Power Play (20 page)

Eric swung his gym bag up onto his shoulder and shrugged affably. “Sounds good to me.”

 

They'd chatted easily as they walked along, Monica demonstrating to him all she'd learned about hockey. Which of course brought them immediately to the good luck charm issue.

“You might not want to hear this,” he began gingerly, “but your being there tonight—”

“Brought you good luck,” Monica finished for him with a heavy sigh. “Here's the deal: I can go to home games on Friday and Saturday nights, unless something else comes up.” She didn't want him thinking she had no life outside work apart from masquerading with him and visiting Monty, even though that was the case these days. “Otherwise, no.”

Eric's jaw set. “But what if—”

“Deal with it, big boy.”

Eric laughed. “I guess I have no choice.” He glanced at her curiously. “Where was
that
Monica the other night? The one who just put me in my place? Why didn't that Monica deal with Desiree?”

It was a good question. “I don't know,” she admitted shyly.

“Worth thinking about.”

“I know.”

They rounded the corner of Monica's street, and she abruptly halted. There, standing right outside her building, was Rennie, a man she'd had to take out a restraining order against three months ago, a crazy, menacing fan who'd sent her threatening letters and once told her to her face that if she didn't accept the fact they were meant to be together in this life, he'd see to it they were together in the next life, and soon. A streak of rage flew through her before her heart began pounding with fear; why the hell hadn't Gene the doorman called the cops?

“What is it?” Eric asked. He'd picked up immediately on her distress.

“See that guy up there? The one who keeps pacing back and forth?”

Eric's eyes zeroed in on the guy. “Yeah.”

“He's a psycho fan of mine. I have a restraining order against him. He's threatened me.”

Eric's expression darkened. “Let's just try to walk past him into the building and ignore him. I'm sure he's not going to try anything while I'm with you.”

Monica gripped Eric's hand tightly as they began walking toward her building. With each step Monica could feel her panicked heart jolting higher and higher, until finally it was in her mouth. Thank God Eric was there. If she'd had to try to breeze past Rennie alone, the terror would have been almost unbearable.

They were at the building now.

“Monica,” Rennie said softly. “I got the wedding rings. Do you want to see them?”

“Keep walking,” Eric commanded.

“Monica, don't ignore me,” Rennie crooned in a menacing voice, following them closely. “You know what might happen—”

“Listen up, asshole.” Eric's bag fell off his shoulder as he turned and grabbed Rennie by the lapels, shoving him up against the apartment building wall. “Get inside,” he barked at Monica. “I'll be in, in a minute.”

Frozen with panic, Monica found herself unable to move. What if this lunatic had a knife or gun and hurt Eric?

Eric was pinning Rennie so hard he was yelping in pain. Monica looked down. Rennie's feet were off the ground.

“Listen, asshole: If you ever—
ever
—go near Monica again—whether she's here, or at the studio, or just out in the city—I will murder you, but only after putting you through so much pain you'll be begging me to kill you anyway. Do you understand?”

Rennie nodded but said nothing.

“Do you fucking understand?”
Eric yelled in his face, pulling him away from the wall, then smashing him into it again.

“I hear you,” Rennie spluttered. “Now let go of me.”

Eric turned to Monica. “Get inside.”

Monica reflexively reacted to the command but turned back as soon as she got inside the glass doors. She saw Eric head butt Rennie, drop him to the ground, and then stand over him, yelling. Rennie rose up, bleeding from the nose, and ran down the street. Eric pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his forehead and hands, and then calmly picked up his bag and walked into the lobby.

“Thank you,” Monica said, unexpected tears of relief suddenly springing to her eyes. “I don't know if I could have coped if I had to deal with him on my own.”

“It was no problem.”

“That's twice you've defended me,” she sniffled.

“That's just the kind of guy I am.”

“Don't do that, Eric,” she said quietly. “Don't deflect.”

