Holy god. I didn’t know a palm kiss could be wet and dirty.
“O-okay,” I stammer, wide-eyed. It’s not as if I don’t like this idea. Actually, the saner parts of me are a little intimidated. But other parts are already on board with the plan. My pulse beats low and heavy in my body.
Especially when Tank puts a hand on my knee and gives it a dirty squeeze. “The Marriott Marquis, please,” he says silkily. “One stop only.”
The cabby grunts his reply and turns left onto Park, heading downtown.
Tank’s hand is a heady presence on my leg. “Where’re you from, Bess? Did you grow up in Michigan?”
“Y-yes,” I stammer. “I took a New York job to be close to my brother. You’ll have to play against him in the pre-season.”
“Dave Beringer is your brother? Good to know.” He chuckles. “Maybe we’d better keep this little adventure to ourselves, then.”
“Sounds like a great idea.”
He laughs, sounding thoroughly amused. And his words from the dinner table come back to me. Let’s just see what I can get away with.
His sense of daring is contagious. For once in my life, I want to feel that way, too—as if the night is an adventure of my own making. My spirit is willing, although my experience is weak. I feel a little tongue-tied. I haven’t had any practice chatting up a one-night stand.
To think that I studied the players’ stats, trying to prepare myself for tonight. I was obviously studying up on all the wrong things.
Luckily, it’s a really short ride across town. I don’t have much time to panic. We pull up at the busy hotel before I’m ready.
Tank tips the driver and then palms my back as we enter the lobby. “She ain’t pretty,” Tank eyes the curved bank of elevators that comprises the lobby space, “but at least this hotel is close to the rink.”
“Mmm,” I say stupidly.
We get onto a crowded elevator, and off again on the tenth floor. Tank whistles as he leads me down a nondescript hallway to his room.
He slides the keycard through the slot, and the door clicks open. But I stay rooted to the hallway carpeting, my courage flickering like a bulb that might go out at just the wrong moment.
I want to pretend that I’m as fun as all this. But I’m not sure I know how to fake it.
Tank pauses in the doorway, appraising me. Those green eyes ask whether I’m still on board with this. Slowly, he offers one of his hands to me, palm up.
After a moment’s hesitation, I put my own hand in his. But it’s shaky. “I don’t do this,” I blurt, and the confession feels good.
“Uh, never?” His eyes flash with disbelief, followed quickly by concern.
“Well, not never. Just not lately. And never on a whim.” The words just tumble out of me.
“Ah,” he says, his eyes warming. “But there’s nothing to it. That’s the point of a whim. Do you need me to demonstrate? To show you the ropes?”
“I think I do.” I smile.
“All right, come in.”
With my hand still clasped in his, I follow him into the hotel room, where a giant bed looms large, its pillowy white surface practically glowing in the lamplight. I eye it, my heart galloping with expectation. I still don’t see a path through my awkwardness to ending up on there. With him.
Calmly, Tank removes his suit jacket and tosses it onto a chair. “Okay, so the first thing you need to know about whims is that you can’t do it wrong.” He removes my bag from my shoulder and sets it down on the floor.
“No?”
“There aren’t any rules, so they can’t be broken.” His expression is remarkably serious, given the topic. “As long as everyone is having a good time, that is.”
“Okay. I understand.”
“Good.” He steps closer, invading my personal space with his big body and his ridiculously sexy face. He reaches up and moves my hair off my neck with such tenderness that goose bumps rise up my arms. Then he leans in and kisses just the corner of my mouth.
“Oh,” I say softly, apropos of nothing.
His lips wander across my cheek and down my jaw, as my goose bumps redouble. And then it’s onward to my neck, with soft kisses.
It feels so exquisite that I break out in a fine sweat. We’re so close together that I can smell his spicy aftershave, and the starch of his shirt collar.
I’m enjoying myself. But I still feel as though I’m outside of the moment, looking in.
But that’s fixed when Tank lifts his face to mine and kisses me thoroughly. At the first insistent press of his mouth on mine, I feel my heart lift. As he deepens the kiss, the awkwardness begins to fall away. I part my lips hungrily. His tongue is right there, taking charge, invading my senses. He tastes like port wine and sex.
I could stand here all night and kiss him. But eventually he breaks off, tipping his forehead against mine and smiling at me. “There you go. This is a good start,” he says with a flirty smile. “Well done.”
And my heart soars, because I’m a praise junkie. “Now what?” I ask, breathless. “What’s the second step of whimsy?”
His eyes gleam. “Well, you should know that WHIM is an acronym.”
I let out an unladylike snort of laughter, but it doesn’t embarrass me at all. I feel transcendent right now. Capable of anything. “What does it stand for?”
He turns, letting his lips brush the shell of my ear. “The W is for whisper.” The hair on my arms stands up as the word curls into my soul. “I’ll tell you very quietly”—he whispers—“all the things I want to do to you.”
“Like what?”
“Like getting you out of these clothes,” he hisses.
“Okay,” I pant. I’m all in at this point.
He reaches behind me with a practiced ease and
