smile failed to contain. Pressed as she was to his chest, she could hardly hide her body’s reaction. “Are you saying I’m fat? That I have an excess of stored calories needing to be burned?”
“Chloe, I swear. You could drive a marble statue to take up the bottle. I’m complimenting your play,princess. But if you can’t take it, I see no point sticking around…though the points you’re making there beneath your top are just about enough to convince me otherwise.” He left her with a wink and jogged back to position.
Chloe stuck out her tongue at his retreating back. Men. Totally worthless species. Here she was, more hot and bothered over the feel of Eric’s hands on her body than the physical exertion, and what did he do? Left her breathless and went back to playing his game.
And what did you expect? That he’d take you down and rip off your clothes in the sand? This was hardly the beach scene out of From Here to Eternity.
Ridiculous, really, how her thoughts about Eric seemed to be forever turning to sex. She was wondering too much about what he’d be like in bed, when sleeping with him would ruin any fun they might have. She so despised mornings-after.
So she, too, got back to the game, her concentration once again snagged by the strategy and the play. She kept her eye on the ball, on Lizzy’s serves, Eric’s blocks, Jason’s passes, the rest of her teammates’ sets and spikes.
Her feet never stopped moving. She bounced, she shuffled, she jumped. She scooted through the sand. She dived. She assisted, she scored. She sweated until the salt stung her eyes and burned her parched lips.
Then came the final play. She approached the net, crouched, judged her timing and shot into the air for a game-saving block. Scuffed leather hit her palms. Her feet hit the ground.
The ball barely cleared the net and, with the total lack of momentum from her puny impact, fell short of the outstretched hands on the opposite side andplopped into the sand. Cheers went up from her teammates, and Chloe couldn’t help but grin.
Yet for one brief moment she saw nothing but the past—her father in the bleachers, cheering on the sons he’d come to watch play, the sons who’d made him proud, who’d earned his affection with their sportsmanship skills.
And Chloe had sat at his side, the fingers of her right hand clapping against the palm of her left, a good little beauty queen, the perfect daughter, smiling…the dam of her clenched teeth holding back a flood of resentment.
Unladylike resentment she’d buried deep in her heart for fear of losing what attention her father did show. She’d taught herself not to care, told herself she wasn’t missing a thing.
Oh, but she’d been wrong.
This was exactly what she’d missed, this feeling of shared accomplishment, of belonging.
And even more so, this amazing feeling of being true to herself, of damning propriety and going for broke. Her teammates descended and she couldn’t help but smile, her smile broadening at the pride-filled gleam in Eric’s eyes.
Daddy! Look at your little girl now. Dirty and sweaty and a hell of a mess.
And happier than she’d been in ages.
C HLOE HAD NEVER BEEN to Eric’s house.
And it was a house, a real house, she noted with approval, setting her knapsack on the antique telephone table in the entryway. Not a condo or a loft or anything equally trendy, though the two-story, wood frame structure was situated in a renovated historicaldistrict bordering Houston’s downtown, and qualified as urban chic.
For some reason, she’d always pictured him living closer to Haydon’s, as that area of the city drew young urban singles like flypaper. She liked that Eric wasn’t just another fly, that he was, from all appearances, one of a kind.
Her mind wandered to the upstairs shower and a singularly spectacular soapy body…. Chloe blinked back her lust. So what if the man was built? It wasn’t like she’d never seen abs before. Or like Eric
“Chloe, I swear. You could drive a marble statue to take up the bottle. I’m complimenting your play,princess. But if you can’t take it, I see no point sticking around…though the points you’re making there beneath your top are just about enough to convince me otherwise.” He left her with a wink and jogged back to position.
Chloe stuck out her tongue at his retreating back. Men. Totally worthless species. Here she was, more hot and bothered over the feel of Eric’s hands on her body than the physical exertion, and what did he do? Left her breathless and went back to playing his game.
And what did you expect? That he’d take you down and rip off your clothes in the sand? This was hardly the beach scene out of From Here to Eternity.
Ridiculous, really, how her thoughts about Eric seemed to be forever turning to sex. She was wondering too much about what he’d be like in bed, when sleeping with him would ruin any fun they might have. She so despised mornings-after.
So she, too, got back to the game, her concentration once again snagged by the strategy and the play. She kept her eye on the ball, on Lizzy’s serves, Eric’s blocks, Jason’s passes, the rest of her teammates’ sets and spikes.
Her feet never stopped moving. She bounced, she shuffled, she jumped. She scooted through the sand. She dived. She assisted, she scored. She sweated until the salt stung her eyes and burned her parched lips.
Then came the final play. She approached the net, crouched, judged her timing and shot into the air for a game-saving block. Scuffed leather hit her palms. Her feet hit the ground.
The ball barely cleared the net and, with the total lack of momentum from her puny impact, fell short of the outstretched hands on the opposite side andplopped into the sand. Cheers went up from her teammates, and Chloe couldn’t help but grin.
Yet for one brief moment she saw nothing but the past—her father in the bleachers, cheering on the sons he’d come to watch play, the sons who’d made him proud, who’d earned his affection with their sportsmanship skills.
And Chloe had sat at his side, the fingers of her right hand clapping against the palm of her left, a good little beauty queen, the perfect daughter, smiling…the dam of her clenched teeth holding back a flood of resentment.
Unladylike resentment she’d buried deep in her heart for fear of losing what attention her father did show. She’d taught herself not to care, told herself she wasn’t missing a thing.
Oh, but she’d been wrong.
This was exactly what she’d missed, this feeling of shared accomplishment, of belonging.
And even more so, this amazing feeling of being true to herself, of damning propriety and going for broke. Her teammates descended and she couldn’t help but smile, her smile broadening at the pride-filled gleam in Eric’s eyes.
Daddy! Look at your little girl now. Dirty and sweaty and a hell of a mess.
And happier than she’d been in ages.
C HLOE HAD NEVER BEEN to Eric’s house.
And it was a house, a real house, she noted with approval, setting her knapsack on the antique telephone table in the entryway. Not a condo or a loft or anything equally trendy, though the two-story, wood frame structure was situated in a renovated historicaldistrict bordering Houston’s downtown, and qualified as urban chic.
For some reason, she’d always pictured him living closer to Haydon’s, as that area of the city drew young urban singles like flypaper. She liked that Eric wasn’t just another fly, that he was, from all appearances, one of a kind.
Her mind wandered to the upstairs shower and a singularly spectacular soapy body…. Chloe blinked back her lust. So what if the man was built? It wasn’t like she’d never seen abs before. Or like Eric
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