Eric didn't respond and instead looked down at the ground for a moment. He raised his head, looking around the quiet street. “You need to report this to the cops.”

“I know. I'll do it tomorrow morning. I promise.”

“I guess I should be going home.”

“Don't,” Monica begged. “I—I'm still a little shaken up. Would you mind coming upstairs for a while and just staying with me until I feel better?”

“Sure.”

Holding on to Eric's arm for security, they went up to her apartment.

 

Monica checked the locks on her door—twice—and went around pulling down all the shades in her apartment. Even the blinking light on her answering machine made her feel vulnerable. Suppose Rennie had somehow managed to get her phone number? Still shaken, she braved playing her messages back. One was from Gloria, asking if she wanted to go to the movies. The other was from Monty, wondering when he'd see her. He sounded sheepish and subdued; perhaps he realized what an ass he'd been to her at
W and F
that day and was ready to apologize.

Eric had shed his coat and his gym bag and was sitting on her couch. “You okay?” he asked worriedly.

“I'm getting better.” She licked her lips, nervously glancing back in the direction of the kitchen. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“No.”

“Me, either.” She moved toward the couch, wondering,
How close do I sit to him, now that it's just us, alone, being real?
She decided to sit right beside him. Eric didn't move away. “Thank you again,” she repeated as he put a hand on her arm to still her.

“You don't need to keep thanking me. Any guy would have done the same.”

“I don't know about that.”

Tentative, Monica laid her head on his shoulder. She felt Eric stiffen, but then he seemed to relax, putting his arm around her.

“We need to talk,” he said, sounding serious.

Monica took a deep breath. “Okay.”

“Did you tell the soap press we were on the verge of being engaged?”

“No,” Monica said evenly. “I teased them a little bit, hinting at a possible long-term future. That's all.”

The answer seemed to satisfy Eric, at least for now.

“Now I need to ask you a question,” said Monica as her mouth suddenly went dry.

“Okay.” Eric turned to look at her. She wished he didn't. It would be so much easier to ask if his eyes weren't that deep, piercing blue that made her wilt—those eyes that could devastate her if she didn't get the answer she wanted to hear.

“The other night, when you said, ‘You have me'?” she asked tentatively. “What did you mean? And don't say you meant we were friends. Because you and I both know that on a certain level, that's bullshit.”

Hunger stole into Eric's eyes, taking her breath away. “It meant I want you,” he admitted, his voice turning into a tortured rasp. “Right here. Right now.”

Monica's mind flashed back to the sexual dream she'd had about him months back, the one where she begged him to fuck her on the couch.
That's what I want now,
she thought, as heat burned its way through her body. She knew that Eric's primary language when it came to women was sex, so that was the language she'd speak to him in, even if she couldn't manage to get out the words she longed to say. She'd never been able to talk dirty.

“I want you, too,” she whispered back. “Right here. Right now.”

Eric groaned, pulling her onto his lap so she was straddling him, kissing her hard. The power of his mouth clamping down on hers, the heady sensation of her thighs tightly pressed to the outside of his, made her head swim. She'd tasted him before, but not like this, not with the naked lust they were both feeling so blatantly exposed. It was a kiss she didn't want to end, one she'd waited months for without even knowing it. Eric's groans were soft, almost secret. She felt his hardness rising against her, saw his eyes watching her to see if she noticed. To make absolutely sure what she wanted.

It surprised her, then, when she was the one who finally tore her mouth from his. Monica wanted to hold his face in her hands, feel his bones and skin beneath her fingers the way an artist feels and then molds clay. Her fingertips went to his face, first caressing softly, then a little firmer, memorizing the shape and feel of it. She looked down at Eric; his eyes were hooded and dark, watchful. Wanting. Bold, she was the one who lowered her mouth to his this time. The hunger she felt there seared her mouth as she nipped at his lips, pushing her tongue inside. For the first time ever, Monica felt powerful, like she was the one in control.

