Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Bailey
Beau didn’t win the final round, he came second, and my personal view is that he was robbed.
There were three points in it, but he didn’t seem to mind.
He congratulated the winner as though he was genuinely pleased for him, took his cheque, then strode out of the arena toward the changing rooms, leaving me watching his tight ass like some kind of desperate groupie.
And maybe I am?
Maybe that’s just the way it’s going to be with us. I don’t know. But for the next two-and-a-half weeks I’m covering this guy, and I’m not going to spend the whole time fighting my instincts.
My breath is rushed as I pack my things into my bag, grab my empty cup and take it to a nearby trash can, then move in the direction of the corridor.
As one of the top scorers, Beau’s got media to handle.
I slip into the back of the room straight up, so see him take his seat on the stage.
He’s talking and laughing with the other two riders, his legs spread wide beneath the table, his dusty boots somehow incredibly hot.
His shirt is the same one he wore out there, a red and black plaid that shows the depth of his tan.
My fingers tingle with a yearning to push it off him, to feel his warm skin for myself.
My mouth is all dry, my tongue unnaturally thick.
An official PR person from the tour calls for the attention of the media, introduces the three men, and then the questions begin.
This time, they’re peppered across the three.
They take turns good-naturedly, sometimes jumping in on each other’s answers, but with a sense of camaraderie that I make a note of.
It’s rare to see competitive athletes behave more like teammates.
After all, every rider out there wants the same thing: to win the big prize at the end of the season.
Every rider wants the success, the accomplishment, the fame and superiority of being the best. But they don’t act like it in here.
A smile shifts one side of my mouth as Beau cracks a joke and the room laughs. Pride and heat are at war within me. I know this doesn’t mean anything—just like I said last night—but for right now, he wants me, and I want him, and to hell with letting that opportunity go.
The press event wraps up after almost thirty minutes.
Beau’s eyes briefly skid to mine before shifting to the other riders.
They stand up and start talking. I can’t catch what they’re saying—the microphones have been turned off—but they walk toward a side door.
When they reach it, Beau pats one of them on the back, shakes the other’s hand, then stops walking, letting them go ahead of him.
And turns to me again. So our eyes lock, and the rest of the room fades into nothing, just like the other night in the packed corridor.
The mouth that was already too dry and full of my own tongue now aches with the force of feelings I’m trying to control.
He starts to stride toward me. No. Not stride. Swagger. What else do you call a cowboy in low-slung jeans, a thick leather belt and a shiny old buckle, who seems to move to the beat of a classic country song only he can hear?
He stops just short of me.
‘Howdy, ma’am,’ he says with an exaggerated accent and grin.
My heart turns over in my chest. ‘Congratulations.’
He dips his head, and if he’d been wearing his hat he would have tipped it, I’m sure.
‘The other fellas are headin’ downtown again.’ Disappointment shifts through me. I remember Katie and the dozens of women just like her who’d no doubt be there in droves, looking to get a part of Beau Donovan. ‘Any interest?’
‘In going downtown?’ I ask carefully.
His eyes narrow slightly but his expression doesn’t otherwise shift. ‘Or anything.’
My heart thuds hard. This is it. The moment of reckoning. I could keep running from this, pretend I don’t want what I want and hope I get over it. Or I can show my hand and see what he does …
‘Anything,’ I say, nodding slowly. ‘What exactly is anything?’
He moves. Barely, but enough. Enough for his much larger body to show me how easily he could engulf me, how much his frame offers some kind of protection and reassurance. Enough to make my pulse go completely haywire.
‘You tell me, Bailey James.’
I swallow, trying to bring a feeling of normality back to my parched mouth. ‘I mean, you should celebrate your ride.’
He makes a guttural noise of agreement. ‘Any suggestions?’
‘We could—’ I clear my throat, totally aware that I’m chickening out now that I’m here. Not because I’ve changed what I want, but because I’m way out of my comfort zone. I don’t go around propositioning guys. Even before Kirk, that wasn’t my style.
‘Celebrate privately?’ he suggests, saving me from having to make the cringe suggestion myself. As he says it, he moves one leg slightly, quickly, so our knees brush and I close my eyes against a sudden inescapable wave of heat.
‘Yeah.’ My voice is hoarse. ‘Behind closed doors,’ I clarify, in case he’s missing what I’m putting out there.
