Winning It All (Hometown Players Book 4)

by Victoria Denault

  Our eyes meet again. “Then stop shaking this death trap.”

  His eyes soften. “Drink, mon amour.”

  Despite the fact that I hate being told what to do, I raise my mug to my lips and take a big sip. The warm, alcoholic liquid does help calm me down. He sips his own and leans close again. “Look out. I promise it’s worth it.”

  “I don’t like to be scared,” I reply firmly. “I appreciate the gesture and the trouble you went through. And I’m enjoying being with you and the boozy hot chocolate, but there’s no need for me to terrify myself.”

  He reaches up and pushes my hair back over my shoulder. His hand stays tangled in it, loosely cupping the back of my neck. His rough fingertips gently rub back and forth over the nape of my neck. It’s making me horny, which at least is helping me ignore the fear. “I think you need to live a little. Take some risks.”

  “You’re a risk,” I mutter back. He smiles and tilts his head. My stomach flutters as I think he’s going to kiss me but his lips simply glide by mine. I almost groan with disappointment.

  “Nah…” he argues softly. He finishes the hot chocolate in his mug and places it on the seat next to him. Then he raises his hand and puts it under my chin and tries to gently nudge my face toward the skyline stretching out in front of us. I let him but promptly close my eyes. I feel his lips against the crook of my neck and it makes me shiver. He sucks lightly on the skin there for just a moment before pulling back to whisper, “I dare you.”

  “You’re lucky I don’t throw you out of this thing,” I spit back as his hand drops from my chin and lands in my lap on top of the blanket.

  “You’d have to open your pretty little eyes to do it, so something tells me I’m safe.”

  I feel his hand move under the blanket and come to rest in the crease in my leg where my thigh meets my hip and my… His fingers fan out. Oh my God.

  My eyes open, and before I can turn my face to look at him, the man with his fingers spread across my inner thigh, pressing against my core through my jeans, presses his forehead to my cheek, keeping my face straight forward. I have no choice but to look out at the skyline stretched before me.

  We are so freaking high! The entire city is spread out below us, glimmering and shimmering, and it’s breathtaking, but so is my fear. Even though I know it’s the worst possible decision, I inch forward in my seat and look down through the glass of our bucket. The water below looks like a giant black hole and I am overwhelmed by the panic for a second until I feel his fingers move. They brush purposefully against the center of my jeans and the spike of fear is equally matched by a spike of pleasure.

  “Frenchie…”

  He either doesn’t hear the caution in my voice or he just doesn’t give a fuck, because his fingers press harder and begin to move against my middle. He’s pressing the seam of my jeans into me; I only wore a thin, very lacy thong and the friction is…It’s fucking incredible. I bite my top lip.

  “See…it’s not so bad, is it?” he murmurs in my ear, his breath warm against my cheek, and his fingers pressing and rubbing in just the right place. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

  I nod and put my hot chocolate mug down beside me. His lips press firmly to my cheek, a fraction of an inch from my mouth. “What are you doing?”

  “Distracting you from your fear.”

  He kisses me again. I turn my head, as our bucket crests the top of the wheel and…stops.

  My body jolts, and I sit up perfectly straight and clutch him again exactly where he was worried I would clutch him, but I’m not nearly as forceful as I want to be. His hand between my legs lifts as he startles.

  “Why are we stopped?” I ask, my eyes wild and my head turning from side to side, looking for something trapping us up here. The pod looks fine, but then again it’s dark. “We’re stuck? Oh my God, we’re stuck!”

  He’s…laughing? He’s fucking laughing! I twist to face him on the tiny bench. He tries not to laugh, pressing his lips together tightly, but it’s impossible and he laughs even harder. I hate him.

  “Frenchie! I don’t want to sit up here swinging in the abyss!” I wail and yeah, I am totally wailing.

  He stops laughing, but he’s still smiling, so I still want to punch him. He lifts his hands like I’m holding a gun. “Okay! Okay! Relax, I just thought, if he gave us a moment at the top, you would enjoy the gorgeous view and I would enjoy you.”

