“True.”
“In the world of opera, the sun pretty much rises and sets on you.”
“A slight exaggeration, but go on.”
“You’re a first stringer. A superstar.”
“Thank you.”
“And I’m a man who’s tired of playing backup.”
“Understandable.”
“I’m not designed to hold your purse while you sign autographs.”
“Hard to envision.”
“Or hand you a water bottle when you come offstage.”
“Environmentally unsound, those plastic water bottles, but I get your point.”
“In conclusion . . .”
“There’s a conclusion?”
“In conclusion, you’re a first stringer, Liv. And I could never be happy running around after you playing your backup.”
“So, you’re saying . . . ?”
“It’s not possible for me to have a serious relationship with you.”
She cocked her head. “You agree? We’re doomed?”
“Completely.”
“Fantastic!” She swung herself over him, braced her knees on each side of his hips, and kissed him all over. Long, deep kisses. Kisses that had nothing to do with love, only with need. The kiss changed shape, grew hungrier. He plowed his hands under her sweater and fumbled for the clasp of her bra.
Which didn’t exist. Because . . . sports bra.
He tugged at it.
She hopped off him. “Just for you.” She stretched out her arms and pulled him up. With her hands against his chest, she drew him to the bed, pushed him down on it, and tossed aside his shoes. Stepping back, she gave him her most seductive Delilah smile and tugged her sweater over her head. It was time to play. Not to think. Not to let her feelings surface. Only to enjoy.
She might be self-conscious about her utilitarian underwear, but it didn’t seem to bother him—this gorgeous man with his kryptonite green eyes and hell-raising body.
He leaned against the bed’s many pillows to watch her. She took forever unzipping her slacks and sliding them past her hips. She bent over slowly, offering up a prime view of her cleavage, as she stepped out of them.
Utilitarian bra. Serviceable underpants. She looped her hands behind her head, tunneled her fingers through her hair, and lifted it, letting it slither over her hands and wrists, all the time smoldering him with her eyes.
“You . . . are . . . killing . . . me,” he said in a rough rasp.
Her voice was liquid smoke. “Enjoy your death.”
Playing the seductress. This was what she did onstage. Carmen. Delilah. Crazy, sexy Lady Macbeth. Her body was performing as it had been trained to perform, but performing only for him—this strongman she had under her power just as Delilah had bewitched Samson.
She moved her hips, toyed with her hair, and contemplated how to most gracefully, most seductively, get a sports bra over her head without breaking the mood.
A dilemma for any woman, but she was not any woman.