Boldly

by Elise Faber

  “Babe.”

  “I don’t care what you say about it,” she went on. “I—”

  Her words cut off because…they were spoken against his tongue.

  Because he was taking that second kiss. Though maybe she was the one giving it because the moment his lips hit hers, she took over. She opened her mouth, thrust her tongue into his, launched herself out of her chair and wrapped her arms around him, knocking them both into the desk. Things rattled, something hit the ground, and she had half a heartbeat to worry about it being her coffee before Oliver yanked her closer, his arms banded around her, and then she wasn’t thinking about books or sex scenes or female authors.

  She was kissing the sexy, gorgeous man who had her plastered against his chest.

  And fuck, but she was kissing him.

  How was it possible for a kiss to be this good? There was no fumbling or hesitation. It was as though she’d fallen into the hottest kiss of her life and there was no build-up needed. Straight into the flames, and she was thrilled for it.

  A moan flowed up her throat and into his mouth, and he swallowed it whole, drawing her closer, a groan rumbling from him to her, vibrating over her tongue.

  And swear to fuck if that didn’t arrow straight toward her vagina.

  She slid a hand down his chest, reached for the button of his jeans and flicked it open.

  His fingers slid from her ass to between them and snagged her hand, tugging it away as he tore his mouth from hers.

  A kiss to her palm. His breathing accelerated when he asked, “Did I say anything?”

  She was in kiss mode, so she had no idea what the fuck he was talking about.

  Something he seemed to realize when he smiled at her, resting her hand against his chest and nuzzling her neck. “I think it’s cool you read romance, babe. Gives us plenty of ideas of things to do when we’re in bed.”

  Hazel sucked in a breath, heat pooling between her thighs.

  Because the idea of acting out anything with Oliver was…yeah. It was the hottest fucking fantasy of her life.

  “So, you read something,” he said, “and when we’re ready for it and you want to do it, I’m all over it. I’ll be your tortured hero, or your dom between the sheets, or your cowboy who keeps forgetting to wear a shirt, or—”

  She lifted her hand and covered her mouth. “Desk sex,” she blurted.

  His brows lifted, tongue flicking out to taste her palm.

  “I want desk sex,” she said. “The book was an office romance, and the hero cleared everything off the surface and fucked her on it until she couldn’t stand and—”

  Now his hand covered her mouth.

  “I am all over desk sex, babe,” he said. “But not before we’ve had date four, which I know I teased you about being number four, but it’s really number one, and you’re the kind of woman who deserves to be wined and dined and romanced. And you say you’re not a date one to four kind of girl, but a date six kind of girl, and that means…” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “That means”—a breath—“we have time, love. Though,” he murmured, kissing his way down to her ear, “I will be keeping a mental list, so keep telling me, okay?”

  “I—” A breath before she settled on the only thing she could. Which was, “Okay.”

  He gently unwound her arms from around him, nudging her back into her chair, before bending to snag, not the coffee thankfully (that was safely sitting on her desk), but a stack of papers.

  He wobbled, almost went down before he steadied himself on the edge of her desk, and took a moment.

  “I can—”

  His eyes looked over her shoulder, frost tempering the desire that had been in those pale blue depths a moment before. “I got it.”

  Firm.

  Not necessarily mean.

  But definitely firm.

  And he did have it.

  He bent and got the folders, and she didn’t do him the disservice of watching him. Instead, she drew in her chair, straightened the items on her desk, and then continued logging on to her laptop.

  By the time she got into her Breakers email account, he had straightened and set the folders on the wooden surface. Only when he returned to leaning on the edge of her desk did she glance up at him, seeing the strain in his eyes, the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead.

  And the bit of defensiveness in his expression.

  Expecting her to comment.

  Well, she wasn’t about that.

  She’d told him that this wasn’t her area of expertise, that he wasn’t her client. Hell, she’d been tongue fucking him on her desk all of three minutes before. That put them firmly out of the realm of therapist and client.

  “Thanks,” she murmured, nodding at the folders.

  The tension bled out of his frame, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Will you just promise me one thing?”

  Silence.

  She pressed on. “Will you just promise to be honest with me if something is too much? Not because any part of you is weak, because you’re one of the strongest people I know. But because I’ll promise to do the same.”

  More silence, and she found herself holding herself still.

  He picked up her hand, started stroking his fingers along her palm, a gentle abrasion that made her shiver. Then said simply, “You got it, babe.”

  And this time, the tension bled out of Hazel.

  Relief had her nodding and going quiet, but as she stared at her laptop screen without really seeing the emails piled up in the inbox, she was thinking that he’d given—or at least, he’d pursued—and shared his interest. She was thinking that she liked his pursuit, liked how he was with her (minus the outburst he’d apologized for the other day).

  She liked him.

  So maybe it was time for her to take a step in his direction.

  “Oliver?”

  “Yeah?” A cautious answer.

  “I was thinking.”

