She mock groaned and laid a hand against her head, pretending to faint. “Not the ‘it wasn’t you; it was me’ line. That’s the kiss of death!”
He gave a short bark of laughter. “Yeah I guess it is. But I’m over it now.”
“Really? So you think that I’ll be here, ready to kiss you whenever you want?”
The smile that crossed his face was one of pure male arrogance, confident in his own sex appeal. “Oh, yeah. No obligation here.”
He stood and stalked around the desk. Too late she realized she’d poked the tiger and he was deadly serious about his intentions. He swiveled her around so she faced him, her chair bracketed between his knees. He braced his hands on the arms, trapping her neatly so she couldn’t escape. Only she had no intention of trying to get away. That kiss had replayed in her mind several times in the few days since the event and she wanted to see if it was exhaustion that had made it so great, or something else.
She tilted her head to the side and relaxed her body, allowing a small smile to spread across her lips. “So now you’re going to prove it was a good kiss? Give it your best shot, lover boy. Let’s see what you got.”
He leaned forward and gently brushed his lips across her, lightly, as if drawing a feather across her skin. She shivered and he chuckled, a low, male sound deep in his throat. His lips skimmed her jaw line, brief, barely whispers of a touch, designed to tease, to taunt, to increase her desire. She moaned and went to reach for him.
“Oh no. Stay still for this.” He grabbed her hands with his, and placed them on the arms of the chair, imprisoning them with his own.
He nudged her face up with his nose then rewarded her with a deep kiss, soul-stirring yet innocent. After a moment, his tongue slid along the crease of her lips and she opened them, welcoming him in. The kiss quickly turned deeper, hotter, their tongues entwining and exploring. His mouth tasted of coffee and sweetness, like the butter-cream frosting of cake, and she couldn’t get enough of it.
Slowly, chest heaving with exertion, he pulled back, resting his forehead on hers while they both caught their breath.
“Still think it was obligation?”
She opened her eyes, still dazed from the intensity. She was in so much trouble with Lucas. And the real problem was she didn’t care. She needed to know if there was something there. But now wasn’t the time, especially with another thought prodding her mind, telling her it was important.
“Did I taste butter-cream frosting? Like the kind we had on Maggie’s cake?”
He flushed and straightened. “Yeah.”
A grin spread across her face. “You act like you’re all loner and stuff, but you went to the party later, didn’t you? Tell me or I’ll ask Maggie.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “So I stopped by to wish her a happy birthday.”
She swatted him on the arm and laughed. “Who said you were a mean guy, ignoring birthdays and people? I think you’re a big, old softie inside.”
He growled and turned away, color flooding his face. Taking pity on him, she sobered and changed the subject. “How did your father build the team? An expansion team doesn’t get the cream of the crop and these statistics weren’t around back then.”
“He never really won the big show the whole way either. He always fell just short of the playoffs,” Lucas admitted with a wry grin. “But he would have expected the team to be doing much better ten years later.”
“We all want that. What were his plans?”
He shoved away from the desk and stalked to the window, staring sightlessly out over the field. “I don’t know. He didn’t share his ideas with me.”
“Really? You always seemed to spend so much time with him here. I just assumed…”
“You assumed wrong. I was here frequently, that was true. But my father kept his own counsel, not letting me in.”
Sensing a deeply held pain in his stiff body, she walked over to the window and laid a hand on his arm. “You were eighteen. Maybe he didn’t want to pile a lot of responsibility on your shoulders.”
“Well, I told him I wanted nothing to do with the Knights. I didn’t want to work here, even with him, and I wanted to do something else.”
Stunned, she inhaled sharply, then slowly exhaled, striving to keep her voice on an even keel. “What did you want to do?”
He shook his head, as if trying to deny the words. “I don’t know. Something stupid probably, like all eighteen-year-olds. What did you want to be?”
Her lips curved in a slow smile. “Not Miss America, that’s for sure.”
He slowly pivoted and arched a sardonic brow. “Really? Yet you were a runner-up.”
She laughed, a mirthless sound. “I was lucky. No, scratch that. I worked hard for it. I thought my mother and father wanted to see that crown on my head, so I went for it. I hate beauty pageants; did you know that? The backstabbing, the swimsuit competition, the way people look at you and treat you. The wolf whistles, the crappy come-ons. It’s like they only see big boobs and a piece of ass. You’re not a person, just an empty-headed bimbo made to look pretty and for sex. By the look on your face, you probably thought something like that when you found out I was working here.”