by Kate Meader
All joking aside, he could hear the thread of concern in her tone. She worried he’d be too old and beat up for marriage by the time his career ended.
“Puck bunnies aren’t my usual diet, Momma, and that’s pretty much all I meet.”
“Okay. Just don’t go setting your sights on anyone . . . unsuitable.”
“Like your boss!” Josette again.
Remy sat up straight. Did Marie think he had Harper in mind to be Mrs. Remy DuPre? Is that what they all thought?
The ideas women latched on to. He should never have brought her home to dinner.
Yet only a minute ago, he was imagining her carrying his kid. He was closer than two bugs in a rug with his family, and now there was some weird interstate telepathy going on.
“Momma, you do not have to worry. But it’s Cup first, femme later. As soon as I have that trophy, the other’s gonna fall right into place.”
Who would turn down a champion? He’d have his pick of the pack, not that it guaranteed a connection or even the sizzling chemistry he had with Harper.
Unsuitable Harper.
Eager to change the subject and bat away crazy thoughts of a future with his sexy boss, he said, “Hey, Momma, take me into the kitchen so I can see what this turkey wake looks like.”
Day two of the Thanksgiving Holiday Fuckfest, as Remy had termed it, and somehow they did not want to kill each other. This morning she’d awoken halfway to paradise as a gorgeous hunk lapped between her legs. Finally, an alarm clock she could get on board with! After an orgasm and a much-needed nap, she’d perked up again to the smell of bacon and coffee. Remy knew how to do snowbound right.
This shouldn’t feel so good. The sex—well, that should feel good. It was what every girl deserved (Woman’s Bill of Rights, testify). But the rest of it, the hanging out, how natural it was with him? That should have made her feel weird.
She was screwing around with a player on her team, a man whose whopping big checks she signed, and yet she couldn’t find it in herself to feel wrong about it. Worse, she was resisting hard the notion it might feel a little too right.
Holed up in his apartment like survivalists (he had a fridge freezer and can-filled pantry worthy of someone expecting the End Times), she knew that this was an artificially created bubble of sex and comfort. Later this afternoon, she would return to her car, bribe someone in security to dig it out from the Everest-sized snowdrift covering it, and drive home to Lake Forest. For now, she’d pretend that this was real life. Where was the harm? It was just a fantasy.
Curled up on Remy’s sofa, Harper checked email on her phone and surreptitiously sniffed the Rebels’ jersey she’d borrowed from her host. That scent went straight to certain points south.
“Ready for lunch?”
Remy came out of the kitchen waving a spatula and wearing an apron with a blue ribbon and the slogan: Together We Can Help Fight Blue Balls.
“We just had breakfast.” Homemade cinnamon rolls and a Brie-bacon omelette. The skills were ridiculous.
“That was two hours ago. I was thinking steak tacos with cilantro-lime salsa.”
“Sounds passable.”
He grinned, knowing full well her lack of enthusiasm was a tease. The man was a wickedly amazing cook, along with all his other talents, one of which was on full display when he turned away. Nothing on under the apron!
“DuPre, hold up there a second.”
Standing still, he gave a coquettish twist of his head over his shoulder. “You see something you like, minou?” She loved how comfortable he was with his body, though if she looked like him she’d walk around naked all the time, too.
He clenched his butt muscles and she almost orgasmed. Words refused to form.
“No wow for this ass, baby?” He backed up, wiggling suggestively as he moved closer. “Come on, baby, you wanna take a bite out of this, don’t you?”
Oh, he was a cheeky one, pun most definitely intended. Forcing her goggle-eyed gaze away from the Globes of Perfection, she picked up the PS4 controller. “Think I’ll play a game while you cook.”
That got his attention. “You play the video games?”
“The video games?”
He sat, all thoughts of lunch clearly forgotten, though she was having a tough time forgetting that he was naked underneath that apron. “That’s what Jorgenson calls it. Usually when he’s getting his ass handed to him by Alamo. Now that kid can play.”
She’d heard rumors that the team spent occasional nights off over here. It did her heart good to know that Remy was taking them under his wing.
She turned on the console and asked casually, “Are you any good?”
He skewered her with a look. “Am I any good? There’s a reason Hockey All Stars based one of its characters on me.”
“You mean apart from the check they wrote you for the privilege of using your likeness and name?”
He whipped the controller from her, indignant. “Yes, apart from that. They based a player on me because they know I’m a fan and I’m damn good at the video games.” Less than a minute later, Hockey All Stars had loaded up. “You ever play this one, Harper?”
“An older version, though not in a few years. I’m sure I can get the hang of it.”
She let him show her how the controller worked while he explained the objectives of the game (uh, score more goals than the other side). She even asked a few stupid questions.
Then she proceeded to wipe the rink with him.
“Playin’ the ringer, huh? Pretty sneaky.” He regarded her with new appreciation. “I like it. I was letting some goals in there at the beginning because I didn’t want you to be humiliated, but now it’s on.”
“It’s on?”
His mouth creased into a dirty DuPre grin. “Like Donkey Kong. Let’s make it interesting.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“How about a game of strip PlayStation?”
