Page 41 of Match Point

“It’s not my fault. American women love an accent.”

“It’s true. We do.” She got a faraway look, like she was thinking of someone else. Then her eyes snapped back to me. “What happened to Andrew?”

“He went off to flirt with someone,” I said. “He and I always celebrate a week before a tournament. My last night ofproperdrinking before becoming a good, sober boy.”

“Then we’d better make it count. I’m buying another round.”

I smiled at Miranda while she flagged down the bartender again.This wasn’t how I expected my night to go.

20

Miranda

As we stumbled into his hotel room, lips locked together, I thought to myself:This isn’t how I expected my night to go.

I had spent the last four monthshatingTristan Carfrae. I had assumed he was embarrassed to be coached by a woman. But it had nothing to do with that. My assumptions were wrong. And once that was out of the way, I was enjoying hanging out with him.

We’d had a strange relationship for the past decade. Like coworkers who worked in different departments, our paths crossing infrequently, yet close enough to each other’s orbits to be aware of the other person. We got another round and talked about tennis. Tristan discussed his strategy against everyone on his side of the French Open bracket. We compared notes on sponsors; his three-year contract with Nike compared to my deal with Adidas.

We were vibing off each other. I got a good buzz and only remember snippets. My hand on his arm; his fingers lightly touching my bare leg where the dress was riding up on the stool. Tristan was an incredibly handsome man, especially dressed down in jeans and a T-shirt, sitting at the bar like any other guy. At one point, a boy walked up and asked for his autograph. His response was sweet and caring. The whole thing was in stark contrast to the way I had left Gabriel earlier in the night.

Still kissing, Tristan kicked the hotel door closed behind us. Now that we were in the privacy of his room, I pulled his shirt over his head and ran my fingers over his chiseled chest. A chest I had seen from afar when he ripped it off after matches and tossed it into the crowd. He was taller than me, but I fit perfectly into his embrace as he pulled me into another, deeper kiss.

As we stumbled further into the hotel room, I caught glimpses of the surroundings. Bouquets of flowers covered the dresser and nightstand. I knew from experience they were gifts from sponsors and fans. I was trying to guide us toward the bed, but our legs became tangled and we went down together in a heap, thumping against the floor loud enough to wake whoever was in the room beneath us.

“You okay?” I asked.

“What? Why?” he asked. What he had said earlier was right: American womenlovedan accent. And I was no exception.

“Just making sure I didn’t injure you.” I pressed my body against his, feeling the warmth of his exposed skin. For a moment that lasted an eternity we stared at one another, our faces only inches apart.

He leaned up to kiss me with lips that were warm and soft. I felt strong arms wrap around me, holding me close, pulling me against his broad chest. I sighed against his body and kissed him harder, and the smell of his musk mixed wonderfully with the flowers in the room.

He stiffened underneath me, and I sighed at the heat coming off his cock, my own sex pulsing with desire.

His hands ran along my back, caressing me, learning what I felt like under the dress. Every curve of my spine, and lower back, and hip. And then his hands were sliding under the dress and along my ass, squeezing the cheeks gently.

“You taste so good,” he said, and I shoved my tongue into his mouth to taste what he tasted, our tongues dancing together wonderfully. His desire was a physical thing, so real I could almost feel it in the air. His cock rubbed against the inside of my thigh, and he made a deep noise in his throat. I sensed his urge to take me, his franticneedfor me.

And then he took over, rolling me sideways until I was on my back, the soft hotel rug pressing into my legs and neck. He covered me with his body, kissing the side of my neck and along my shoulder. I arched my back to press my body into his, my thighs against his hips, my wet sex so close to his belly, aching to feel his touch.

Suddenly my clothes were an unacceptable hindrance, but Tristan seemed to sense the same thing. His hands rolled my dress up and pulled it over my head. As he tossed it aside, I unclasped my bra, giving my breasts to him.

He kissed me with deeper frenzy, hands pawing along my belly up to my nipples. He savored my feel with masculine lust, squeezing and testing, the first touch always the most precious. And then his lips left mine, and he pushed my head back to expose my neck, kissing underneath my jaw and at my throat and then down to my breast bone.

I gyrated against him, tortured by his lips and the panties that separated us.

His mouth found my left nipple, brushing against it in passing which made me sigh, then returning with shocking fervency. His lips wrapped around it and his tongue flicked out, sudden and intense andwonderfulall at the same time. I squirmed beneath his muscular body on the rug and moaned a desperate moan.

“I love how your body feels,” he breathed.

“Don’t stop!”

He moved to the other nipple, nibbling with his lips, and his hand moved along my side to my thigh. I closed my eyes and reached between us, eager to find him, to touch him the way he was touching me. One button and a zipper relented, and then he was there in my hand. His cock was on fire, hotter than the rest of him, and he moaned into my nipple as I wrapped my fingers around it.

“Ohh…” he said.

I wrapped my other hand around his neck and pulled him to me, demanding he continue his caressing kisses. I stroked his cock harder, and in return he licked my nipple faster. His touch was incredible, something I’d needed without knowing until then, my instincts surrendering to the feeling.

---