by Kate Meader
They continued on in silence, a foot or so apart that felt like a mile. He wanted to hold her hand. Dumb as dirt, he knew, but that’s what he wanted. The underlying current of energy was thick and charged.
Something was building in his chest, a tightness that wouldn’t be eased until he took action. Just before they turned the corner onto Canal, he grasped her elbow and steered her into the shadows. Her breath hitched, her breasts with it, and he bent in nice and close. Big mistake. That heady scent of Harper and the forbidden invaded his nostrils.
“What are you doing?”
“I need you to know something, Harper.”
She didn’t respond, just stared up at him with those big storybook-character eyes, and he got so lost in them that this thing he needed her to know fled his brain.
What the hell was it? Oh, right. The words took a moment to form, stuck in his throat with his heart. “I need you to know that if you weren’t who you were and I wasn’t who I was, this would be happening.”
“I understood about every third word there.”
For Chrissakes, DuPre. Explain. Better.
He tried again. “We should be in my bed right now. I should be kissing your breasts, sucking your nipples, tasting your honey. I should be sinking inside you slow and hot and so deep that you’ll be begging me to make it fast, then make it last. I should be feeling your sweet grip on my cock, and I bet you grip hard, Harper, ’cause you’re the kind of woman who takes no prisoners. I should be squeezing that gorgeous ass of yours while I pump in and out, looking for that spot that’ll light you up. I need you to know that in another universe, this would be a done deal, and the only thing stopping me from making you mine is that in this universe, my current employment situation stops me from making good on all the dirty things I’m dying to do to you. You understand?”
She opened her mouth but nothing came out. Seemed about right. Nothing she said could make this better.
With great difficulty, he removed himself from her space. “Let’s get you back.”
What he really meant was “Let’s get you safe.” Safe from the chill that was moving in off Lake Pontchartrain. Safe from the standard drunken revelry of a French Quarter evening. Safe from him.
At the entrance to the Marriott, they stopped.
“Well—”
“Thanks—”
At talking over each other, they both smiled, a little ruefully.
“I had a lovely time at dinner, Remy.”
Was that regret shining in those big eyes of hers? More likely, that was wishful on his part, but he preferred to think not. She should come home with him. All those things he’d told her they should be doing—well, they should be doing them. He opened his mouth to tell her so, to hell with the consequences. “Harp—”
“—per!”
Another voice finished Remy’s rusty utterance of her name. He turned to see Kenneth Bailey walking toward them with a sweater over his shoulders, the sleeves tied together. Remy didn’t think anyone did that outside of Archie comics.
Harper inched away from Remy, subtle to anyone else, but blindingly obvious to him.
“Kenneth, I wasn’t expecting you.”
The lawyer had the balls to kiss her right in front of Remy. Only on the cheek, but still. His inner werewolf bared his fangs, but somehow Remy kept his snarl on the down low.
“Thought I’d surprise you. I’d hoped to get here in time for dinner but my flight was delayed.” He looked at Remy, immediately dismissive in an oh-right-just-one-of-the-jocks kind of way. “DuPre, how are you?”
“Just fine, Bailey.”
“The bar is nice and cozy, Harper,” Kenneth said, having decided Remy was no longer worth his consideration. Remy had to give it to him. Guy was smooth as slime. “How about a nightcap?”
That should have been Remy’s cue to leave, but a perverse part of him waited for a dismissal. Not from Bailey but from her.
Harper turned to Remy, super cool. “Thank you for walking me back, Remy. Like I said, I had a lovely time tonight.”
That’s right, Bailey. Stick that in your four-hundred-dollar loafers and kick it.
But as nice as it was to hear Harper affirming she’d spent the evening with him, it didn’t quite make up for the fact she would not be spending the rest of it in his bed. Bailey had her now—for a nightcap.
Maybe more.
Christ.
Before his inner werewolf could go berserk, Remy gave a curt nod and headed off into the ghost-ridden shadows.
Remy slammed the door to what his Realtor had called a pied-à-terre and threw his keys on the foyer table.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck.
He stalked to his liquor cabinet, whipped out the very expensive Willett Distillery bourbon he kept on hand for when he lost the Cup, and poured a triple. No wonder she’d looked at him like he had a million heads and every one of them belonged to a couyon: he had just made a pass at his boss, the same boss who was in a relationship with someone else.
Fucking Kenneth Bailey.
But she let you do more than make a pass this afternoon, DuPre.
Probably just caught up in the moment. He’d cornered her in a secret courtyard. He’d strong-armed her into coming to dinner. He’d pretty much told her she was a constant on his mind.
She was with someone else. It should have been a relief, because he couldn’t have her anyway, and this was just the universe affirming it. How petty would it be to begrudge Harper’s happiness with another man when she was so out-of-bounds to him?
Petty didn’t even begin to describe it.
Remy wanted her. She was already his in his head, and but for the employment situation—and her current relationship status with the lawyer—he would be making good on his claim. He sure as hell didn’t want Kenneth Bailey to get what was rightfully his.