  The bucket continues to rock ever so slightly and my heart lurches with every tiny swing. I place my palm flat on my chest and try to sound calm and serious as I say, “Sebastian, I want to get down. Please.”

  “Okay. Okay,” he coos and slides close to me again. “All I have to do is text him when I want it started up again.”

  “Text him.”

  “Kiss me first.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I would seriously punch him except I’m sure his phone has a password and I won’t be able to text Mike to start this death trap.

  He shrugs, smirking. “You might not be able to enjoy the view, but I still want to enjoy you. That way the night isn’t a total loss.”

  “You’re a crazy, insane egomaniac, you know that?”

  He nods and leans closer. “Yeah. So?”

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes. “Text him.”

  “Kiss me.” His hand slides back between my thighs but this time lies still. I open my eyes and he’s taken off his glasses. Even in the darkness, his eyes are light and mischievous and so damn sexy under those dark, thick eyebrows. He squeezes my thigh. “Just. One. Kiss.”

  “Enjoy it because it’s the only time you’re going to touch me tonight.” Then I reach up, grab the back of his head and kiss him for all he’s worth.

  Chapter 34

  Sebastian

  Shay is not fucking around. The kiss is aggressive. Her lips are strong and they part mine instantly, her tongue sweeping into my mouth like she owns it. She twists her fingers in my hair, tugging, and her body leans into it, her legs parting slightly and giving me better access. She most likely didn’t mean to do it, but I’m taking advantage anyway. I press my fingers into her jeans and then slowly slide them upward.

  Without a second’s hesitation I unbutton them. If she notices, she doesn’t react; she’s too busy with the kiss, which is so hot I swear it’s causing every ounce of blood I have to rush to my dick. She pulls my lower lip between her teeth but her gentle tug turns into a warning bite as I slide her zipper down.

  “Frenchie.”

  “Sebastian,” I correct her. “Remember I like the way it sounds when you say it. Now I want to hear you pant it.”

  “And I want to be on solid ground again,” she replies, but there’s much less conviction in her voice since the kiss. So I move my fingers into the space created by her open zipper. Lace greets my touch and I smile as I press my lips to her jaw and kiss my way up to her earlobe.

  “Look at that view, ma belle,” I whisper and skirt the edge of her underwear. “Just look for a second. Take it in. This city…that brought you and me together.”

  Her lips part and I know she’s going to tell me no, or tell me to text Mike again, so I kiss her and slip my fingers under her lacy underwear. She surprises me because she doesn’t scoot away from my hand or grab it and move it away. She pushes into me, parting her legs and lifting her ass a little to give me even more access. My fingers slide over that neat little triangle of hair and down lower where I find her wet and wanting.

  I force myself not to smile into the kiss but damn, I’m fucking happy. I love her response to me because I have the exact same response to her, as the hard bulge pressing against my jeans proves. She reaches for my hair again as I slide two fingers into her.

  She moans into my mouth and bites my bottom lip. I burrow my face against her neck, my lips tracing every inch of skin I can. “You’re so beautiful, Shay,” I whisper against her skin. “You may be scared but you’re turned on too. You like being pushed out of your comfort zone. You enjoy the way I
challenge you.”

  I start to pump my fingers in and out of her; she bucks up to meet me as her mouth turns away from mine and her head starts to tip back, her mouth falling open and a sexy little pant slipping out. Her hips push into my hand, and I tease her clit with my thumb. “Frenchie…oh my God.”

  “Say my name, baby,” I demand, rubbing her clit and pushing my fingers deeper. “I love the feel of you hot, wet around my fingers. I want you to look at the view and I want you to come on my hand. And I want you to say my name when you do it.”

  She’s close. Her hips are moving hard against me. Her skin is pink, and her eyes half closed and fluttering, a taut moan escaping her parted lips. I’m so absorbed in watching her chase her release that I don’t even realize she put her hand on top of the bulge in my jeans.