“As you’re only wearing an apron, it’ll be over before I can say ‘she shoots, she scores.’ ”
“One piece of clothing versus”—he pulled at the neckline of the hockey shirt she’d been wearing like a Remy pelt since yesterday morning—“four. My shirt, your panties, and those sexy tube socks. That’s a considerable handicap, Harper. I’m already three points to the bad, which means you can lose three games and still be in with a chance of winning the war.”
Interesting. “What are we playing for?”
“If I win, you stay another night.”
“And if I win?”
“Anything you want.”
The possibilities. “Do I have to state it up front?”
He thought on that, likely seeking a trap. “You can call it in at any time.”
Did he realize what he was saying? The things she could ask of him.
Stay in Chicago. Stay with the Rebels. Stay with me.
He mistook her hesitation for something else. “I’ll even handicap myself further. You can sit on my lap, little girl.”
“Losing turns you on, DuPre?”
“You turn me on, minou. Only you.” He kissed her. Slow, sweet, a preview of coming attractions, or more likely part of his strategy to jumble her brain before they started, which was confirmed when he inched up the apron in a slow tease. Every beautiful muscle was on display, including the fast-growing one between his legs. Foxy fast, he pulled her into his lap with her back to his chest.
As her already slick center met the silky steel of his cock, he hissed. “No panties? And there was I thinking you had that extra piece of clothing to give you an edge.”
She sat back on his erection, loving how hot he already was for her. Then she peeled off her socks, one at a time, and dropped them to the floor. “I don’t need to be handicapped in games with you. Level playing field. One game. Winner takes all.”
They
were already even in every possible way, and God, she loved that. How they matched each other, quip for quip, stroke for stroke, orgasm for brain-destroying orgasm.
“You think you can beat me in this position, DuPre?” He’d have to reach around to hold his controller, plus she could easily block his view if she wanted. She wriggled in his lap to let him know just how hard this position would get for him.
“Bring it, Chase.” He licked the inner shell of her ear, sending shivers through her.
A few minutes later, she realized that Remy had indeed been downplaying his skills in the first round. Practically handcuffed, blind, and under assault every moment she squirmed against him, he was still putting on an amazing show.
Time to up the stakes. She slid her damp crease along the rigid pressure beneath her. His thumb slipped on the controller—and she slipped a goal past his tender.
“That’s how it is, huh?” His voice was low. Dangerous.
“Got to use all my weapons and wiles.” She pushed back, angling to deliver further interference, but only got pleasure in return as his hardness found a perfect spot in her softness. They needed to be careful, because the temptation to let him slip a goal past her tender was near irresistible.
“Remy—”
“Got it, minou.”
At the sound of a music-to-her-ears crinkle of foil, she lifted off him to allow access. “Do I want to know where you were hiding that?”
“Seat cushions,” he rasped. “After yesterday, when we came close to fucking on the kitchen table only to have to move to the bedroom because of the condom situation, I’ve taken the necessary precautions. Here, shower, cookie jar in the kitchen . . .” And then he slipped inside her, his reach deep, his girth filling her to the point she almost orgasmed on the spot.
“Don’t forget the game, Harper.” He sucked on her earlobe, his breath a sweet pant. “See if you can beat me now.”
At what, exactly? She lifted her body an inch and pushed back down on his cock, the sensation so amazing that she did it again. And again.
Her fingers fumbled with the controller, but it was useless. Pleasure had entered the game and it was winning. “I—I can’t.” She threw the controller down on the sofa and threw herself wholeheartedly into being fucked by this god of ice and fire.
One brute hand gripped her hip, expertly controlling her penetration; the other cupped her breast under the Rebels shirt and rolled her nipple.
“Touch yourself, Harper. Show me how you like it.”
She lowered her hand over her clit, the sizzle a shock when she touched the swollen bud. In half a heartbeat, she was upended and pushed to her knees on the sofa with Remy still wedged deep inside her. His strength completely unspooled her.
Kneeling behind her, he pumped long, luscious strokes, each one designed to drive her to the edge and over into mindlessness. Sensation barreled through her, crystalline and hot, and she screamed as her vision blurred and pinpricks of light flashed white behind her eyes.
With the aftershocks of her orgasm still shuddering through her, she panted, “Who won?”
“Christ, femme, are you trying to kill me?”
Laughing, she reached over to the controller and hit the X button to shoot the goal past on-screen Remy into the opposing team’s net. “Guess I did.”
He withdrew and flipped her over, his body huge and dominant above her. Hastily, he tore off the apron, revealing his dark-flushed cock pulsing through the rubber.
“Apparently I’m not doing a good enough job if you still have enough brain cells to finish the game.”
She cupped his jaw and ran a thumb along his lower lip. She loved his lived-in face, how his zest for life showed in every crease and crinkle. She loved this world he’d invited her into.
“I’ll concede a draw,” she said, chuckling again. “One more night, Remy.”
“Love that laugh, minou.” In his eyes she saw joy burn bright. He really wanted her here, and that—just the notion of being truly wanted by someone—conjured a dangerous flutter in her chest. She knew her daddy issues made her particularly vulnerable to a man as caring as Remy, so she latched on to a life preserver in the stormy sea:
He would leave before she let him into her heart.
