Pipe Dreams(44)

"I'll bet you say that to all the girls."

There was a tap on her door.

"Gotta fly, Jerry. My visitor is knocking."

"Don't let me keep you!" He hung up laughing.

Lauren opened the door to Mike wearing his game night suit-the tie  loosened haphazardly-and a haggard expression. Her smile slid off her  face. "Hey. You okay?"

He shrugged. "No gold star on my phone tonight."

"What? Gold star?" She stepped aside, motioning him inside.

"When we win, our Katt Phones all have gold stars on the login screen."

"Okay. So, uh . . . How did you know where to find me?"

He dropped his gym bag on the floor and pulled her against his suit  jacket. "Got your address from Becca when I sent you pickles and ice  cream."

"Mm." She inhaled his scent-a mixture of shower soap and wool gabardine.  "And you just decided to stop by for tea and crumpets at midnight?"

He pushed her hair aside and kissed her neck. "It's been eleven days  since I held you and I couldn't take it anymore." He kicked her door  shut and then pushed her up against it. His mouth found her jawline,  where he began to drop soft open-mouthed kisses. "I used to come home to  you after a game." He tongued the sensitive hollow between her neck and  her shoulder. "Didn't matter if I won or lost. You were happy to see me  either way."

She made an ineloquent noise of pleasure, but they both knew he was  right. Lauren placed her hands on his chest, pushing the lapels of his  jacket apart. His skin radiated warmth beneath his shirt. It was late,  and it had been a long night. But when his hands skimmed down her bare  arms, landing on her scantily covered hips, her libido woke up and  offered to take his coat, and every other stitch of fabric on his body.

For starters, she loosened his tie and tossed it on the floor. "Won't your family wonder where you are?"

"They don't wait up," he murmured against her skin. "Tomorrow's a school  day." He cupped her jaw in one hand and raised her chin.

She waited, expecting to be kissed.

He only studied her instead, his dark eyes intense.

"What?" she breathed.

"I miss the hell out of you, that's all. I miss you so much it hurts."

When she threw her arms around him a second later, she knew she was in  trouble. She was tired of playing it cool. "I miss you, too. But  everything is just so complicated."

He chuckled into her hair. "It's like we invented complicated."

"I love you, Mike." In for a penny . . .

"Love you, too, Lo. Never stopped."

She believed him. But that didn't make things any easier. "Come to bed." She stepped back. "It's late. It's been a long day."

"You're telling me." He took her hand and kissed it. "Lead the way."

Threading her fingers into his, she led him through the darkened living  room and into her bedroom. "The bathroom is right here," she said,  flipping on the light in there. "Make yourself comfortable."

She gave him a little nudge and then left him, climbing into her  four-poster bed. She'd bought her bedroom furniture with her first  paycheck from Nate. It was white-a little girly, maybe. But she'd been  trying to cheer herself up.                       
       
           



       

Many of those early nights she'd lain here, just wishing Mike Beacon was here in the apartment with her.

How weird that he actually was.

He emerged from her bathroom a couple of minutes later, shutting off the  light behind him. In the glow of the ambient light shining through her  windows-Manhattan was never dark-she watched him strip out of his suit,  dropping the pants and shirt over the upholstered bench at the end of  the bed.

"Nice apartment," he said huskily. Off came his boxers.

"It's dark. You can't even see it," she teased.

He shrugged. "You're in it. That's what makes it nice." He walked around  to the side of the bed and tugged the quilt aside. He slid into bed and  rolled to face her. "Come here, sweetheart. Let me hold you."

She went willingly. Greedily, even. She laid her head on his chest,  lifting a hand to sift her fingers through the silky hair dusting his  pecs and thickening over his abdomen into the happiest of happy trails.  His chest hair was her secret fetish. She regarded it as evidence of his  abundant supply of testosterone.

Lying there in silence, she was gripped by a powerful déja vu. So many  nights they'd gotten into bed together after a game, both of them tired,  yet kept awake by the thoughts spinning through their respective  brains. The comfort of skin on skin was what eventually put them to  sleep.

"I had a terrible fight with Elsa last night," he said eventually.

"Oh, I'm sorry! Was it about me?"

He didn't answer right away. "It's never really about you. It's always about me."

"I understand. But she didn't like it that I showed up to have dinner with you."

He sighed. "It's just going to take her some time to accept her mother's  loss. She's angry, and any little thing that changes makes her jumpy.  But life is full of change. It doesn't stop to let you get your  bearings."

"Did you make up with her yet?" she asked, picturing their hug in the corridor tonight.

"Sort of. We both apologized. But lately she's like a grenade with the  pin pulled, you know? I never know when she's going to blow. I can't  tell which parts are grief, and which parts are just plain  thirteen-year-old girl."

"Is there someone she talks to?"

"Like a shrink? She had one for a year on Long Island. But then we  moved. The doctor told me she'd be happy to find us someone in Brooklyn  if I thought we still needed it."

"Maybe you do," Lauren suggested softly.

He groaned. "I'll call tomorrow. I feel like a shit dad all the time.  Shelly did all these things as a full-time job, you know? She also needs  braces, probably."

"In three weeks you'll be available full time for her."

"Three weeks, huh?" He gave her ass a friendly squeeze. "You're taking  us to the finals in your little calculation. That's a jinx, missy."

"You can blame me if it all goes wrong in game seven."

They fell silent for another moment. His hand trailed down her ribcage,  then onto her tummy. He pressed his palm against her lower abdomen, then  rubbed gently. She closed her eyes and sank into the sensation.

"What's the countdown now?"

"On?"

"Our secret project. When am I allowed to ask how it's going?"

"You're asking right now. That's against the rules. The ref just gave you a two-minute bench minor."

"So I can ask in two minutes?"

"Oh, fuck off."

He laughed into her hair.

"Give me a week at least."

"That's too long."

"Mike!"

"You want me to stop asking? Come up here and shut me up, then." He  grabbed her hips and pulled her body onto his, and then kissed her.

She relaxed onto his big frame, like a cat taking up residence on its  favorite lap. He obviously didn't understand her reluctance to speculate  about a pregnancy. He was so sure it would succeed, and she was somehow  positive it wouldn't.

And if it didn't . . . then what? Would he still be here in her bed thinking optimistic thoughts?

His long fingers threaded through her hair. "I'm so tired. Kiss me again before I fall asleep."

What was the saying? It takes fewer muscles to smile than to stay up all  night worrying about the future. So she kissed the man again as he  closed his eyes.





TWENTY-FIVE



Beacon woke to the sound of an unfamiliar alarm tone.

Beside him, Lauren cursed and fumbled for her Katt Phone, silencing it. Then she snuggled closer to him, her back to his chest.

He tugged her little body closer to his, then wrapped an arm around her  waist, letting his fingers drift on a slow tour of her body. She was  wearing a gloriously skimpy nighty. He smoothed the silk down her belly,  then lifted the hem to palm her bare belly.                       
       
           



       

When he'd showed up at Lauren's door last night, it hadn't been for sex.  He'd needed to lie in the dark with someone who loved him. When they  were together, she had always been a steadying force in his life.  Hell-she was a steadying force before they ever held each other in bed,  or even kissed for the first time.

His wife . . . wasn't. Shelly had been attracted to him once. But the  whole hockey wife thing had worn thin for her when Elsa was still a  toddler. She was angry at her lot in life, and she felt free to take it  out on him. When they argued over anything, she would remind him that he  was just a "dumb jock."

He felt like one, too, every time she said it.