  “Say my name,” she challenges in return and begins to rub her palm over my length. Holy fuck, this girl just never lets me win—and it’s so fucking perfect.

  I push deeper, palming her and rubbing every part of her. “Oh…yes…”

  She’s managed to get my zipper down and she doesn’t even flinch when she touches my hot, hard flesh instead of underwear, which I don’t wear all the time and am not wearing tonight. Her fingers play over my tip, playing with my precum, and I’m already so turned on it sends spikes of heat barreling up my spine. I am so close to coming it’s insane. I haven’t gotten off with a woman on anything less that a wet mouth or a wet pussy since I was a teenager. The woman is going to make me come with just the tips of her fingers.

  “Oh…Oh…”

  “Say my name.” I gently bite down on her earlobe and curl my fingers, deeper, and find her sweet spot.

  Her eyes open, she’s looking out at the world below us and she gasps. “Sebastian…”

  Her fingers wrap around my length as best they can in the confined space and as I watch her come, I push up into her hand. She tightens her grip and I punch up my hips again and come. I fucking come from watching her come and a few feeble pumps into her hand. And when I do her name tumbles from my lips. “Shayne…”

  The words I bite back are I think I’m falling in love with you.

  Chapter 35

  Shayne

  The next morning I wake up early. The sun is barely cresting. Sebastian is dead asleep, snoring lightly, his head turned away from me and pressed into the pillow. He has one arm under his pillow and the other one stretched out kind of hanging off the bed. He’s kicked the duvet off and he’s only got the sheet twisted around his naked body. I have the ridiculous urge to dig my phone out of my purse and take a picture of him because I want to remember this—his beautiful, naked, sleeping body—forever. Or at least it would give me something to look at while he is in the playoffs.

  I don’t expect to see him much until they’re over. When my father made the playoffs, which was almost every year of his professional career, the coach often sequestered them in hotel rooms, even for the home games. It was a tactic he used to keep the players focused. My mother hated it. My brother and I hated it at first too, until we were older, and not having Dad around actually felt like a relief. As soon as we were teens and I caught him cheating and he started really pressuring Trey about hockey, Glenn Beckford’s presence was no longer a blessing. I used to fantasize about my mom leaving him. What kid’s “dream” is a broken family?

  I wonder about Sebastian’s family life. What was he like growing up? Is he close to both his parents? I met Stephanie, but does he have other siblings? I’m overwhelmed once again by how little I know about him. It’s overwhelming because it’s at such odds with how much I feel for him. And my feelings for him are beyond physical at this point, which makes this whole thing even crazier. How do I care for someone whom I barely know?

  I lift the covers and slip out. The early morning air has a chill, so I make sure to cover him with the duvet he kicked off, and then I grab my underwear off the floor and pull them back on. I don’t feel like getting totally dressed so I glance around the room, which is more immaculate than any guy’s room I know. Sebastian isn’t messy. But I do see a blue hoodie hanging on a hook inside his open walk-in closet door, so I snag it and pull it on. It’s warm and fuzzy and smells like him, and luckily it hangs to my midthigh so I’m not going to be prancing around his house with my ass hanging out.

  I pad out of his bedroom and downstairs. This is my second night in his house—in his bed—and both experiences have been wildly different. The first night when we came home from the bar, everything was a blur. I didn’t look around. I didn’t see anything but him. I concentrated solely on his naked body and giving it pleasure—and getting pleasure from it. I was high on the rush of breaking my own rules—my biggest, longest, strongest rule—and I had tunnel vision. And then I’d bolted the next day.

  Last night, after our adventure on the Great Seattle Wheel, was completely different. After the ride we were both famished so we stopped at a fast-food place and indulged in burgers, fries and milk shakes. It was sinfully delicious. Being terrified and turned on at the same time, and then orgasming while hanging above the world, burns a ton of calories, I guess. When we got back to his place he opened some wine and we curled up on his upstairs balcony on the outdoor bed he has up there. We watched the water and talked. Well, mostly kissed. When we landed in his bed we didn’t have the wild, urgent sex we’d had the night before. This time it was slow and calculated and there was no denying—to him or to myself—that I knew exactly what I was doing. I was willingly sleeping with Sebastian Deveau, the all-star defenseman for the Seattle Winterhawks, and I was enjoying it. Loving it.