He nuzzled her nose, smuggling unmistakable tenderness into the gesture. “It’s not a draw, Harper. Not when we both win.” And then he took as his prize a victory kiss and orgasms for all.
TWENTY-TWO
Remy pulled on the collar of his button-down and loosened the tie he’d worn with his game-day suit for the Rebels’ annual holiday party. Apparently Harper threw this shindig for the team every year at her house in Lake Forest.
Since Thanksgiving, they’d been taking their chances where they could. During a couple of away games she’d snuck into his hotel room, and on Bren’s most recent trip to Atlanta, Harper had spent the night at Remy’s. Gretzky adored her and seemed to fart less when she was around. Such a gentleman.
Tonight he had a legitimate excuse to be in here, except she wasn’t talking to him.
Scratch that. She was talking to him as DuPre, her player, with a brittle politeness he wanted to break in half. Hell, every other bozo in the room was getting quality smiles from the boss, but Remy? He might as well have doused his body in shit spray for all the love it was bringing him.
Most of the team looked to be in Imma-get-some-tonight heaven. Callaghan was feeling up his hot fiancée near the fireplace. Jorgenson had turned up with some supermodel who clearly needed a sandwich, but given tonight’s selection of finger foods, would be out of luck. Burnett was flirting his ass off with Violet, and this last development was not going down well with Remy’s date.
Yep, Remy had a date, a broody Scots fucker who was playing at designated driver. Now that they practically shared custody of the dog, they might as well move in together and turn their act into The Odd Couple.
“Should I tell her?” he asked Bren, who had a death grip on a bottle of Coke and was sticking with his usual glare-Violet-Vasquez-into-the-grave brand of seduction.
Bren’s frown deepened. “Tell who what?”
“That you’d like to ask her to prom? Figure I owe you for the ride over.”
“You won’t get a ride back if you don’t shut your pie hole.”
“Such charm. No wonder you’re scoring big.”
The captain heaved a sigh and turned away from the sight of Violet and Cade huddled together like they were sharing high school secrets. Remy had to admit a certain annoyance, not because he had a thing for Violet but because they seemed to be carrying on a relationship out in the open and no one cared that she was a team owner with a player.
Eager to pile on the misery, he sought out Harper. She looked gorgeous, her skin glowing under festive lights, her blond hair down in those waves he loved. A strapless red cocktail dress revealed her beautiful rounded shoulders. Didn’t she know he loved her fucking shoulders? And now she was taunting him as she played hostess, flitting around making sure everyone was having a fabulous time.
“What’s got your jock strap in a twist?” Bren had now moved from eye-fucking Violet to pot-meet-kettle.
“We’re professional athletes, right?”
“According to my paycheck and ESPN.”
“We are much sought after by women. So what the hell are we doing at a holiday party holding each other’s dicks?”
Bren raised an eyebrow. “Not where I thought this night was going.”
“You know what I mean. How long since your divorce?”
“I’m not sleeping with you, DuPre.” The big guy’s mouth went taut with tension. “I can’t date anyone until I’m dry for a year.”
Well, that sucked. “So you’re going to drag me down with you?”
This drew St. James’s grin, a crack of light in a darkening storm.
A musica
l tinkle of steel against crystal cut the bro banter short. Harper Chase, Rebels president, acting general manager, and five feet one and a half inches of sin, commanded the room’s attention.
She gave a nervous cough. “Well, Rebels, here we are again.”
The team chortled, though it did little to settle her. He hated seeing her look vulnerable in front of anyone. He wanted to defend her from every sling and arrow, keep that soft side of her for him alone.
“The last few years have been lean,” Harper continued. “Tough for all of us, but especially for you, our lifeblood. You’re competitive, you’re warriors, and losing doesn’t sit well with you. Fucking hell, it doesn’t sit well with me.”
Louder laughs greeted that, everyone feeling more at ease joking about the bad old days and hearing sophisticated Harper using language more suited to a locker room. The expletive seemed to open her up, and her voice now rang out clear and resonant.
“I know some of you wanted to bail when my—our—father died.” Her gaze slid to Violet, who was barely paying attention, too busy flirting with Cade. No sign of Isobel. “And when we made changes in the front office, you wondered if we’d lost our minds. How were we going to make this work with no GM, morale at its lowest, and the prospect of failure looming? But we’ve climbed up from the pit since October. Not all the way, not completely out into the light, but we can see glimmers. A few people wanted to bask in the sun sooner and we wish them well. But for those of you who don’t mind a little while longer in the trenches breathing coal dust, I thank you—we thank you—for placing your faith in us. The ship is turning, and with an organization as huge as this, that takes time. We have faith in you all to make this work, to flip our fortunes, and to touch hardware again.” She raised a glass and everyone followed her lead. “I’ll allow you all an extra hour to sleep in tomorrow, but then it’s back to practice. Tonight, we celebrate the Rebels!”
Everyone cheered, and Remy caught Bren’s eye, surprised to find a lack of cynicism there. Hope, the worst four-letter word there is, was doing a number on them all. Who’d have thought Harper Chase could rouse the troops like this?
