“It doesn’t make me happy that you find a little simple decency a surprise,” he said.
She stared at his chest for a moment before giving him a shy look. “I’m surprised by how generous you are about giving me pleasure when we make love.”
“So you thought I’d be selfish in bed?” He was getting pissed off. He’d wanted more.
“Let’s just say that someone as extraordinarily good-looking and famous as you are might consider just his presence more than enough.”
She must have had some lousy lovers. The thought pissed him off even more, for reasons he didn’t want to explore.
Truth was, he liked watching how a woman responded to his touch, how she moved, what sounds she made, which parts of her body were the most sensitive. It was like seeing a play unfold on the field and then taking it in the direction you wanted it to go. It stoked his own arousal.
But he wanted to go beyond sex. “What else?”
That had her avoiding his eyes. He put his finger under her chin and tipped her face up. He’d trade her some real feelings. “I thought being benched would make me bored and restless. Instead, I look forward to getting away from the Empire Center and back to you.” He was astounded by the truth of it.
He’d thought she would smile. Instead, her eyes lost their glow, and her mouth turned sad. “I’m glad I could make your time off bearable.”
“You’ve made it a holiday.” Suddenly, the time between now and Monday didn’t seem nearly long enough. He wanted to explore the bond he’d felt when they were touring around the museums. Taking her to bed might have screwed that up, but the intangible connection had felt so powerful that a physical relationship seemed like the inevitable next step.
He leaned down to kiss the wistful curve of her lips. She responded by clutching his shoulders and running her knee up the side of his thigh so that she was pushing against his half-hard cock.
He sensed an edge of desperation in her reaction and knew she was trying to distract herself or him with sex. Locking his hands under her, he lifted her to wind her legs around his waist before walking to the bed. His bruises howled, but the pressure of her against his arousal submerged the hurt.
As he lowered her to the edge of the mattress, an arrow of intense pain lanced into his rib cage. He straightened with a grunt.
“You have to stop carrying me,” she said, her reproof laced with guilt. She smoothed her hands around the edges of his bruises as though she could take the hurt on herself.
“I moved wrong. That’s all.”
His cock hardened even more as she looked up at him from where she sat, her hands still on his skin and her dark hair streaming over her naked breasts. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“Sugar, I brought you over to the bed so we can do just that.” He stripped off his trousers and briefs.
She gave a gasping laugh as his erection sprang free. “You don’t look like you’re ready for a nap.”
Her head was at waist level, and he had a vision of her lips wrapped around his cock. He forced it away, clenching his hands into fists to control the wave of desire. But he wanted something different from her.
He knelt in front of her, taking one of her high heel–clad feet in his hand and fiddling with the buckle. He needed some distraction to get himself under control.
“Let me do that,” she said, trying to lift his shoulders with her soft hands in an attempt to make him stand. “You’re going to hurt yourself again.”
He ran his finger along the bottom of her arch, making her jerk and giggle.
“Hey, the handsome prince isn’t supposed to tickle Cinderella,” she said, the smile back in her voice.
He tossed the shoe over his shoulder. “Good thing it’s not made of glass,” he said as he unbuckled the other one and sent it sailing as well.
Taking her ankles in his hands, he swung them up onto the bed and climbed in beside her. As she started to cuddle against him, he rolled over onto his uninjured side and propped his head on his hand.
“Now talk to me, sugar.”
Chapter 17
Miranda looked adorably confused. He couldn’t blame her. He had taken off his clothes, gotten into bed with a naked woman, and told her to talk. Hell, he was confused.
“Talk about what?” she asked.
“About you. What you like. What you want.”
“That’s pretty open-ended.” Her tone was wary.
“How about telling me what you would do if you didn’t need to earn a living?” Because that was the question on his own mind.
She gave him a dubious glance before saying, “I think I’d be a tour guide for travelers overseas.”
Maybe she had missed the not-earning-a-living part. “Money doesn’t enter into this, so you don’t have to take anyone with you. You can travel by yourself.”
“I’d travel on my own first, discover all the most interesting places to see and most scrumptious places to eat, and then share my knowledge.” She was warming to her vision. “I like helping other people enjoy things.”
“You’re a strange one, Miranda Tate.” He imagined going on the exploratory trip with her, searching out exotic locales, deciding which sights and food they liked and didn’t like, trying out the beds at hotels. It was a damned appealing picture.
“What about you?” she asked. “What would you do if you didn’t play football?”
He should have seen that coming, but it felt as though she had hauled back her fist and punched him in the sternum. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.