  Now I let my eyes take in everything I glanced at last night. Sebastian’s house is an amazing tribute to the midcentury modern style. Purposeful clean lines of wood and glass, and the furniture is all low and lean and yet inviting without being cold. I stand at the bottom of the stairs and scan the open-concept first floor. I can’t help but notice that there isn’t a lot of hockey memorabilia. My father turned our house into a shrine to the sport—and himself. We had framed photos of him playing in every room, his Cup rings were on display on the mantel; pucks he’d collected for his first hat trick, his Cup-winning goal, his hundredth point, were all in Plexiglas cases placed in rooms like the den, the living room, even the kitchen, for crying out loud.

  I hadn’t really done the research, but I was sure that Sebastian had accolades and mementos he could be displaying. In the corner of the living room, on a teak bookcase that looked more like a piece of art than a storage unit, he had a few framed photos. Curious, I walked over to them. There was one of him and Stephanie as preteens. Holy crap, he was a cute kid. Goofy hair, chubby cheeks and those same ice blue eyes with the same mischievous twinkle, although without the sexually charged flicker behind it. Stephanie looks less happy, but she is still smiling. She also appears painfully thin, but I guess she was probably in that awkward stage all kids hit during or right before puberty.

  Next to that is a framed photo of a couple. I assume it is his parents because they are the right age. The woman has his same eyes and mouth. The man doesn’t look like him at all. There are also two young teenage girls crowded into the photo who also don’t resemble him. A third frame houses a picture of him skating across the ice at the Winterhawks arena with the Stanley Cup hoisted above his head.

  I find myself smiling at that because he looks so happy in it. And even if I don’t like the sport, I understand the effort that goes into getting to the end of the season, of winning it all. The sacrifices are emotional and physical. I have to admire the commitment of any athlete who becomes the best. And Sebastian Deveau had done that. I hear a creak behind me and turn to find him standing on the stairs, a few steps from the bottom. He’s wearing underwear and nothing else as his sleepy eyes focus on me and he scratches the back of his head, running his fingers through his bed head.

  “Hi.”

  “Bonjour.” He winks. I roll my eyes. He lets out a sleepy chuckle. “Are you done snooping or sh
ould I go back to bed and give you some more time?”

  I give him a wide, innocent stare. “I’m not snooping. These things are on display, begging for attention.”

  He chuckles again and descends the rest of the stairs. “Just so you know, you’re welcome to snoop around. Open drawers, closets, whatever. I have nothing to hide.”

  “Nothing?” I question, because that seems impossible.

  “Baby, I have nothing I’m ashamed of. Nothing I can’t share.” He smiles and turns and starts toward the kitchen. I follow.

  “You know, for a hockey player, you sure don’t have a lot of hockey stuff,” I can’t help but comment.

  He walks over to a kettle on the stove and fills it with water from the wall-mounted pot filler above the six-burner stainless-steel stove. He places it on a burner and turns it on. I lean my elbows on the giant wood island with the amazing turquoise countertop as he turns back to me.

  “I know what I do for a living. I don’t need to turn my house into a reminder,” he replies with a shrug. “My home is a tribute to my other passion. Architecture.”

  My eyebrows fly up before I can contain my surprise and he grins at that, proud of my reaction. “Yeah, you didn’t see that coming, did you?” He is smug as he crosses his arms over his broad, bare chest. “I’m studying architecture and interior design online. I’m in my second year. It’ll take me longer than most, but I’m hoping to get a degree in five or six years.”

  “Seriously?”

  He walks to the other side of the island and mimics my pose. Our hands bump in the middle of the turquoise surface and he puts his hands on top of mine. “I don’t know if you know this, but hockey isn’t a career you can ride to the grave. It’ll be done by the time I’m thirty-five and that’s if I’m lucky.”