Slap Shot

by Lily Harlem

  My fingertips brushed his palm and the heated texture of his skin infused into mine. I pulled my hand away as if I’d been burned. I didn’t want to remember how good it was to touch him.

  I slammed the door and gnawed at the inside of my cheek. Ground the car through the gears and tore down the gravel driveway, relieved to see the gates swinging open when I reached them. Within minutes I was flying down the freeway leaving bad Dana and a far too tempting hockey captain behind.

  I arrived home feeling exhausted and emotionally wrung out. Dropping my stuff on the kitchen table, I stripped and leaped into the shower. The water was soothing on my buzzing body and washed away the sticky heat of the day. But what it didn’t do, couldn’t do, was quell the desire I felt whenever that man was around.

  How come I’d resisted so many others over the last two years without batting an eyelid, with barely an ounce of effort, yet he had me stuttering and squirming? Five seconds of his company and I was looking at his mouth and imagining sitting on his face. Whenever he was within five feet of me I was drawn toward his muscular body, wanting it hard and heavy over me all over again.

  Damn!

  I shampooed and conditioned my hair then filled my palm with nectarine shower gel. Soaping my flesh, my fingers ran over my thighs and through my fuzz of black pubic hair. Tipping my face to the blasting water, I remembered his thick cock penetrating me—so rigid, so wide, so damn good. My fingers slipped through my soft folds, searched out my entrance and pushed in.

  “Rick,” I mumbled into the water, sampling his name once more on my tongue. “Rick.” But my fingers weren’t enough. They weren’t big enough, they weren’t him. I reached out and flattened my other palm against the tiles of the shower cubicle, then withdrew and circled my clitoris, giving in to the swollen nub, which demanded attention.

  I dropped my neck down, let the water run like a veil over my head and shoulders, and brought myself to a swift, sharp climax. It left me panting and my legs like Jell-O, and I stepped from the shower clinging to the side of the cubicle.

  Sitting on a chair for a moment, I twisted my hair up into a towel and tightened another around my body, tucking it securely at my cleavage, then left the steam-filled bathroom.

  Heading toward the kitchen, I heard the doorbell chime.

  I paused. Who could it be? It was still light outside. Perhaps it was kids selling cookies. Ignoring it, I went into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle.

  The bell rang again, then a third time. I clicked my tongue in irritation and padded barefoot back into the hallway.

  Not bothering to check the peephole, I pulled open the door.

  My heart nearly gave out.

  Standing on my porch was two hundred pounds of hot, hard hockey player wearing an expression of grim determination.

  Oh my god. Seconds ago I’d been masturbating and gasping his name.

  “You dropped this,” he said, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he handed me my driver’s license.

  Shock clogged my throat. Oh shit, now he knew where I lived and he was standing here, on my doorstep, looking like a perfect slice of heaven all wrapped up in muscle.

  He was my worst nightmare from hell!

  I took the license in one hand and rested the other on my bare throat, trying to slow the pounding of my heart. “Thanks,” I managed. “But you could have just mailed it.”

  “I was coming this way.”

  “Oh, well…thanks.” I started to shut the door. This couldn’t be happening. Rick “Ramrod” Lewis could not be just passing my way.

  Suddenly he wedged his big black sneaker between the door and frame. It halted my progress of shutting it.

  “I’m not stalking you,” he said, peering through the gap.

  I pulled the door open a fraction. “I know.”

  “But I’m not leaving.” There was a stubborn set to his jaw and fire in his eyes.

  “You’re not?” I glanced down at his foot, halfway over the threshold.

  “No, not until you agree to go out on a date, damn it. Not sex, not marriage, just one lousy date. Come on, Dana, just say yes already.” His voice dropped, low and persuasive, and his gaze locked on mine. “You know you want to.”

  I stared at him, he stared back. For a few moments we were like two combatants preparing for battle.

  “Why is it so important?” I asked eventually.

