Her fingers touched the cool, metallic edge of her cell. She snatched it out and closed her bag, making sure the strap was tight. The muscles in her thighs clenched as she rose, wobbling a little on her heels. Stilettos took some getting used to. Too bad the comfy sneakers in her bag wouldn’t look half as sexy as the thigh-high leather boots she’d chosen to complete her costume for the evening. She wiggled her toes and winced at the sting of a broken blister on the inside of her left foot.
What was it Silver always said? Ah, yes. You wanna look hot? Suffer.
Then again, her little sister had started wearing G-strings in her mid-teens to avoid “gross” panty lines. In her late teens, she’d stopped wearing bras. Oriana didn’t ask why—she really didn’t want to know. Keeping up with Silver’s warped fashion sense would take more free time, and, well, guts, than Oriana possessed. For school and special occasions, she wore nice, tailored suits. The rest of the time, she stuck with sweats. A little boring, maybe, but she hated having to constantly fiddle with her clothes and worry about how everything fit.
Looking around to make sure no one was watching, she ran a finger under the tight leather clinging to the flesh of her thigh. A cool breeze skimmed between her legs, reminding her of what else she was wearing. Better not to think too hard about the outfit beneath her white, mid-length wool coat.
She turned her attention to her phone, unwound the cord for her earbuds, then stuck them in her ears. When the highlight reel began, a smile whispered across her lips. The Friday night crowd bustling around her faded away. All she heard was the spectators’ roar. All she saw was him.
Even on the small screen, she could make him out. Max Perron, number 40. A close-up of his face after a sweet slap shot sent tiny wings aflutter in her stomach. Sun-kissed ocean eyes glowed in a wickedly handsome face. Beautiful . . . even more so up close, filled with heat. She hadn’t seen them in so long, not in person, not in any way that mattered, since the day he brought her flowers for her birthday and she’d told him their friendship was a bad idea. She’d ignored every call from him for what seemed like forever. Ignored them until they stopped coming.
A shriek pierced through the sounds blasting in her ears and brought her back to the present. She took out the earbuds.
“Tyler! Oh, I can’t believe it’s really you!”
The shrill cry came from a young woman dressed in a huge jersey who stepped out of the shadowed alcove halfway down the ramp on the side of the forum. The players came out of there after practices or games, and fans would lay in wait to get a glimpse of their heroes. But Oriana had a feeling this girl was more than a fan.
Tyler Vanek, one of the rookies brought up from the farm team the year before, stopped short and leaned an elbow on the brick wall beside the parking garage entrance, trying to look smooth.
“Hey. And you are . . . ?” His lips curved and his cheeks, soft and freshly shaven, glowed under the bare bulb that flashed on overhead. He raked his fingers through his tight, blond curls, and his eyes traveled over the girl as she hopped on her spiky, red heels.
The poise of a man, with the expression of a little boy eager to get his hand in the cookie jar. Maybe he didn’t know who the girl was, but he’d clearly figured out enough to like his chances.
What did Max call them again? Oh, yeah, Puck Bunnies. Oriana smirked when the girl leapt forward with a little shriek. Appropriate.
Vanek braced and caught her before she could knock them both over. “Wow. You’re feisty.”
Ya think? Oriana stuffed her phone in her book bag and took out her sunglasses. The last dying sunrays had barely crested the city skyline, but she slipped the glasses on anyway. A side step up the sidewalk out of their line of sight put her in the perfect position to observe without seeming to. Not because she was into . . . watching or anything, but she was curious to see how far it would go.
Most of the players would offer a signature and gently detach themselves. The rookie obviously didn’t know better. Bunny’s lucky day.
Clinging to his shirt, the blond Jessica-Rabbit-lookalike rubbed one leg up his thigh. “Can we go somewhere?”
“I can’t, I gotta get back.” Vanek groaned as her hand disappeared between their bodies. “But here’s good.”
With his back against the wall, he watched her get on her knees.
Oriana let out a huff of disgust and spun away from the pair. Then checked her watch. The spindly silver hands didn’t move.
