched his tongue with mine, felt that intimate moist warmth.

While he continued to press his mouth and nibble expertly, making me feel cherished, I concentrated on the sensations, pleasurable and enticing. But I felt no spark, no heart-slamming excitement, no need to fist his shirt in my hands and drag him closer. My hands safely rested against his shoulders without any itch to pull myself into him. His hands caressed my back but didn’t wander to my backside, didn’t pull my hips in to feel whether or not I’d made him hard. I wondered, and felt curious, but he broke the kiss off then, slipping the phone from his pocket.