  “I dunno, I just…” He shrugged, smiled and produced those damn cute dimples. “I guess I just want to get to know what makes ‘Dana Wilcox, event organizer’ tick. And I know you gotta eat sometime, even if you are tiny.”

  It was the dimples that did it, that and the testosterone, neat, pouring into my house through the crack in the doorway. “Okay,” I said, unable to hold back a frown. “I can do tomorrow night, but no funny business. Dinner and then home, my home, me, alone.”

  A tidal wave of satisfaction washed over his face. “You got it, wild thing,” he said with a wink. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  *

  Cutting it fine as always, I was ready at one minute to eight, just as my doorbell chimed. Brushing an invisible crumb from my black pants, I slipped into silver heels and reached for my purse, a sequined creation that matched the metallic silver vest top I was wearing.

  “Hi, wild thing,” Rick said with a grin when I opened the door.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  He made a contrite face though there was no remorse in his eyes. “Okay.”

  I locked up and stepped down from the porch, slotting my keys into my purse. He pressed his large hand into the small of my back and we walked swiftly to a huge white Lexus with blacked-out rear windows.

  “You hungry?” he asked.

  “Yes, I skipped lunch.”

  “That’s not healthy.” He pulled keys from his jeans pocket.

  I shrugged. “I was busy.”

  “You should still take care of yourself.” He opened the car door and I climbed in.

  “Where are we going?” I asked as he settled his bulk behind the steering wheel and moved into the traffic. The scent of his aftershave filled my lungs. It was divine, addictive, like a drug I was craving after just one hit.

  “My place.”

  “You own a restaurant?”

  He laughed, a deep rumble of a sound. “No, to my house. I’m going to cook for you.”

  “But I said dinner and then home, remember? That was the deal.”

  “Yeah, I remember how I had to twist your arm to get one measly date and that’s what you’ll get, dinner and home.”

  “I kind of meant out, like in a public place.”

  He glanced across at me, the tendons of his wide neck stretching at the neckline of his pale blue T-shirt. “I’m not having much luck on the, er…privacy front at the moment.”

  “You mean like photographers and that?”

  “Yeah, and that.” He turned back to the road. “It’s not a fun part of the job and I don’t want you to have to worry about it. I did promise not to sully your reputation.”

  I tensed my fingers around my purse. My reputation in my own mind had been sullied when I’d grabbed him and ordered him to kiss me. The second I’d wrapped my legs around his hips and told him to fuck me, it had been shot to hell.

  “You like sea bass?” he asked suddenly.

  “Yes, sure.”

  “Good, I’m using you as a guinea pig. I’ve got a new recipe to try out.”

  Rick’s house was even more lavish than Brick and Carly’s, the outside walls higher and the gates heavier and topped with spikes. He opened them with a remote control then paused and watched in the rearview mirror as they shut behind us.

  “You lived here long?” I asked as he started toward a stately house complete with pillars and giant bay windows.

  “A couple of years now.”

  “It’s nice.”

  “Yeah, it is.” He brought the car to a halt. “But it’s big for one. I rattle around.” He got out of the car and wit
hin several fast paces was at my door, opening it and holding out a hand for me.

  I hesitated, I knew how tempting his flesh was, the calluses on his palms only adding to the masculine appeal of him. High on his scent and my ears flooded with his voice, my senses were rapidly becoming drunk on him, and that was after just a car ride. How the hell was I going to keep bad Dana in check for a whole evening?

  “Dana,” he said, cocking his head. “I promise I’ll take you home whenever you ask and I appreciate that you’ve trusted me enough to come to my house on a, you know, first date.”

  “I didn’t have much choice.”

  “Yeah, you did and you know it.” He took my hand and tugged. “Come on, I’ll show you around before I start cooking.”

  I allowed him to lead me up the wide steps. He unlocked the door and immediately an ear-splitting bleeping rang out.

  “Hang on,” he said, flipping open an alarm system box just into the hallway. He tapped numbers into it and studied the screen.