  Now there was a thread of amusement in his voice when he said, “About what?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “About what?” More amusement.

  “Trust me?”

  His eyes came to hers, and he said, without hesitation. “Yeah.”

  That was big. As in, it made her feel big, feel like he’d just given her the best Christmas present ever—better than puppies popping out of wrapped packages, Tiffany boxes under the tree, a lifetime supply of chocolate filling her pantry. That trust without hesitation was a fucking gift.

  And she wasn’t going to squander it.

  “This is…” Oliver trailed off as he stared at the space around them.

  Hazel sucked in a breath, held it.

  “…amazing.”

  He spun back to face her, grinning wide.

  Every cell in her body settled, and she released that breath before she passed out. “My plan is to take Marcel here.”

  His head jerked, gaze going from her to the space around them. “Damn, babe. You’re good.”

  That made her feel…well, it made her feel.

  This man, who barely knew her, who was attracted to and interested in her and hadn’t even tried to hide it, he made her feel awesome.

  Pride in his voice, in his body language, in his face.

  Something Trevor had never given her.

  And Oliver had just tossed it out into the air without strings.

  Something else Trevor had never given her, she realized.

  God, she really had dodged a bullet with him, hadn’t she?

  “Babe?”

  God, but seriously, Trevor was the biggest dick around and for too long she’d thought that was on her. That she’d made a bad choice or had caused him to treat her poorly. That she should have done something, anything to make it better.

  But when she compared Trevor to Oliver, she knew.

  She. Knew.

  Whatever they’d had was broken from the start.

  Cracks in the foundation, mortar crumbling out of the brick walls. Desti
ned to fall apart.

  Because he wasn’t like Oliver.

  It was even more than him not being a “one-woman man.” Trevor wasn’t a man for her. He never could be. Not when he didn’t love or care about her the right way.

  That right way being…unconditionally and generously and without keeping a tally of who did what. And seriously, she was done thinking about Trevor, thinking about what happened. If Oliver could put his head down and move forward with all that had happened to him, then she could put a broken engagement behind her.

  Hell, she hadn’t even kept the ring.

  Hadn’t wanted the memory.

  And that made something else click in her mind. That was what Oliver was doing.

  Processing.

  Letting go.

  It was time she let the dredges of Trevor go. Time to give Oliver the space and support to allow him to let go on his terms.

  Fingers on her cheek—no knuckles on her cheek. That gentle touch that she already loved because it was Oliver touching her, because the look that came into his eyes when he stroked her skin like that—gentle, sweet, a dash of affection—made her feel amazing, different, special.

  “Babe?” he asked again.

  “I’m good.”

  His brows lifted.

  She picked up a bat, twirled it in an arc. “Am I going to be the only one doing this?”

  Those brows rose further.

  “Chicken?” she asked archly.

  A grin, then he matched her movements—reaching for a bat and swinging it through the air. “Not a chicken, babe. Just don’t like whatever thought went through your head to make you look like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like someone had punched you in the stomach.”

  Her lungs froze, and then she forced herself to breathe. “Reality strikes sometimes without warning. But,” she added when concern rippled across his face. “Sometimes, that reality strikes in a way that makes a person, makes me, realize that things weren’t the way they were supposed to be. Especially”—she moved toward him, cupped the side of his neck—“when someone”—a squeeze so he knew that someone was him—“gives pride and encouragement so easily, it makes a woman think about why she was with a man who didn’t give that to her before, because I deserve that.”

  She finished on a whisper.

  His face was a study in wonder. In fury. “I hate that happened to you.”

  “I hate that I accepted it as my due.” A beat. “I deserve more.”

  Now it was back to wonder. “You do.”

  There. That was out of the way. She stepped back and waved the bat again. “Okay, so I know that we’re not going to have countertop sex in here—”

  “Another for my list?”

  She nodded, fighting a grin. “—with the windows and cameras and people in the front lobby,” she went on without otherwise acknowledging him. “So, what do you say that we start swinging?”

  “Big bat energy?”

  She snorted.

  Actually snorted.

  Then said, “Exactly.”

  Then she swung the bat and got to work.

  Chapter Eleven

  Oliver

  This was wild.

  This was out there.

  This was amazing.

  He didn’t know where Hazel had found this place, but it was a fucking blast. And by blast, he meant that he got to blast shit apart. With a baseball bat. Or a golf club. Or—something he hadn’t touched because it felt too raw—a hockey stick.

  “It’s a rage room,” she said, taking a breather, her chest heaving, her eyes glimmering with happiness. There was a flush on her cheeks, and her skin shone with sweat.

  Because breaking shit was hard work.

  He paused next to her, absently rubbing his thigh, and didn’t miss her eyes going there.

  She didn’t comment, though, and that she trusted him to tell her if it was too much—a promise he’d given with the intention of keeping because she’d done the same—meant a lot.

