He dipped his head and flicked the tip of his tongue over the lacy material covering her hardened nipple. Pamela sighed, the sound a soft murmur of need and want that shot straight through him. He peeled the edge of lace down, his groin tightening even more at the fullness of her bare breast. He teased the nipple with the tip of his thumb. Once. Twice. Once more, before lowering his head and pulling the tight peak into his mouth. Fingers curled in his hair, holding him in place as he licked and sucked, teased and tasted.
Bryan reached behind her with one hand and quickly unhooked her bra. He stepped back, peeled the lacy material from her arms and let it drop on the floor by his feet. Pamela sat there in front of him, bare from the waist up, her skin flushed from the heat of his gaze and the gentle touch of his hands.
He wanted more. He wanted her. All of her. Now.
But not here. As hard as he ached to touch her, to lose himself in her, he wouldn't do it here. Not their first time.
He scooped her into his arms, silenced her gasp of surprise with a quick kiss then carried her from the kitchen.
"Bryan—"
He silenced her with another kiss then carried her upstairs, not stopping until he reached the bed in the middle of his room. He gentled his hold, sucked in a sharp breath as her body slid down his.
Touching.
Tempting.
He closed his mouth over hers, swept his tongue across the seam of her lips before plunging into her mouth. He eased her back, one step at a time, until her legs brushed the edge of the mattress. She sighed, a whispery breath of need that threatened to unleash the tenuous hold on his control.
Then she reached between them, her hand curling around the length of his erection, and any control he might have had disappeared. He undid the button and zipper of his pants, shoved them down to his hips. Pure pleasure rocketed through him as Pamela's hand closed over his rock-hard length and stroked. Deep, long strokes that caused his heart to slam into his ribs and the breath to rush from his lungs. He clenched his jaw and let his head fall back, reveling in the pure sensation of Pamela's touch.
But he wanted more. Needed more, with an urgency that surprised him.
He reached down and curled his hand over Pamela's, gentling her touch before undoing the snap and zipper of her own pants. He pushed them down to her knees than gently sat her on the edge of the bed before taking them the rest of the way off. Pants and boots and underwear landed in a heap off to the side, discarded and forgotten as he studied every inch of Pamela's lush body.
"You're beautiful." They were the same words he had uttered downstairs and, judging from Pamela's reaction, she didn't believe him now any more than she had earlier. But she was beautiful, with generous curves and soft skin begging to be touched. To be teased. To be tasted.
He undid his own shirt and discarded the rest of his clothes before stretching out beside Pamela. He thought he could stay here forever, just watching her and enjoying the way her skin flushed beneath his gaze. And maybe he would do just that—
But not yet. Not when he wanted so much more.
He leaned closer and claimed her mouth with a deep kiss that left no doubts as to what he wanted: her. All of her.
Bryan took his time, learning each dip and curve of her body. Reveling in the small noises she made, the whimpers and sighs and breathy moans filled with need. Loving the way her body came to life under every little touch, every teasing flick of his tongue.
He reached for the condom he had set out earlier, rolled it down his length before settling between Pamela's legs. He caught her gaze with his, held it as he slowly eased into her wet heat. He clenched his jaw, swallowed against a low moan when her muscles gripped and squeezed.
And then he was lost, caught up in a torrent of sensation and pleasure that was so sharp it bordered on painful. He drove into her, pushing both of them closer and closer to an unseen ledge. Again, harder. Deeper. Faster. Over and over until they hovered on that ledge, suspended in a whirlwind of sensation that stretched out before them until, suddenly, they both fell over in a tangle of need. Of want.
Of satisfaction.
Chapter Thirteen
"I'm sorry I'm late." Pamela raced past the counter, pausing only long enough to give the three staff members an apologetic wave. On any other day, the expressions on their faces would have made her skid to a stop and ask what was wrong—but today. Not when she was already running so late. It was a minor miracle that Anita hadn't been blowing up her phone, wondering where she was.
This wasn't like her. Pamela was never late. Ever.
Except now she was—and not just today. This was the third time in as many weeks that she'd been distracted enough to lose track of time. Not that she hadn't enjoyed it because she thoroughly had. At least, she had while caught up in the distraction itself. The guilt that came later was another story altogether.
She pushed through the door to the office and made a beeline straight for her desk. "I'm sorry I'm late. Lost track of time."
"Um. Okay."
She dropped into her chair then looked over at Anita. "Just okay? That's it? No lecture on being late again? No comment about setting a bad example for the rest of the staff?"
"No, not really. Especially since you're not late."
Pamela glanced at her watch then looked up at the clock on the wall. Both displayed the same time. "I'm definitely late. By almost an hour."
"No, you're not."
"Anita, I think I know when I'm supposed to be here."
A slow smile crept across Anita's face as she nodded then leaned back in her chair. "Things must be working out between Bryan and you."
"They're..." She hesitated, searching for the right word. At least, for the right word that wouldn't result in Anita interrogating her. "Things are fine."