  I looked around at the sheer opulence of the hallway. A sweeping staircase split in two at the landing, the railings white and the banisters gold. A huge chandelier hung in the center of a glass-domed ceiling. To my left was a stunning picture of Miami, the art-deco buildings bright and citrusy.

  “Wow,” I said, taking in a decorative white and turquoise chaise to my right.

  The bleeping stopped and he shut the front door behind me, clicking the lock. “This way.” He turned and walked over a cream rug.

  I followed, my attention suddenly drawn to his expansive shoulders. The pale blue material of his T-shirt stretched between the points of his scapula. The round balls of his shoulders sloped down into his thick biceps, the insides of which brushed dense strips of tapered lateral muscles thinning toward his lean waist. He was so big and I knew he was all solid and honed to perfection beneath his clothes. Not an ounce of fat on him, just lean, highly trained athlete, designed to go the distance.

  “Kitchen,” he said, flicking a hand to his right but walking past the open door. I glanced in. It was all white with black work surfaces. Several blood-red kitchen appliances were dotted around.

  “Living room.” He gestured in the opposite direction, not pausing.

  I had a sweeping look as I rushed to keep up with his long strides. The living room was enormous and set with formal furniture and a giant fireplace.

  “You have great taste in décor,” I said to his back.

  “Don’t be fooled,” he said. “I have a designer, I leave him to it.”

  “I see.”

  “Entertainment room.” He paused and I stopped next to him, blew out a breath. He had his own damn screening room. No not screening room, it was more like a cinema—several rows of plush chairs in front of a massive screen set back on a stage complete with thick scarlet drapes. There was even a popcorn stand in the corner.

  “If you’d agreed to a movie, you would have had a private showing of your favorite,” he said, grinning down at me.

  I folded my arms across my chest and wondered how that would have gone. My favorite movie was 9 1/2 Weeks.

  “Pool,” he said, suddenly turning away. “You like to swim?”

  “Er, yes, sure.”

  Once again I followed behind him. He unlocked another door and as we wandered down a corridor, the scent of chlorine filled the air.

  I stopped in my tracks. A pool so over-the-top, so extravagant was set before me it was more like two huge pools joined by a waterfall. The sides were irregular and lush vegetation grew amongst smooth brown rocks. To the right of the top pool a spa bubbled away, splashing and boiling onto the slate-gray flooring. The whole place was enclosed with thin wire mesh and the last of the sun filtered through, dappling the water and casting long shadows at my feet.

  “Wow,” I said. “Your pool is bigger than the entire floor plan of my place.”

  He stooped to pick up a white towel lying on the ground, tossed it toward a wicker basket. “Yeah, it’s big, but not much good for fitness. It’s more for lounging around in, mucking about in. I use the gym in the basement for training when I’m not at the rink.”

  Suddenly my stomach let out an ear-splitting growl. I clutched my hand to my abdomen. “Oh boy, I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I should feed you. I asked you out to dinner and here you are having a house tour when you’re absolutely starving.” He slotted his hand into the small of my back once more and urged me back toward the kitchen.

  “Sit,” he said, dragging out one of the scarlet breakfast stools. “Wine?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He reached into a glass-fronted fridge and pulled out a bottle. “Chardonnay okay?”

  “Perfect.” I locked my fingers together. The marble surface was cool on my forearms as I leaned forward and watched him uncork and pour.

  He set the drink before me, popped a beer for himself and tied a blue-striped apron at his waist.

  “You like to cook?” I asked.

  “Yes, when I have someone to cook for.” He frowned. “That came out wrong. I’m not trying to make you feel sorry for me. I have plenty of people to cook for. With three older sisters and two younger brothers, there is always a pile of relatives with hungry mouths. I’ve got three nieces and four nephews all under the age of fourteen. It can get pretty wild in the pool when they all come around.”

  “Wow, I can imagine.”

  “They haven’t visited for a while though.” He took two fillets of bass out of the fridge.

  “Oh, why is that?” I took a sip of the deliciously oaky chardonnay.