  “But I think,” she went on, still panting, the bat hanging at her side, tendrils of her hair sticking to her temples, her neck. He tuned out for a moment, thinking about how else he might be able to get her sweaty, how else he might be able to see that flush on her cheeks. Albeit with her naked and beneath him and studying every inch of her body for more blushes. Would it spread across her chest? Tease the tops of her breasts?

  He hoped so because he wanted to kiss and touch every inch of rosy skin.

  “Oliver?”

  “Hmm?”

  “It’s not helpful when you keep looking at me like you want to jump me.”

  He started, focused. “Sorry.”

  “Why do I feel like I hear an unspoken not sorry there?”

  A grin curved the edges of his mouth. “Because you do?”

  Snorting, she moved to the far wall, to the rack of “weapons” that were available to them to destroy the contents of this room. Furniture. Plates. Appliances. Glasses. Even a lamp in the far corner.

  “As I was saying,” she went on as she perused, “I think this will be good for Marcel because he banks all of his fury and frustration until it explodes.” It did explode—oftentimes on the ice when he picked a fight and ended up bloody. The kid wasn’t an enforcer, though he was built and could handle himself. But the team needed his hands steady and bruise-free. They needed his stability, especially without Oliver captaining.

  Not to brag, but once he’d figured out his path, Oliver thought he’d been a good captain.

  He cared about the guys, tried to lead by example.

  Tried to do right by them and leave it all on the ice.

  He supposed he had.

  Literally.

  “If I can find a way for him to release the steam before he gets to that point, I think it’ll help.” She picked up the hockey stick, tested it in her hands. “What do you think?”

  He swallowed, eyes on that stick, longing in him. “I think it’ll help him.”

  His voice was wrong.

  He knew it. She knew it.

  Without a word, she turned back to the rack and set the stick down, picking up the golf club instead. “Good,” she murmured. “Because I think it’s going to help me too. Especially when I imagine this as my shit-bag ex’s face.” Then she started wailing on an old school computer, one that looked like it was heavy as shit and took up half the table on the far side of the room. “Fuck you, Trevor!”

  Oliver grinned as he adjusted his safety goggles, glad she could start working through some of the emotions that made her so sad, glad that aching pain was burning hot, transforming into anger, scorching through her so she could put it out, eventually put it behind her.

  He swung around, took a breath, and hit his way through a toaster, a blender, and a fridge that was apparently supposed to plug into the cigarette charger in a car.

  Ridiculous contraption.

  But it felt fucking great to see it explode into pieces.

  He glanced around the room, started to head toward a stack of porcelain teacups, concentrating as he moved, because although he’d gotten good on the prosthesis, it didn’t quite feel like an extension of him under these circumstances. That being, the floor littered with debris, meaning the chances of slipping and eating it were substantial, even for those humans with two normal legs. Oliver had worked hard to get comfortable with his prosthesis and had gone through a couple of different iterations and fittings before everything felt right. He also had a couple of different attachments for running and exercising versus day to day. Kneeling was still shit and didn’t feel super stable, nor did stairs, but he was getting better at both.

  Mostly because he was a stubborn bastard.

  But that wasn’t what had him stopping before hitting those teacups, nor was it the floor covered with debris.

  It was the hockey stick sitting in the rack.

  Slightly askew, since Hazel had set it down without really paying attention to lining it up with
the other stick. And that was the reason he was telling himself that he crossed over to it, why his fingers hit the wood—not the normal composite material that he’d used in the league, and that was probably a good call since that could get expensive. But he wasn’t even sure they made wooden sticks any longer, let alone where they’d gotten one.

  Probably where they’d gotten the Stone Age computer.

  Smiling, he straightened the stick, lining it up like was proper—shaft to shaft (which sounded like a bad title for a porn film), blade to blade. But they just looked better that way. Neatly placed in a row.

  But when he started to turn away, something stopped him, and he turned back, his fingers going to the wood again, circling the shaft (more bad porn film titles), and he found himself lifting it from the rack.

  His hands instinctively went to where they should—right hand halfway down palm out, left hand at the top—and it felt…

  Like coming home.

  And also a little wrong because he couldn’t go home, not in the same way anymore.

  He started to put the stick back, but then he glanced over his shoulder, saw that Hazel was going to town on a bookcase, and hesitated.

  And…he picked up the stick again.

  For a while he just held it, soaked in what he was feeling, right and wrong all tangled together, foreign and familiar, but ultimately just…natural.

  Instinct to hold it correctly, to place the blade on the floor and press down, checking the flex.

  “Would you…” He glanced up, not having processed Hazel stopping her work on the bookcase. “It doesn’t have to be today, but maybe would you teach me how to use it?”

  No.

  That was his first instinct.

  Well, that and tossing it back on the rack and running from the room.

  Except…he wanted to teach her, he wanted her to know the pleasure that came from shooting a puck, from the first time lifting it off the ice and the crack of the blade as it made contact. He wanted her to feel the surge of pleasure when she scored a goal, the breeze on her cheeks, the fist bumps from teammates, the roar of the crowd, the—