Stupid batteries.
Groans from below set her teeth on edge. Peeking at the lusty pair, she blushed. How could they do that out in the open? Loud slurps had passers-by glancing their way and doubling their pace. Vanek’s baby face screwed up, and he clenched his hands in the girl’s hair as she bobbed her head faster and faster. An old man slowed and took a good long look at the show before giving Oriana a toothless grin.
Cheeks blazing, she crossed her arms over her chest and faced the street. The image of another man getting sucked off by a girl on her knees played like porn on the big screen of her mind. She pressed her eyes shut and tried to force the images out of her head. Vanek’s grunts brought them back.
What she’d witnessed in the alley had haunted her for nights after.
You made the right choice. Forget it.
But she couldn’t. The way she felt about Max wouldn’t go away. She might not want the kind of wild life Max lived, but her heart didn’t care. Logic told her there was nothing wrong with the normal, stable life she intended to lead with Paul.
Then she recalled her plans for the evening. Okay, so desperation trumped normal.
Too late for her and Max, but with Paul, maybe, just maybe, she could salvage what they had. If only she wasn’t the only one fighting for their relationship.
Where are you, Paul?
Tugging a curl loose from her bronze coiffure, she twirled it around her index finger and traced a big, silver hoop earring with her thumb. The scenario played over in her head like it had while she’d carefully picked out each piece of her outfit. Paul, all detached, sitting across from her in the secluded booth she’d paid extra to reserve at his favorite restaurant, looking at his cell every couple minutes. Then she’d take off her coat.
And he’d stare.
The snug, black corset dress she’d finally settled on, knee-length, slit up both sides to the hip, made her feel a little self-conscious, but what she wore underneath made her feel like a goddess. Maybe she should give Paul a preview in the car. He might not want to go out to dinner after all.
Page one of her new . . . relationship handbook said a man like Paul needed direction. Needed to be caught off-guard.
Men in demanding jobs often feel like they have to be in control at all times. They can’t find release in the bedroom because they’re wound up so tight. Take their choices away and you’ll find you’ve got a man ready and willing to please. Make him work for it. You’ll both enjoy the results.
Could it possibly be that simple?
You’re not even wet.
Oriana winced as another memory twinged like a splinter. The way things had gone the last time she and Paul were alone together, she was lucky he’d agreed to meet her at all. Whenever things got intimate, she screwed it up. Their sex life was seriously lacking, the very reason she’d taken the initiative to ask him out for once. And called her sister for some advice.
“Look for a book called Lady in Charge,” Silver had told her. “If that don’t work, ditch the loser.”
She’d found the book online under “femdom” and decided her little sister was seriously unhinged. Dominate Paul? Really? But then she read the excerpt and decided to give it a shot. The bondage stuff looked . . . interesting. Picturing silk scarves or lined cuffs securing her wrists—No, Paul’s wrists to the headboard . . .
Well, couldn’t hurt to try. She couldn’t very well make things worse.
Thinking of the graphic image on page 214 of a woman attaching a spiked ball stretcher to her lover’s sack, she grin
ned and shook her head. Such extremes right off the bat would definitely make things worse. Better stick with the mild stuff. Like taking charge for the night.
For some reason, the very idea made her feel like she’d taken a big bite of something that smelled sweet and tasted awful. She mentally flipped the through the pages she pored over the night before, trying to find a single appealing scene. Maybe a simple role-play?
How would she broach the subject with Paul? “I want to try something…”
Her stomach did a little flip. Okay, no talking. Just a candlelit dinner, a little reveal of her sexy lingerie, and maybe some moves from the book. Tease him under the tablecloth and order him not to come. He’d be putty in her hands. The book said so.
Well, something’s gotta work. Oriana made a face and checked her long, black, manicured nails. According to that same book, the “honeymoon’s” over.
The streetlight overhead flickered to life and a shadow fell, her only warning before a massive form slammed into her. Teetering on her heels, her arms flailed. Her book bag swung out, hit the sidewalk, and skidded off the curb.