  His lips flattened and his brows dropped low. “I guess I should tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  He spun back to the fridge and deposited dill and cream onto the counter. “The reason I couldn’t take you to a restaurant tonight is more serious than paparazzi.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m having some problems with a woman.”

  A woman! Why the hell has he invited me here if there is already a woman in his life? I swallowed another mouthful of wine, but for some reason it tasted a little bitter now.

  “Her name is Laurie Sharp, she’s twenty-eight and I slept with her once, a year ago.” His fingertip rubbed at the patch of hair beneath his bottom lip. “There is nothing between us anymore.”

  “So why are you telling me this?”

  “Because she has it in her head that I owe her something, like marriage, kids, a picket-fucking-fence.”

  “After a one-night stand?”

  His face darkened. “Yeah, after a damn one-night stand, only she doesn’t think of it as that, she thinks I’m in love with her but just don’t know it yet.”

  “Are you in love with her?”

  “God, no.”

  I raised my brows. “Were you terribly mean to her?”

  “No.” He paused. “I gave her a damn good night, she was flying high and it was obviously very memorable for her.” He shrugged. “It just wasn’t for me.”

  “Did you let her down gently?”

  “If you count never calling as being let down gently.”

  “Did you say you would call?”

  “I asked for her number.”

  “So why did you ask for it?”

  “It seemed polite.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “If she was expecting a call and you didn’t that’s classed as mean.”

  His wide shoulders shrugged and he tipped the fish into a sizzling pan. “I know, hindsight and all that.”

  I watched the sleeves of his T-shirt tighten on his upper arms as he shook the pan over the heat and reached for a chopping board.

  “I thought she was in it for the same thing as me, one night of fun, a bit of sharing sweat. But it seems we were on different wavelengths, very different wavelengths.”

  “So what’s the problem now?”

  “The problem now is she’s broken three restraining orders, been caught loitering around my house over two dozen t
imes in the last four months, and sent me a ton of letters ranging from sweet and needy to downright threatening.”

  I twirled the stem of my glass and watched the gold-tinted liquid swirl up the sides. “Has she ever gotten inside the grounds of your home?”

  His gaze harnessed mine. “No, and if she had I wouldn’t have you here.”

  “So why no niece and nephew visits if there isn’t a problem?”

  “My sisters are wary. I come from an ordinary family, grew up in a small town in South Carolina. They’re more comfortable with the life they know. Fame and fortune is a novelty they want to dip in and out of when the going is good. When it doesn’t suit they stay away.”

  “You okay with that?”

  “More than okay. I would rather they weren’t coming and going if she is outside.” He began to stir the sauce he was making and put the fish back on the heat. “You like bulgur wheat?”

  “Sure.”

  He paused and glugged on his beer.

  “So Laurie Sharp is the reason you didn’t take me to a restaurant?”

  He sighed. “You probably think I’m letting her win but it’s not like that.” He reached across and rested his index finger on the back of my hand. “I just wouldn’t want to risk you, or any woman I’d asked to spend time with me, and I don’t see why I should stop doing that just because of her warped ideas.”

  I stared at his thick wrist, hard tendons over bone and skin fuzzed with dark hairs. A dart of sensation shot up my arm at his gentle touch. “Do you think she’s a physical threat then?”

  “She might be.”

  I tipped my head, my gaze urging him to go on.

  He frowned. “When the police picked her up outside the rink last week she had a gun in her purse.”

  Chapter Three

  The dinner was fabulous, light and tasty and perfect with the white wine. We sat outside, by the pool, the delicate splashing of the waterfall a constant melody. I didn’t mention Laurie again, I sensed he’d said what he needed to about her and wanted an evening free of the shadow. Instead Rick chatted about his family, most of whom he’d moved down to be near him, and what is was like growing up in the middle of all those siblings, the eldest boy but still fourth in line. His road to hockey stardom had been a rocky one, plagued by a back injury in his twenties. It took a year of intense treatment to get on his game again. But then there was no stopping him and within two years of being taken on by the Vipers he was captain. He’d been in this position for five years now, somewhat of a record.