The Reporter #2
The reporter finished and stepped away.
His eyes returned to mine.
His finger shifted again.
So did my breath.
He leaned back, studying me. He looked entirely pleased with himself now.
His hand moved again, inserting a second finger and slowly moving them in and out. He explored the boundary he had been given, one measured movement at a time.
Every pause invited me to stop him.
Every time, I stayed.
I asked the last question because continuing to speak was the only thing keeping me upright.
“How much confidence does a penalty kill like tonight’s give the group?”
He answered in complete sentences for once.
He spoke about trust, timing and building on the performance.
His voice sounded steady enough for television.
His fingers continued their hidden path inside of me, now dripping with wetness.
When he finished, I lowered the recorder.
“Was that usable?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“The answer?”
I pressed the stop button.
“That too.”
His eyes lowered briefly to my skirt.
His fingers remained inside of me.
“Interview finished?”
“Yes.”
He waited.
The locker room was beginning to empty, but not quickly enough. There were still cameras in the aisle. Still players crossing behind me. Still too many people within a few feet of us.
His hand could not stay where it was.
We both knew that.
He gave one final, slow stroke along the bare skin beneath the fabric, intimate enough to make my breath catch but restrained enough to leave me wanting far more than he had given.
Then he withdrew.
The elastic of my panties settled back against my body.
I immediately missed the heat of his hand.
He rested both forearms on his thighs again, looking infuriatingly composed.
I adjusted the hem of my skirt.
“You’re pleased with yourself,” I said.
“I gave a good interview.”
“You gave one good answer.”
“It was the important one.”
“I asked six questions.”
“You were not listening to the first five.”
“That’s your fault.”
“Maybe.”
No apology.
No denial.
I stepped backward out from between his knees. He didn’t close them immediately.
He remained there, bare-chested, dark-haired and watching me as if the performance had not ended simply because I had turned off the recorder. He slowly brought his two fingers to his mouth, tasting what was left of me as he licked them clean, keeping eye contact with me the entire time.
I shook my head.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re a menace.”
“Did you get what you needed?” he asked, nodding at my notebook in my hand.
I looked down at him.
His expression was playful again, but his eyes remained intent.
“Enough for now.”
His smile widened.
“For now.”
I turned and left the room before he could see mine.
I told myself I went to the hotel bar because I needed a drink.
That was technically true.
It had nothing to do with the possibility that he might appear there. Players often went out after road games, but this was a loss, a late one, and the team had a flight the next morning.
I wasn’t waiting for him.
I repeated that through half a glass of wine.
The bar was mostly empty, filled with business travelers and muted televisions playing late West Coast games.
I had changed out of my work clothes and into jeans and a dark green top, as though changing my outfit could separate me from the woman who had stood between his legs as he fingered me in a crowded locker room and silently asked him not to stop.
I was reading over my notes when someone took the stool beside me.
“You leave all your interviews that quickly?”
My entire body tightened.
He wore black trousers, a white dress shirt and a dark tie loosened at his throat. His suit jacket was folded over one arm. His hair was still slightly damp from his shower.
He looked unfairly good.
I turned back to my wine.
“That wasn’t an interview.”
“No?”
“You could’ve moved your bag.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
The bartender approached. He ordered a club soda, which surprised me enough that I looked at him.
He noticed.
“Early flight.”
“Responsible.”
“I have my moments.”
The bartender moved away.
He turned on the stool, one knee brushing mine beneath the bar.
“You were watching me.”
“You were performing.”
“Maybe.”
“You took off three layers in slow motion.”
“I was tired.”
“You got tired halfway through pulling your shirt over your stomach?”
His grin widened.
“That’s the part you remember?”
Heat climbed my throat.
“I remember everything. It’s my job.”
“Is it?”
His knee pressed more firmly against mine.
I took another drink.
He leaned closer, bringing the clean scent of soap and something warm and expensive with him.
“Tell me something,” he said.
“No.”
“I haven’t asked yet.”
“I know where this is going.”
“Do you?”
His voice dropped.
“Did you want me to stop?”
The teasing was gone.
The question settled between us, direct and unavoidable.
I looked at him.
“No.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“Did you want more?”
“Yes.”
The answer came too quickly to pretend otherwise.
His gaze lowered to my mouth.
“Good.”
My pulse jumped.
