begun to torture you.”
She wasn’t kidding. Half an hour and what seemed like ten gallons of sweat later, Noelle lay drenched and panting on the mat, having been put through more curls, lifts, bends, raises and squats than she could count.
“Ready to throw in the towel?” Sara taunted.
Yes! Noelle’s leg screamed.
“No way,” her mouth contradicted.
Sara checked the clock over the door. “Well, my next victim should be here any time now, so you’re off the hook. Go take a nice, hot shower. You worked hard. You deserve it.”
“Thanks.” Noelle ducked her head and made a beeline for the door so Sara wouldn’t see her blush at the word “shower.” Would she ever hear that word again without seeing Jace braced against the wall, his hand a blur as he stroked himself, his eyes closed and his head thrown back in ecstasy?
Her head was still down when she plowed through the door and ran smack into a broad, male—very familiar—chest.
“Hey there, Duchess.” Jace closed his fingers over her shoulders, catching her before she knocked them both over. “What’s your hurry?”
She shivered, his touch burning through the thin fabric of her tank top and sending waves of need low in her belly. “I wish you’d stop calling me that.”
“I’ll make you a deal.” He favored her with that panty-melting, bad-boy smile that made her common sense do a grand jeté out the window. “I’ll stop calling you Duchess if you quit the Peeping Tom stuff.”
She tensed, knowing he had her dead to rights. Still, denial seemed like the best defense. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” He leaned in, his hot breath fanning the hair at the nape of her neck as he spoke. “You know, if you wanted to see me naked, all you had to do was ask.”
She jerked back. “I do not want to see you naked.”
“Again.” His fingers tightened around her arms. “You don’t want to see me naked again. Except your body says otherwise.”
“My body?”
“The flushed cheeks. Parted lips. Nipples as hard as bullets.” He bent impossibly closer so his lips brushed her ear. “They don’t lie, sweetness.”
She bit back her sharp retort when the door to the PT room bust open and Dylan came out.
“Dylan.” She shrank away from Jace. At least this time he had the courtesy to let her go. “I thought you left.”
“I did.” The teenager held up an iPod. “I came back for this. You were busy with Sara.”
His eyes moved to Jace, and the shock of recognition crossed his youthful face. “Holy crap. You’re Jace Monroe.”
“I’m aware of that.” Jace rocked back on his heels, an amused chuckle softening his words.
“You hit for the cycle in the All-Star game.”
“I’m aware of that, too.”
“You were on pace to break Barry Bonds’s single-season home run record.” Dylan eyed the shortstop’s brace. “I read about your injury. Tough break.”
“You, too.” Jace’s eyes flicked to the boy’s missing arm. “Sara says you’re quite a pitcher.”
“Was,” Dylan muttered, scuffing the linoleum with the toe of his cross-trainers.
“Ever hear of Jim Abbott?” Jace asked.
Dylan shook his head.
“Pete Gray?”
Another head shake, sandy hair flopping in every direction.
“Tell you what.” Jace clapped a hand on Dylan’s good shoulder. “Meet me tomorrow morning for breakfast and we can talk. Dining room, eight a.m. sharp.”
He offered his hand—his injured right one, Noelle noticed, so Dylan, who was missing his left, wouldn’t feel awkward. Dylan took it carefully and shook it.
“Sure thing, Mr. Monroe.”
“My friends call me Jace.”
“You bet, Mr....Jace.” Dylan practically bounced down the hall, his words floating after him. “See you at eight.”
Smiling, Noelle watched him go, grateful not just for the boy’s obvious delight but for his interruption, which had burst the bubble of sexual tension surrounding her and Jace.
“Another loyal fan?” she
She wasn’t kidding. Half an hour and what seemed like ten gallons of sweat later, Noelle lay drenched and panting on the mat, having been put through more curls, lifts, bends, raises and squats than she could count.
“Ready to throw in the towel?” Sara taunted.
Yes! Noelle’s leg screamed.
“No way,” her mouth contradicted.
Sara checked the clock over the door. “Well, my next victim should be here any time now, so you’re off the hook. Go take a nice, hot shower. You worked hard. You deserve it.”
“Thanks.” Noelle ducked her head and made a beeline for the door so Sara wouldn’t see her blush at the word “shower.” Would she ever hear that word again without seeing Jace braced against the wall, his hand a blur as he stroked himself, his eyes closed and his head thrown back in ecstasy?
Her head was still down when she plowed through the door and ran smack into a broad, male—very familiar—chest.
“Hey there, Duchess.” Jace closed his fingers over her shoulders, catching her before she knocked them both over. “What’s your hurry?”
She shivered, his touch burning through the thin fabric of her tank top and sending waves of need low in her belly. “I wish you’d stop calling me that.”
“I’ll make you a deal.” He favored her with that panty-melting, bad-boy smile that made her common sense do a grand jeté out the window. “I’ll stop calling you Duchess if you quit the Peeping Tom stuff.”
She tensed, knowing he had her dead to rights. Still, denial seemed like the best defense. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” He leaned in, his hot breath fanning the hair at the nape of her neck as he spoke. “You know, if you wanted to see me naked, all you had to do was ask.”
She jerked back. “I do not want to see you naked.”
“Again.” His fingers tightened around her arms. “You don’t want to see me naked again. Except your body says otherwise.”
“My body?”
“The flushed cheeks. Parted lips. Nipples as hard as bullets.” He bent impossibly closer so his lips brushed her ear. “They don’t lie, sweetness.”
She bit back her sharp retort when the door to the PT room bust open and Dylan came out.
“Dylan.” She shrank away from Jace. At least this time he had the courtesy to let her go. “I thought you left.”
“I did.” The teenager held up an iPod. “I came back for this. You were busy with Sara.”
His eyes moved to Jace, and the shock of recognition crossed his youthful face. “Holy crap. You’re Jace Monroe.”
“I’m aware of that.” Jace rocked back on his heels, an amused chuckle softening his words.
“You hit for the cycle in the All-Star game.”
“I’m aware of that, too.”
“You were on pace to break Barry Bonds’s single-season home run record.” Dylan eyed the shortstop’s brace. “I read about your injury. Tough break.”
“You, too.” Jace’s eyes flicked to the boy’s missing arm. “Sara says you’re quite a pitcher.”
“Was,” Dylan muttered, scuffing the linoleum with the toe of his cross-trainers.
“Ever hear of Jim Abbott?” Jace asked.
Dylan shook his head.
“Pete Gray?”
Another head shake, sandy hair flopping in every direction.
“Tell you what.” Jace clapped a hand on Dylan’s good shoulder. “Meet me tomorrow morning for breakfast and we can talk. Dining room, eight a.m. sharp.”
He offered his hand—his injured right one, Noelle noticed, so Dylan, who was missing his left, wouldn’t feel awkward. Dylan took it carefully and shook it.
“Sure thing, Mr. Monroe.”
“My friends call me Jace.”
“You bet, Mr....Jace.” Dylan practically bounced down the hall, his words floating after him. “See you at eight.”
Smiling, Noelle watched him go, grateful not just for the boy’s obvious delight but for his interruption, which had burst the bubble of sexual tension surrounding her and Jace.
“Another loyal fan?” she
Similar Books