"Somehow I think they're more than fine, especially judging from that blush on your face."
"I am not blushing."
"Mm-hm. Of course, you're not."
"I'm not."
"Okay. Then let's talk about how you're suddenly so frazzled that you're losing track of time."
"I know. I'm sorry. It won't happen again. You know how much I hate being late."
"But you're not late."
"I think I know how to tell time." Pamela nodded at the clock. "And that's telling me I'm late."
"Actually, you're early."
"I'm not—"
"Pamela, it's Thursday. You're supposed to be off today."
"What? No, that can't be right." Could it? She looked at the small calendar perched at the edge of her desk, frowning at the bold numbers and letters staring back at her. She had flipped the pages yesterday before leaving, the way she always did so it would be showing the correct date when she came in the next day.
Sure enough, the small calendar said it was Friday—but the calendar on her computer screen told her clearly that it was Thursday.
Thursday.
Pamela had somehow missed an entire day. She had rushed over here, certain she was running late, chastising herself the entire time because she was never late—and she wasn't. She was an entire day early.
At least, she was this time.
She sank into the chair, her shoulders slumping under the heavy weight of weariness. "How did I completely lose track of my days like this?"
"Hm. I can't imagine how. Oh, wait." Anita tapped her lips with the tip of one finger, as if she was seriously trying to figure out a solution to a difficult puzzle. "I wonder if it has something to do with a seriously hot hockey coach who has taken a sudden liking to you."
"You're not amusing."
"Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that you're finally having fun and enjoying life."
"Running around, losing all track of time, is hardly what I'd call having fun."
"So you lost track of one day. It happens."
"Not to me, it doesn't. And it's not just losing track of days. I don't like being late. It sets a bad example."
"In all the years
I've known you, you've been lately exactly twice."
"In two weeks!"
"Which isn't something to beat yourself up over, Pam. Everyone runs late every once in a while."
"Not me."
"Yes, Pam. Even you. You're human."
"I'm also supposed to be setting the example. What message am I sending if I keep showing up late?"
Both of Anita's brows shot up. "You've been late twice—that's hardly a habit. And the message you're sending is that not everyone is perfect."
"I never said I was perfect but I can't expect staff to measure up to our standards if I'm constantly falling short."
The faintly amused grin on Anita's face changed to a frown. Pamela forced herself not to squirm under that look as she pulled her gaze from her friend's and focused on the reports opened on her computer instead.
"Okay, Pam. Out with it. What's going on?"
"Nothing is going on."
"You know I know when you're lying, right?"
"I'm not lying."
"Maybe not directly but there's something going on. Talk to me."
"There's nothing going on."
"Is everything okay with you and Bryan?"
Pamela nodded. Shook her head. Nodded again. "Yes. It's fine."
"Fine. Uh-huh. Sure, it is." Anita pushed off with her feet and sent her chair—with her in it—sliding across the small office. The chair hit Pamela's desk with a small bang that did nothing to ease the expression of seriousness on Anita's face. "What's going on?"
"Nothing is going on."
Anita said nothing, just sat there and stared at Pamela until she started to squirm in discomfort.
"You know I'm not going to let things go until you tell me what's going on."
Pamela frowned and opened her mouth to tell Anita a final time that nothing was going on. The words died in her throat before she could push them out and give Anita yet another reason to keep hounding her.
Anita leaned forward and rested her elbows against the edge of the desk. "Did you guys have a spat or something?"
"No, nothing like that. Not even a minor disagreement—over anything."
"And that's a bad thing?"
"No." At least, it shouldn't be. But she couldn't help but wonder if it was a bad thing, especially after last night's conversation.
"So, no spats. No disagreements. I know you two are getting along better than I could have ever hoped for. You obviously like him and from the way I've seen him look at you, it's just as obvious that the feeling is mutual. So—" Anita leaned even closer, her brown eyes too intently focused on Pamela. "What's the major issue?"
Pamela slid her chair back until it hit the wall, which still didn't put as much distance between them as she had hoped. "The Bombers have their last game of the season this weekend."
"Okay." Anita drew the word out, like she wasn't quite sure what the issue was. "And?"
"And Bryan's going to have a lot more free time on his hands."
"Yeah?"
"He's already talked about spending it with me."
"And I'm still not seeing the point, Pam."
"The point is, I don't have the time. I'm running a business. I can't just take off and spend the next few weeks or months doing who-knows-what on some stupid beach somewhere."
"Bryan doesn't strike me as the kind of man who would expect you to drop everything and run off with him."
Pamela dropped her gaze and said nothing. Silence stretched around them, growing thicker with each passing second until it was shattered by Anita's sharp gasp.
"Wait a minute. He asked you to go off with him? To a beach somewhere?"
"To Barbados, yes."
"And you're still sitting here? Woman, what is wrong with you? You should be home packing."
"No. I need to be here, focusing on business."
"What you need is to go have your head examined. Please tell me you didn't turn him down."