His smile spreads, slow and sensual, the heat building between us in a way that’s making my whole body reach melting point.
‘That’s just about the best celebration I can imagine,’ he says, after a beat that’s just long enough to make my nerves stretch tight. ‘Let’s go, darlin’.’
Beau
When I was younger, I’d have taken Bailey in the back seat of my truck, right after a ride like that too.
I want to say that at twenty-eight, I have more self-control, but the truth is my body’s stiffer, sorer, the ride’s taken more of a toll, so even when I want to fuck her halfway to Sunday here and now, I know the best thing is to get back to the room and take a long, hot shower to ease some of my tortured muscles.
I can feel a pull in my side from that last buck and how hard I had to hold on to keep control.
I toss the keys toward the valet’s gloved hand when I pull up in front of the hotel, and believe me, I’m itching to grab Bailey and drag her to my room, but her insistence on this being behind closed doors rings in my ears.
So too her concerns about her job, and what it would mean if anyone found out she’d slept with someone she was profiling. Sex shouldn’t screw up anyone’s life.
‘What’s your room number?’ I ask, as we wait for the lift.
She glances up at me. ‘Four thirteen.’
I nod once. ‘Give me thirty minutes.’
A frown briefly flickers across her face. Disappointment.
‘I stink.’ I grin, not wanting to admit that my body’s pulled up rough. I don’t go in for macho bullshit, but at the same time I hardly want to tell a woman I’m about to take to bed that my side has an owie.
‘You really don’t,’ she promises.
We step into the elevator. Just the two of us, in a confined space, so the sound of our raw, frantic breathing is all I can hear. It soars up to the fifth floor. I realise belatedly she didn’t press the button for her own.
‘I’ll wait for you to shower,’ she suggests impishly.
Maybe there’s a reason she doesn’t want me going to her room? Maybe there’s a reason for a lot of things? It doesn’t matter though. Bailey’s here, with me, and I’m not about to fuck that up.
I brush my fingers over hers as we step out of the lift, but still don’t take her hand the way I want to. Desperation to touch and feel her is a serious temptation though. I swipe the card to my room, push the door in with one hand, holding it open, ignoring the tightening in my abdominal wall.
‘Thanks.’ She flicks a smile at me as she passes.
I return it. Mine’s more relaxed, more practised.
Whatever else she is, Bailey James is not someone who does this kind of thing often.
That’s as clear as the day is long. It makes something inside of me soar with privilege, with heat and need.
To be rare to her. To be someone she wants enough to break her rules, to go against what she knows she should do.
I step in after her and push the door closed, then toe out of my boots, leaving them neatly at the door. She walks toward the window first, looking out at the view of the hotel swimming pool.
Hell, if I don’t want to just storm over there and start making out, to rip those fancy-ass clothes from her body and see what’s underneath. ‘Gimme ten minutes,’ I mutter, before I can give in to temptation and start something I know I won’t be able to stop.
‘How ’bout I give you five,’ she replies with a teasingly arched brow, so I laugh, low and soft, as I step into the spacious bathroom with its Mexican-style tiles.
I hit the water and start it running, all hot.
Steam fills the room as I undress, wincing again, turning to check the site of pain in the mirror.
There’s no bruising, it’s just tight. I work my fingers over it, ignoring the throbbing ache, then move into the stream of water, angling my body so the jets hit the muscle, and keep working it with my hand.
Better. I lather up and wash all over, then step out, drying off before wrapping the fluffy white hotel towel low on my hips.
I mean, I contemplate pulling clothes on, but what would be the point?
Feeling like a whole new man, I head out into the main room. Bailey’s turned on the TV to some music station. The volume’s low, the songs unmistakably soulful and country. She’s also helped herself to the minibar, making a little picnic out of some nuts, chips and a bottle of wine.
‘A celebration,’ she reminds me, holding out a glass. But her hand trembles a little and her eyes drop to my chest, like she’s never seen a naked guy before.
‘No better way,’ I reiterate, walking across the carpeted room for the glass she offers. I hold her gaze as I take a sip, see how her own throat shifts like she’s swallowing. Breath tightens in my lungs.
‘You were incredible.’ Genuine admiration softens her voice. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t win.’
I roll my shoulders. ‘He was better.’