Page 7 of Not Just a Trick Play

The question’s more for me, but Jake answers. “What can I say? I like it when a powerful woman takes control.”

A zing zaps up my spine. Control? Me? I’m about as in control as a kite in a hurricane. The idea that I could tie someone up is laughable.

“How lovely for you.” I mean, how else does one respond?

The inside of my knee brushes his forearm. I brace a hand beside his temple. I’m practically sitting on his face. Bollocks. What’s he thinking? What do I smell like? I’m probably rank and reek of Flight BA1516.

He clears his throat. But I focus my attention above his head, looking for the key he dropped, desperately trying to ignore the heat radiating off his body.

My breasts sway over him because I’m the silly woman who took off her bra in the loo. Then again, I didn’t think I’d be in a face-to-chest situation tonight. His breath snakes up my skin, warm and with a hint of tequila. The good kind.

My nipples pebble. He can tell. Or maybe not? I’m not exactly busty (though not from lack of trying). I did the whole “I must, I must, I must increase my bust” chicken dance with the rest of the girls in fourth form.

I spot the key, lodged between his well-defined forearms, lightly dusted with hair. His hands are large, with slight calluses on his fingers, their nails clipped neat and tidy. The hefty watch below the left cuff looks almost ironic in its current place.

“So, you just arrived, you said?”

“Hmm?” I grab the key and wedge the bit of steel into the metal slot.

“First time in New York?” His words vibrate against the inside of my knees.

“Yes. You?” I manage, voice an octave higher than normal.

“Lived here my entire life,” he replies. “Now your turn.”

“What about me?”

“Far from home?”

“Not far enough,” I mutter. But before he can query me further, I add, “Shh…let me work.”

But the silence is worse. It makes me conscious of every straining muscle, every tightening cord. “Umm… So, is this a nice neighborhood?” I want to slap myself.

The chest beneath me rumbles, and I have to clutch at Jake’s shoulders to keep my balance, my legs inadvertently clenching around him. The cheeky sod is laughing. Arse. I shoot him a glare, but he grins up at me.

“Nice enough. At least I thought so until tonight. There are better.”

“Times Square?” I venture.

Jake snorts. “Nope. Not unless you have an Elmo fetish.”

I shake my head, biting back a laugh. Leaning in close to get a closer look at the handcuffs, something tickles my arm—a bitof stray pink fuzz from the cuffs. I jolt, and the key almost slips from my grasp.

In a clumsy ballet, I thrust a hand out, barely managing to keep our faces from crashing together. Our foreheads are nearly touching, his lips an inch from mine. They part slightly. The heat in his eyes sends my pulse skipping. I vault upright again before I succumb to some foolish notion. Like kissing him.

“Sorry. Bad balance,” I mumble, resolutely keeping my gaze off him. He totally knows what I was thinking. Oh, if only the ground would swallow me up. Right this very moment. Please.

“You okay over there?”

“Yes. Fine. Absolutely.” I chirp, my voice about as steady as a three-legged table. I go back to the handcuffs, finally getting the key in the lock and giving it a twist.

It jams; I tug. Bollocks. It’s stuck.

Twisting harder, my legs instinctively squeeze him. He inhales sharply, his ribs rising beneath me, nearly toppling me again.

I’m about to leap off when his hand finds my wrist and encircles it. A smart woman would scream bloody murder.

It’s official. I am not smart.

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