Without a word, the man plucked her bag off the street, ignoring the car that swerved to avoid him, horn blaring. He held it out to her.
She hesitated before taking it. The guy was huge, menacing with his face hidden in the shadows of his dark, gray hood. Without getting too close, she snatched the strap. Mouth too dry for a “thank you,” she inclined her head and hoped it would be enough.
“Sorry about that.” He lowered the hood, revealing a face just as familiar as the voice. His eyes ran over her, paused on her heels, then made their way up slowly. “Hey, don’t I know you?”
Sloan Callahan. The man she’d seen with Max in the alley—had he seen her? The flap of her jacket hung open, and for a horrible moment, she felt completely exposed. Her mouth went dry, and she had a vision of that night. Only this time, the woman they planned to share wasn’t Roxy. It was her.
Her eyes traced the scar from a slash that had almost taken his eye. The bound wooden blade of the stick had torn rather than cut, so the wound wasn’t nice and smooth. White flesh streaked in two irregular lines through one brow, over one cheekbone, and up to his temple, creating a well-defined path.
Those who’d voted Callahan the most handsome man in the sport for three years straight—as if good looks made a damn bit of difference on the ice—considered the damage done to Callahan’s face a tragedy. To her mind, the scars gave him a dangerous appeal. The kind of appeal that tempted good girls to do very bad things.
“Do I?”
Definitely. Oriana blinked. Did he know she was thinking about him and Max and . . . ? She shook her head. Don’t be a dumb ass. He asked if he knew you.
Taking hold of the flaps of her jacket, she held it closed and craned her neck to study him over her sunglasses. “No. I don’t think so.” His dark eyes narrowed, and she swallowed. A moan from the ramp spurred her on. She pushed her sunglasses up with a finger and spoke loud so Vanek’s captain wouldn’t hear him. “Umm . . . I don’t suppose you have the time?”
A crowd of teens approached, taking up most of the sidewalk. Rather than move across the sidewalk to let them pass, he stepped toward her. She retreated until her back hit a light post. His hand under her elbow kept her from toppling onto the street.
“It’s eight-twenty, princess.” He leaned his forearm on the post above her head and chuckled when she froze. “You waiting for someone?”
All she could do was nod as she peered up at him with wide eyes. Damn he was tall. And big. And hot.
More scary than anything. Should check him for weapons. Boy’s dangerous.
Cold air skimmed over her breasts, causing goose bumps to rise on all the flesh not covered by the tightly-laced bodice. She wanted to do up her jacket, but he was too close. If she didn’t move, he might not notice the slit of the dress had slipped to one side, exposing her thigh to hip.
You sure you don’t want him to notice? said the naughty voice in her head, which usually indicated she had been spending too much time on the phone listening to her sister’s raunchy tales.
She peeked up at Callahan, and heat flooded her cheeks when she caught his eyes on her breasts.
“Well, let’s hope he’s not too late. Someone might steal you away.” Tiny creases cut through his scar, and something stirred deep inside. The way he looked at her almost made her feel desirable. He leaned a little closer. “I mean, dressed like that, standing on the corner . . .”
He pushed away from her.
“How dare—” She sputtered on the words she wanted to say and let her narrowed gaze spit all the venom her mouth couldn’t. Might be better for him if he did have a knife on him. She was very tempted to see what kind of damage she could do with her nails.
But acting like a savage wasn’t her style. She gave him the coldest look she could muster and glanced up the sidewalk to see if she could catch the eye of someone passing by. Just in case he went caveman on her. Not that he looked even close to doing so. His composure brought her to the edge of losing hers entirely.
A sparkle of amusement lit his black eyes, and he gave her legs another lingering look. “Hell, with those legs, I’m sure you’d get a decent offer. I’d make one myself, but I’m in too much of a hurry for you to make it worth my while.” He winked and tugged his hood back over his head. “Maybe next time.”
A little sting in the corner of her eye made her blink fast and shake her head. Sticks and stones, Oriana. How would Silver handle this?