He took a deep slug of his drink, barely noticing the burn as it trickled down his throat.
This was not how Remy approached the fine art of wooing. Truth be told, he didn’t usually have to struggle because he’d always chosen easy. Likewise, his natural talent on the ice meant he didn’t work as hard as he should have in his youth, and maybe that was why he’d come up short so many times in the late season. After the first close-but-no-cigar, you always assume there’ll be another shot or else you couldn’t get out of bed in the morning. Remy’d had another three shots. With each passing year and no joy, he had to wonder if there was some truth to that “unluckiest guy in the league” label. The Susan Lucci of hockey, the sports media joked. But even Susan had eventually won an Emmy.
Getting older meant he had to put in the extra hours to keep up, to make his dream come true. But that didn’t mean he had to work harder for a woman, did it?
What was he doing setting his sights on a woman who was his boss and, at the same time, so unlike his usual diet? Harper wasn’t one-night-stand material. But neither was she the kind of woman he had in mind for his posthockey life. He needed a femme who wanted a family and was ready to be part of Team DuPre. Harper didn’t fit that description. Her own family was a mess and her teamwork skills were somewhat lacking.
So not one night, not the long haul. Some happy medium, perhaps? Not that it mattered, because she was with the lawyer and she was his boss.
Fuck.
He needed a shower. He needed to wash the failure of this day away and he needed to get drunk.
Stripped, he stepped under the tepid water with a bottle of booze while he fisted the tile and slugged away. The water and the bourbon should have put a significant damper on his hard-on, but alas, no. He could still feel the imprint of her sweet body against his, a memory stamped on his brain from this afternoon’s orgasm in the rain. His rain-forest shower head was reminding him in the worst possible way, and her sexy scent haunted him like the ghosts of the Quarter.
> But the phantoms weren’t done with him yet. Harper’s bombshell voice echoed, whispering sweet, filthy orders in his ear.
I don’t care that you’re my player. I don’t care that I’m your boss. It’s all wrong, but it’s the best kind of wrong. I need you inside me now, Remy.
Another slug of bourbon and his hand found its way to his cock.
But the grip felt inadequate, a pale imitation, because it wasn’t hers. Fantastic. Jerking off, the last thing he had going for him, and she’d ruined it. He turned off the shower and stepped out, grabbing a towel to swipe at the body that had decided to betray him.
Give me an orgasm. It’s the least you can do.
Neck deep in his misery, he barely heard the buzzer. One of the hazards of living in the Quarter was how revelry quickly became bedmates with idiocy. Drunks out on the town. Ding, dong, ditch, NOLA style.
It went again, more urgent this time.
He took another slug and pushed thoughts of Harper Chase from his mind. He’d get drunk. Very drunk . . . and play like shit tomorrow. That’d teach her.
Buzzzzzz!
After making short work of the few feet to the intercom, he slammed the talk button hard. “If you know what’s good for you, you’d better be gone by the time I get down there.”
A slight pause, then a barely audible, “Okay.”
His heart exploded in his chest, just upped and boomed.
Harper. That was Harper.
He pushed the entry button, then the talk one again. “Harper? Don’t leave. Merde . . . just don’t, okay?” He threw open the door and sprinted five steps down, then twenty feet through the courtyard toward the gate.
Harper was framed in the passageway with some sort of halo above her head. So it was the security light shining right down on her blond waves, but his fevered imagination saw an angel descended to earth.
Lord, take me now.
Two things happened simultaneously: Harper’s eyes went wide, and Remy realized he was cold. Both of these things were related.
He’d answered the door completely naked.
And his boner was back, urgent as ever, though he wondered how long that would last because it was pretty fucking chilly out here.
“I’ve interrupted something,” she said, her gaze greedily roving his still-damp body.
“Only a pity party in my shower.”
She swallowed audibly, and just that sliver of vulnerability had him ready to fall to his knees for her. She was here, yet he had the distinct feeling that rushing her would be bad. This woman was like a high-strung filly that needed gentling and every ounce of TLC he possessed.
“Minou, talk to me.”
A shallow breath was followed by . . . another shallow breath. Before he could worry about which would happen first—Harper’s panic attack or his dick dropping off like an icicle—she spoke, her voice scarcely above a whisper.
“I shouldn’t be kissing you. I shouldn’t be touching and licking and stroking your hard body. I shouldn’t be begging you to take me all night long. I shouldn’t be fantasizing about the player I signed to save my team and career because this could be the very thing that tanks my team and career.”
His sexy little minou was hurting, and the only cure was the thing that might destroy them both.
She snatched a breath. “I can’t give more than what you see. I can’t give more than a few hours. So, Remy DuPre, would you rather have one night exploring this thing between us or a whole lifetime never knowing what it was like to feel so good?”
“Harper,” he ground out. And then she was in his arms, the way it wasn’t supposed to be, but the only way that made sense. Greedy lips met in a torrent of hunger as they melted into each other, her mouth on his so amazing he could die. His hands strayed to her ass and bound her close to make sure she was real and could never, ever leave.
