And with that, she stalked out of the alleyway.
By the time Scott had himself enough under control to return to the table, Kate had been and gone.
He picked up the fresh beer that was waiting for him because Brodie, who had his back like in the old days, had known he’d need one.
‘Want to borrow my boat in the morning?’ Brodie asked.
Scott smiled—his all okay here smile. ‘No, I’m good. She’s all yours.’ Oh, God, no! He’d said it again. All yours.
‘I think we both know, Scott, that she’s all yours. But if you’ll take my advice you won’t take too long to claim her—because Kate doesn’t strike me as the type to wait forever.’
KATE WOKE ON Sunday with full-blown jitters.
Because she didn’t have a clue what she was going to offer Scott for Play Time at noon.
It was almost more than her tired, slightly sunburned body could manage just to get out of bed, let alone plan a fantasy, because yesterday’s sailing lesson had been the most full-on physical three hours she’d ever spent.
Sailing was as freeing, as exhilarating, as wonderful as she’d always thought it would be—with an excellent side benefit: all that hauling of sheets and dodging of booms, being ordered around and shoved all over the deck by Brodie and his two cohorts, had left her with no time to think about Scott. Or about their upcoming Play Time either.
The guys had taken her out for a congratulatory drinking session afterwards, because apparently she had what it took, and by the time Kate had got home, she’d been so tired she’d fallen into bed.
She’d slept for a full three hours before thoughts of Scott had niggled her into wakefulness. And then had come the night-long tossing and turning she was learning to expect.
Fractured sleep, painful dreams, tortured thoughts. Wondering how Scott had felt, knowing she was on the water with his best friend. Rethinking every look, every word from Friday night. Trying to figure out what was behind the anger Scott refused to unleash—was it the way he felt about her, or residual mistrust from the eight-year-old Chantal/Brodie situation? Hoping he hadn’t—please, please, please—voided their contract by touching another woman.
After all that it was no wonder she was devoid of ideas.
Arabian nights, pirate and tavern wench, boss and secretary—all of which she’d considered—just seemed stupid.
How she wished she’d never thought of writing fantasies into the contract. She hated Play Time. Hated it!
So much so that in a fit of pique—yes, pique!—she decided to wear her most complicated dress. Buttons and zips and ties, with an exotic fold or two. An origami nightmare of a dress. Because Scott deserved to have to fight his way through to her for a change, rather than have her laying it all out for him to take.
He’d said the first time they met that for her he could get a little ‘gladiatorial’—so let him prove it by fighting his way past her dress! In fact, she would make it harder. She would blindfold him! And what was more, she would give him a time limit.
That was a good enough Play Time for her.
Scott buzzed on the dot of noon—he was nothing if not punctual—and she let him into the building without waiting to hear his voice.
‘We only have an hour,’ Kate said, all brisk and businesslike as she opened the door to him, holding two silk scarves at the ready.
His eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’
‘Nothing to do with Brodie, if that’s what you’re wondering.’
‘I’m not wondering. Are you wondering?’
‘About Brodie?’
He just looked at her.
‘Oh, do you mean am I wondering about you and the hens on Friday night?’ she asked, and eked out a tinkling laugh. ‘No. You would have texted me, wouldn’t you, if anything had happened?’ She was forcing the panic back. ‘And anyway…well, pacta sunt servanda, right? Agreements must be kept. And as I recall, that was your sticking point. Fidelity.’
‘Pacta sunt servanda,’ he repeated. ‘You do remember how that legal talk turns me on, don’t you?’
Her breath caught in her throat. ‘Yes.’
‘Is that why you’re doing it?’
‘The more turned on you are, the faster we’ll be, right?’
He didn’t like that—she could tell by the way his whole face tightened. He walked past her and laid a flat parcel on her dining table.
‘Stand still while I do this,’ she said, coming up behind him.
And, although he stiffened, he let her tie the scarf over his eyes.
‘Play Time,’ she announced.
The set of his mouth was grim as she led him carefully into the bedroom, over to the bed. ‘Sit,’ Kate said.
But Scott did more than sit. He flopped onto his back, lying there as though he didn’t give a damn what she did to him, and Kate hesitated, wondering if he didn’t want her today. If he didn’t want her any more, period.
Pulse jittering, she looked at his body, laid out on the bed for her, wondering how she would be able to bear that…and saw that he was hard. She hadn’t even touched him and he was aroused—whether he wanted to be or not.
It took the edge off her sudden panic to know that whatever his I give up attitude was about, it wasn’t a lack of desire. She could work with that. She would make this so good for him he wouldn’t be able to pretend he didn’t want her.
‘I’m going to blindfold myself now,’ she told him, knowing how disorientating it must be for a control freak like Scott not to know what was happening. ‘No peeking today—by either of us. And no speaking either.’
‘No—?’ Short, tense pause. ‘No speaking, Kate?’
‘No. Just…feeling…’
Scott’s lips tightened but he said nothing.
And then Kate tied her own scarf and felt her way onto the bed. She lay next to him, turned to him, kissed him. A long, lush moan of a kiss. Not being able to see, she was even more conscious than usual of the uncompromising firmness of his mouth as he stayed stock-still for her to explore. The warmth of it, the taste, the way it fitted so perfectly against her own.
Slowly the tension left him, and at last he kissed her back, his tongue sliding into her mouth, and then he was taking over, reaching everywhere. Thank God.
A moment later his hands were wandering over her fully clothed body. Traversing the cotton of her dress. Pausing, testing, assessing the fastenings, the barriers.
Kate’s task was easier. She slid her hands under his T-shirt, smoothing them over his chest. She loved his chest. The breadth and strength of it, the texture of his warm skin, the spread of hair. The picture of him, flat on his back on her bed, was so strong in her mind…but the fact she couldn’t see it with her eyes somehow made the drug of touching him more potent. As if she could reach right through his chest and into his heart with nothing but the pads of her exploring fingers.
A