Hands on her hips, she gave him a swift once over and sucked her teeth. “Callahan—”
“You can call me, ‘Mr. Callahan.’ We’re not friends.”
“Fine, Mr. Callahan.” She clipped out each syllable, resisting the urge to kick him. “There won’t be a next time.”
Real smooth. Do you need Silver to script a decent comeback?
“So you say.” Callahan cleared his throat. “Vanek, I’m heading in. You have two minutes.”
The sharp sound of a zipper drew her attention to the ramp. Vanek gave her a sheepish grin, then nodded at his bunny while she scribbled something on a scrap of paper and stuffed it in his pocket. The bunny’s heels clicked as she made her way up the ramp. Blonde waves bouncing, she disappeared around the corner.
“Nice try covering for the kid. I’m sure he’d thank you if he got her knocked up and she took him for all he’s worth.” Callahan took her sunglasses from her face and slipped them into her jacket pocket, effectively removing her only shield. “Did you enjoy the show?”
So much for hoping he’d forgotten. She glared at the gold embroidered team logo centered on his broad chest. A snake, just like him.
His finger brushed her cheek as he tucked a loose curl behind her ear. Her pulse sped up. Her gaze shot to his face. Those black eyes didn’t belong to a snake. Or any animal she’d ever seen. They brought to mind the ocean at night when the surface was smooth and calm. And just cool enough to be soothing after a hot summer day. She could imagine immersing herself in the water, feeling soft waves lap up her thighs. Soon the moonlight would reflect off the glassy surface, like the streetlights reflected in Callahan’s eyes.
The ocean always mesmerized her.
“Tell me, princess, did it get you off?”
But the ocean didn’t have a big, stupid mouth.
Her chin jutted up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” He ran his thumb over her bottom lip. “So soft. I can imagine you in that position . . .” When she jerked away, he laughed. “But you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
Oh, god. She watched him turn away, unable to force her eyes off him until he disappeared inside the forum. Her mind locked on “the position” he’d implied. The bunny’s position? Or the position of the woman he’d shared with Max? Neither option seemed as deplorable as it should have. Or likely to happen.
So not fair. The only man in history to
reject Silver, hitting on her.
No, mocking her. He couldn’t seriously think she’d ever . . .
Her nipples drew into hard little points and poked through the openwork details of her lace bra. Her body wasn’t in accord with her mind. Then again, the intelligent arguments her brain came up with were weak.
Sex in public isn’t my thing.
Not that she knew what her “thing” was.
Couldn’t you consider trying something new? For Max?
She should have, but it was too late.
Is it?
Neither her brain nor her body had an answer. She hadn’t spoken to Max in months. Maybe she should call him and apologize for the way she’d behaved. Maybe then they could discuss . . .
Get a grip. You have a man.
Who was an hour late. So much for their dinner reservations.
Heaving out a sigh, she smoothed her hands over her sides to make sure the dress hadn’t inched up to reveal more of the generous thighs Sloan had admired. Then did up her jacket. The way things were going, he might be the only one who got to see them tonight.
Change direction of thoughts. Sloan isn’t interested in my pudgy legs. I’m trying to impress Paul. Who’ll be here . . .
The door of the forum slid open. Her father’s secretary walked out.
“Hi, Anne.” Oriana stepped into the pinched-nosed woman’s path. “Is Paul—?”
Anne looked over the red rim of her spectacles and sniffed. “He’ll be along shortly. Excuse me.”
The secretary hurried to her bus stop. Her behavior might have seemed rude to some, but it didn’t bother Oriana. Her father kept Anne busy. She had to get home to her kids.
Never mind that she would have found time to talk if Silver stood in her place. Because Silver wouldn’t be standing here, waiting. No one kept Silver waiting for anything.
Then again, Silver wouldn’t let them if they tried. Her little sister would have stormed into Daddy’s office after ten minutes of sitting in the limo—not standing on the curb because the limo driver wouldn’t dare tell her he had other places to be—and ranted until both the man of the hour and Daddy were tripping over each other making apologies.
GAME MISCONDUCT (The Dartmouth Cobras) Page 3