"Of course, I turned him down. I can't just leave." Pamela waved her hand, encompassing everything around them. "We've worked too hard to make this a success."
"Yes, we have. And it is a success, which is all the more reason to take the time to relax and enjoy the benefits of that success."
"I'll have plenty of time to enjoy it once I retire."
"Pam, life is about living now, not in ten or twenty years from now, when you may or may not retire."
"We've worked too hard—"
"Yes, we have. But only one of us seems to be taking the time for vacation."
"It's different for you. You have Gary and the kids to think about."
"So you're telling me that I have more right to a vacation simply because I have a family?"
"No, of course not. That's idiotic."
"Then why did you tell Bryan you couldn't go?"
"Because I—" Pamela snapped her mouth closed. Shook her head. Released the deep breath she'd taken in one long exhale. "I just can't, that's all. It's too soon. Too fast. And I'm really not comfortable being away from here for that long."
"You think I can't handle running the shop without you?"
"Don't be ridiculous. Of course, you can. You can probably run it even better than I could because of the relationship you have with the staff. They adore you."
Anita dismissed those last few words with a wave of her hand. "And they look up to and respect you so stop making excuses."
"Those aren't excuses. Besides, I don't think Bryan was all that upset when I told him I wouldn't be able to go with him."
"Why do you say that?"
Pamela shrugged then grabbed one of the pens from the pile by the computer and rolled it between her fingers. "Because he just shrugged it off and told me to let him know if I changed my mind."
"What should he have done?"
"I don't know. Nothing, I guess."
"Then why are you upset?"
"I'm hardly upset."
"Yeah, you are. I'm even detecting a bit of a pout."
Pamela's gaze snapped to Anita's. "I am not pouting."
"Could have fooled me."
"I'm not." Pamela tossed the pen down then grabbed her tote bag from the corner of the desk. "And since I don't have to be here, I think I'm going to head home."
"Home? Or to Bryan's?"
"Home. My home. I can catch up on paperwork there." And maybe she could catch a nap as well. She hadn't been getting nearly as much sleep these last few weeks as she was used to. Not that she was complaining.
At least, she didn't think she was complaining. Then again, maybe she was. Things had changed so much, and so quickly, that her head was still reeling trying to catch up to everything that had happened.
And trying to decide if the changes were good—
Or if she was giving up the security she had worked so hard for these last few years in exchange for a few heated nights in Bryan's arms.
Chapter Fourteen
It was their final game of the season and the last thing Bryan wanted was to go out on a loss. The Bombers needed to win this one, they owed that much to the cheering crowd that had been so loyal this season, through the ups and the downs.
He glanced up at the scoreboard and clenched his back teeth together so hard he could feel them grinding. They had three minutes left in the second period and Springfield had just tied it up on a breakaway. Jason Emory had taken a hard shot, one Bryan had been certain would score, but Springfield's goalie had blocked the shot. Instead of catching the puck on the rebound for another shot, Kyle Middleton had completely missed it, giving the other team the opportunity to score.
And score they had.
Dammit.
He pulled in a deep breath of chilly air through his nose then slowly released it. His grip tightened around the roll of papers in his right hand as he pulled in a second breath and held it. There wasn't a damn thing he could say or do right now that would erase that tying goal. Looking at each man on the player's bench, Bryan realized he didn't have to—they were beating themselves up w
orse than he ever could.
He blew out a heavy sigh and focused on the action taking place in front of him. The Bombers were fighting for possession of the puck, poking and scrambling to get it away from Springfield. As much as Bryan would love to see his men score right now, he'd settle for holding the other team off.
Two minutes left to go.
Aaron Malone skated toward the jumble of players fighting for the puck at center ice. He used his shoulder to clear a path, reached out with his stick to get a piece of the puck. It wasn't a pretty move but he managed to clear the puck enough that Harland Day could make a grab for it. The younger man spun around and headed toward Springfield's net. Bryan held himself still, not daring to even breathe as his gaze followed Day's progress down the ice. If the man timed it right, they could be looking at regaining their lead and ending the period up by one.
Only they weren't going to get that chance because one of Springfield's players was gaining on Day. Moving faster, getting in close. Closer. Maybe not close enough because Day zipped to the left and pulled back on his stick to take the shot—
But he never got the chance because the player from Springfield reached out with his stick and jammed the blade in front of Day's back skate, tripping him. Bryan waited to hear the whistle signaling a penalty but the only sound echoing around them was the chorus of boos and jeers coming from the crowd.
Bullshit!
Bryan started yelling, his voice drowning out those of his players. How the hell could the officials be so damn blind? It was a blatant trip, the penalty should have been called right away. But hell no, the officials weren't paying any damn attention—
Not until they realized Day was still on the ice, both hands wrapped around his lower leg.
Fuck. They didn't need this. Not now.
Bryan stayed where he was, tension tightening his shoulders as Malone and Emory skated over to Day. Was he going to need assistance getting off the ice?
Playing It Cool: A York Bombers Hockey Romance (The York Bombers Book 8) Page 8