He lifted his glass when it arrived but didn’t drink.
“I’ve spent half the night thinking about how you looked standing there,” he said.
“You looked very pleased with yourself.”
“I was.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You were trying so hard not to move.”
“Because there were twenty people around us.”
“You moved.”
I fell silent.
He leaned closer.
“Just enough,” he murmured. “I felt it.”
My skin burned.
“You’re enjoying embarrassing me.”
“A little.”
“A lot.”
“A lot,” he admitted.
His hand came to rest on my knee beneath the bar.
This time, there was no skirt concealing it and no interview disguising what he was doing.
“I’m also wondering whether you want me to finish what I started.”
I stared at his hand.
“Here?”
His thumb moved once against the inside of my knee.
“No.”
The word sounded almost like a promise.
“Your room.”
I looked back at him.
His expression had changed again. Still confident, but controlled. Waiting.
“You’re assuming I’ll invite you.”
“I’m hoping.”
“That’s new.”
“What is?”
“You admitting you don’t already know.”
His mouth curved.
“I know what happened in the locker room. I don’t know what you want now.”
My heart thudded.
“I want you to come upstairs.”
He stood immediately.
I laughed. “You could at least pretend to think about it.”
“I’ve been thinking about it since you stepped between my legs.”
The elevator ride was silent. Charged.
He stood beside me with his jacket over one shoulder, close enough that the back of his hand occasionally brushed mine. Neither of us looked at the other.
When the doors opened on my floor, I walked ahead of him.
I felt his attention on me the entire way down the hall.
My hands shook slightly as I slid the key card into the lock.
Behind me, he said, “Nervous?”
“No.”
I opened the door and stepped inside.
He followed, letting it close behind him.
For one second, neither of us moved.
The room was dim except for the lamp beside the bed. My suitcase lay open on the luggage rack. My work clothes were folded over a chair. The bed was still neatly made.
His gaze moved over the room, then returned to me. He crossed the room in two steps.
His hand caught the back of my neck and his mouth came down on mine.
The kiss was nothing like the careful, hidden touches in the locker room. It was immediate and hungry, his body pressing mine back against the door. He kissed like he played, using his size without losing control of it, crowding me until I could feel the hard length of him from chest to thigh.
My hands went to his shirt.
He smiled against my mouth.
“Impatient.”
“You spent ten minutes taking your clothes off in front of me.”
“And you spent ten minutes pretending you didn’t like it.”
“I’m done pretending.”
“Good.”
He kissed me again, slower this time, his free hand sliding beneath the hem of my top and over the curve of my waist.
I worked his tie loose.
He watched me pull it from beneath his collar.
Then his gaze shifted to the metal bars of the headboard and the nightstand next to it.
The look he gave me made my stomach drop.
“You packed anything else interesting?” he asked.
I should have remembered the nightstand.
I didn’t until he guided me backward toward the bed and his eyes landed on the small vibrator beside my phone charger.
I froze.
He followed my gaze.
Then he looked at me.
“You left that out.”
“I wasn’t expecting company.”
“Were you planning to use it?”
“That is none of your business.”
His eyebrows rose. He picked it up from the nightstand, turning it slowly in his hand.
Mortification burned through me.
“You can stop looking so pleased.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s what worries me.”
He set it back down.
Then he held up the tie.
“Hands.”
My breath caught.
“You’re very bossy.”
“Do you want me to ask nicely?”
“No.”
His eyes darkened.
I placed my wrists together.
He wrapped the tie around them, firm but careful, then guided my arms above my head and secured the other end around the metal bar. He tested the knot with two fingers.
“Too tight?”
“No.”
He bent over me and kissed the inside of my wrist where it rested against the silk tie.
Then he kissed his way down my arm.
My shoulder.
The side of my neck.
Every touch was slow, deliberate and maddeningly controlled. He had learned exactly what his performance in the locker room had done to me and had apparently decided to repeat the entire thing at half speed.
“You’re doing it again,” I whispered.
“Doing what?”
“Dragging it out.”
He unbuttoned my jeans.
“I thought reporters appreciated detail.”
I lifted my hips as he pulled them down.
His gaze traveled over me, taking his time.
There was nowhere to hide beneath it. My wrists were bound above my head. My hair was spread across the pillow. My breathing was already uneven and he had barely touched me.