Pushing up against her with a small groan, Eric took a fistful of her hair and gently pulled her head back as he barely kissed her throat, his short breaths tickling her skin. Monica opened her mouth to moan, but she couldn't. For now, she'd been robbed of speech and sound. When his mouth began gently biting, a want so deep wound through Monica that she feared she might lose control before they even really started.

Gasping with pleasure, Monica forced her head forward to look at him. Eric's eyes were fastened on her face, a storm blowing up in those sapphire blues of his. “Tell me what you want,” he commanded low, his breath as fast and shallow as her own.

Monica swallowed, forcing the power of speech to return to her. “You.”

Eric grabbed her wrist as he'd done before, and again, she felt her skin burn. “No,” he said gruffly. “Be specific. So I can make it good for you.”

Monica blinked her eyes, as much in shock as with quickening excitement. No lover had ever offered this to her before. For a split second she felt shy. But the feeling sizzled away as a burgeoning wantonness began snaking its way through her.

“I want you to tear off my blouse.”

Eric slowly released her wrist, his hands gliding up her arms to grasp her shoulders hard, maybe even leaving little bruises, his mark. Monica held her breath and closed her eyes. The anticipation of it, the intensity of the need beginning to build inside her, was creeping its way toward unbearable. Eric's strong, sure grip on her shoulders seemed to be going on forever. But then suddenly, he grabbed the lapels of her blouse and ripped, the sound of the tear like the rending of the heavens, and Monica knew in that moment what it was to teeter on the edge of danger, understood the thrilling sub-current of violence that could walk hand in hand with lust.

Her breath was coming in short, staccato bursts as she waited impatiently for his hands to start roaming over her flesh and his mouth to fasten itself to her breast. But Eric did nothing; instead, he sat back, watching her, his smile a tease.

“Now what?” he whispered.

Monica's breath hitched. She kept her eyes locked on his, her body taut with want. “I-I want you take my blouse off, and my bra, and . . . kiss my breasts.”

Languid enough to cause her delicious agony, Eric slid her blouse off her shoulders, sparks raining down on Monica's skin as the silky garment fell from her arms. Eric's hands circled her small waist, pressing hard, his fingertips running up and down her back before he began caressing her sides. It was a sweet eternity before he finally reached around to unclasp her bra and free her. Monica felt a jolt between her legs as blood began beating its way through her body. Eric paused again, drinking her in.

“Do you know how long I've dreamed about this?” he asked, his tortured gaze devouring her body. Monica shivered, the feeling reminding her of having a fever followed by a breeze gliding over her body. Hot and cool at the same time.

“Please,” she heard herself begging.

Eric inhaled sharply, peeling off her bra and tossing it aside as he'd done with her blouse. She could feel him pulsing and twitching beneath her, his erection straining against his jeans.
Slow,
Monica told herself, restraining herself from rocking and pressing her body tightly against his.
Let it build slow; enjoy being wanted this way.

She sat tall, reading him, momentarily surprised when he tenderly reached out a hand to tuck a loose strand of her hair behind the delicate shell of her ear before his hands came to her breasts. Rubbing. Touching. Brushing the pads of his thumbs over her hardened nipples as Monica whimpered with pleasure. When Eric's hands stopped moving, she almost stopped breathing. Then her breath did come to an unexpected halt as his head came forward, and he began suckling her, hard. Monica arched back, unable to stop herself from pushing herself deeper into his mouth as she lost the battle against rocking against him, her hands on his shoulders for support. Eric's groans were beginning to sound desperate, enflaming her even more. He seemed so greedy for her, so hungry, as his teeth nipped at her, and his tongue flicked.

He jerked his head and looked at her, his breath ragged. “More?”

Monica shook her head no. Any more stimulation of her breasts, and she would climax now, and she didn't want that. She wanted to feel his mouth elsewhere—on her collarbone, openmouthed on her ribs. She told him so—directly, easily, with no hesitation. And then, again, she waited.