She had come to him. Made the decision, and that meant more to him than every goal he’d ever scored.
He drew back an inch. “What about Bailey? As much as I want you, Harper, I won’t trespass on another man’s territory.”
“Bailey?” she panted, her eyes glazed, her lips puffy from his kiss. “Oh, Kenneth. That’s nothing.”
“Nothing as in ‘we have an agreement’ nothing, or nothing as in ‘we’re not together’ nothing?”
“Nothing as in ‘in no universe would I ever date or sleep with Kenneth Bailey’ nothing.”
“Thank fuck.” He picked her up, hitched her around his hips, and covered her mouth with his.
“You’re wet,” she said.
“Not as wet as you’ll be soon.”
“Already there, DuPre.”
Sweet Jesus. With a deep groan, he carried and kissed her into his pied-à-terre, but the whole situation might very well be Harper-à-terre, because there was a fair to middling chance he was going to do her on the floor of his living room. He slammed the door shut with his foot, still kissing, still marveling that she had come to him. She’d left the hotel and walked the streets—shit.
“You should have called me to pick you up.”
“It was only a few blocks.” She licked her lips. “All the ghosts of New Orleans had my back. This is a town that roots for forbidden passion, you know.”
That it was.
“You taste of bourbon, Remy. Top quality.”
A woman who knew her liquor. How did the unluckiest guy in the NHL suddenly have fortune shine on him so brightly? “I’d planned to get shitfaced and made a head start in a cold shower. Leaving you behind did not sit with me well.”
“Already driving you to drink and pneumonia?” She grinned, pleased with herself. “Sounds like my job here is done.”
“Your job here is far from done. Got plenty of tasks in mind for tonight.”
She licked the corner of his mouth and made a little moaning sound. Oh, Christ, he was not going to last. “Give me the tour.”
He was definitely not going to last.
He spoke as he walked—very, very quickly. “You saw the courtyard. Front door. Living room. There’s probably a kitchen and a couple of bathrooms.” At the door of the most important room in the house tonight, he halted. “Bedroom.”
“Nice. I’d buy.”
He placed her sitting on the bed and jackknifed to his knees between her legs. “You sure about this?”
“Looking for an excuse to back out, DuPre?”
“You, here, in my bed, Harper. Never wanted anything more in my life.” Shit, that sounded way more serious than he’d intended. But it was true. She didn’t need to be as into him, but he needed her to be sure.
She looped both hands behind his neck and brushed his lips in a tease. “I could be curled up in my hotel room with an indifferent scotch, scouting reports, and tapes of last week’s game, but I’m not. I know this is crazy. I know this is dangerous. I’m not a crazy or dangerous person. But I want you. I want to feel what I suspect only you can give me.”
That was all—no, more than—he needed to hear. He would give her a night she’d never forget, and then tomorrow . . .
Best not to think of tomorrow. Assume this was a one-shot deal, a product of crazy NOLA-inspired passion. Assume they were different people, inhabiting the bodies of strangers.
Strangers who wanted to fuck each other raw and senseless and forget the world outside their courtyard.
FIFTEEN
Crazy. Dangerous. Apt words for this situation, more than apt words for Remy. But Harper couldn’t stay away. Kenneth’s surprise visit had toggled something on in her brain. The man clearly wanted more, and here she was sitting on the fence, letting him think she would eventually come around.
She wouldn’t, not to Kenneth, so she needed to be straight with him. Straight with herself. What had Remy said to his nieces? God hates a coward. She was so tired of sublimating her d
esires, throwing herself into the team instead of taking something for herself. As Kenneth tried to persuade her to go to the bar, all she could think of were Remy’s words about how things would be different if they were different people. And then there were all those gloriously filthy things he wanted to do to her.
She thought she could withstand the sensual onslaught that was this man, but it turned out she was only human after all. She could no more deny herself this than stop her heart from beating. And she wanted it to beat in unison with Remy’s . . . while they got down and dirty.
“I need to see you properly,” she said. “Stand up.”
He stood, a tower of unrepentant masculinity, unclothed and unabashed. Seeing him rush out his door naked, his fear of her leaving overriding his worry about public decency, she had almost collapsed in a puddle of lust. And now? His absolute beauty awed her. Every ridge defined. Every muscle hard earned.
As her gaze moved south, she swallowed.
Whoomp! There it is.
Though she’d felt him in her hands earlier, seeing the full package attached to this huge bear of a naked man gave her pause. He was big, both as big as and bigger than she expected. Something must have flickered in her expression, because he rested a finger under her chin and tilted her gaze to his.
“You okay, minou?”
A little stalling was in order. “Why do you call me that? Kitten?”
“Because I love that voice of yours. It’s a bombshell voice, the kind that makes a man itch to touch and rub himself all over the body it belongs to. When I heard you first, I thought ‘sex kitten,’ and I guess the name stuck.”
“I speak and you think of sex?”
“You exist and I think of sex.”
Holy whoa. Her eyes dipped to his cock, which was showing no signs whatsoever of flagging. Not that she wanted it to, but maybe if it was less brazen . . .
