by Pippa Grant
It’s twenty minutes in the air.
I own a plane.
“Tell you a secret,” he says.
The last time he told me a secret, he got me naked.
I wouldn’t mind going there again. “What?”
“I hear sex is even better when you’re pissed.”
Hearing him say the word sex practically sparks a mini-gasm. “Who’s pissed?”
“I sent you flowers and chocolates.”
He wiggles his brows, any brains I ever had in my pants hitch a flight to Tahiti, and I crook a finger at him. “Get naked and fuck my brains out.”
“Say please.”
He’s acting like it doesn’t bother him that I’m an obnoxious, pushy pain in the ass. Like it amuses him that all I want him for is sex.
But he’s not just some big oaf who’s good with his dick.
He’s funny. He’s smarter than he lets on. He’s hell on wheels.
And I like that about him more than I like that he knows what to do with that larger-than-life tool under his belt.
“Please,” I snap.
He holds my gaze, a silent thank you that suggests he’s grateful for more than just my manners.
Like he knows about the swelling and palpitating and panicking going on in my chest, and that it’s okay.
I suck in the shakiest breath I’ve ever taken in my life and reach for the hem of my shirt.
He drops his book, strips out of his shirt, and eats the floor between us with one giant step.
And holy fucking dog.
I didn’t see him the other night. I felt the stiff hairs on his chest, traced the ridges of his muscles, licked his hard nipples, but I didn’t see him.
He’s a beast.
In the best sense of the word.
Sheer strength ripples out of his every cell. Each one of his pecs is the size of a dinner plate. Veins bulge in his biceps and hands. His shoulders could’ve been sculpted by a master. His abs are an ode to beauty.
Even his belly button looks like it could chomp a car in half.
Not because it’s big, but because it can’t possibly exist on this man without being able to stand on its own against every other body part in a battle of strength.
Shut up. Belly buttons can too be strong.
He wraps one big paw behind my head, lowers his lips to crush my mouth, and not a minute too soon.
Because his tongue is an excellent distraction for all the nonsense floating through my head.
And he knows exactly how to use it.
He tastes like hamburger and mint, he smells like a freaking cotton field, and his fingers are making short work of the clasp on my bra.
Who the fuck needs bras anyway?
I unzip his pants and shove my hands into the opening, grip his hard, solid length, and he mutters a curse in my mouth.
“Man up,” I tell him.
He chuckles and tweaks my nipples, and holy sweet dog, can he do that to my clit?
My pants go flying. He pulls a condom out of his back pocket, rolls it on, and picks me up under my butt. In two steps, I’m flat against the wall, my legs wrapped around his waist while he fills me with his thick length. Dog, his swollen head—the veins bulging in his cock too—the sight of him thrusting into me, drawing back, slick and coated with my moisture, and pushing in again, disappearing inside me—has me so spun up, coiled so tight and ready, that all I know is him.
Zeus.
His body.
His strength.
His personality.
His heart.
He pumps into me, holding me under the knees. I’m spread as wide as I can go, my toes curling backwards, every thrust, every invasion sending me higher and tighter and wetter and—oh yes there more higher harder FASTER NOW!
I bite his shoulder to muffle my cry as I shatter from the inside out. He thrusts twice more, groans in the back of his throat, and goes still, neck straining, while we come together. I’m spasming uncontrollably around his thick cock, squeezing and coaxing that rock-hard shaft pulsing inside me.
Dog, I needed this.
Him.
“Fuck, Joey,” he whispers while tension leaks out my pores, leaving me a jellyfish tacked to the wall by his massive cock. “You’re fucking amazing.”
My eyes drift shut and I let my head loll back. “Jupiter and I can be friends.”
“Jupiter doesn’t let anyone else near his pussy,” he growls.
I wave a hand. At least, I think I do. Hard to tell if my bones are working. “Don’t tell him I said this,” I slur like I’m drunk. Possibly I’m drunk on sex. Is that a thing? If it’s not a thing, it is now. My liver needs to process my sexcohol.
“Said what?” he prompts when I go silent.
Fuck, who am I?
“Finding another Jupiter would be too much work,” I say.
His chest starts shaking, and my eyes fly open.
If I broke Zeus—
But he’s laughing.
Shaking with silent laughter while he pulls out and sets me on unsteady feet.
“Only you, Joey Fireball,” he says as he hands me my pants. “Only you.”
I don’t know what that means, but I hope it means he’s coming back for more sex.
Because I know better than to hope for anything else.
Or even think about anything else.
Like my daddy always said, doesn’t matter how much you love someone. You can’t make them stay.
Not that I love Zeus.
He’s…a friend.
I can allow that.
But love?
Never.
I’m too smart for that.
28
Zeus
I walk out of Joey’s office feeling every bit the god I’m named after.
I rocked her fucking world. We’re going out for burgers soon as she’s done for the day. And then she says she’s gonna whoop my ass in foosball.
She was smiling when she said it too. A full-blown, sparkly-eyed smile that she topped with a smack to my ass.
Best. Day. Ever.
That cloud nine place people talk about? I’m there.
Which is why I don’t see the ambush coming.
Something clinks around my wrist, pain shoots through my left elbow, and before I can spin, there’s a stick or a broom or something sweeping under my feet.
I don’t go down, but suddenly both my wrists are trapped behind my back and I’m shoved sideways. I’m about to fight back when a blonde bombshell dangles something in front of my face.
Fucking spider. A fucking spider.
It’s not real. It’s hairy and thick and horrifying, but it’s not real, because it can’t—fuck fuck fuck, it’s moving.
I shriek like a teenage girl meeting Justin Bieber, except terrified, and suddenly I’m trapped in a room that smells like bad whisky with shelves of torture devices lining the walls.
I can fucking break these handcuffs in two, except the spider’s still there.
It’s moving.
Four fucking inches from my face.
My head’s swimming. My pits are raining sweat like a hurricane. I’m having a heart attack.
I’m having a fucking heart attack.
Breathe, big guy. Breathe. You can eat it—fuck. Fuck.
I’m not putting something that makes ass yarn in my mouth. It probably wove its fucking coat out of ass yarn. It’d keep spinning its ass yarn around my tongue and suck all the blood out and—fuck fuck fuck.
“What are your intentions toward my sister?” a familiar voice demands.
I swallow, and half my tongue gets caught in my windpipe.
That’s it. I’m done for. I’m gonna fucking die of archo—araka—arachnafuckingscaryspiderfear.
“Yell all you want, sugar-pie,” the blonde adds. “She can’t hear you from this side of the building.”
“Put the spider away, Peach,” Gracie says. “We can’t get answers out of him while he’s foaming at the mouth like that.”
I can do this.
I can be bigger than the fucking spider.
Air. Lungs. Nose.
Fuck, I’m gonna breathe in spider cooties.
“Fine.” The blonde flips the spider over, rubs its belly, and plops it on a shelf. The red glow in its eye sockets fades to black.
Fuck.
It’s a fucking fake spider. A hairy-ass battery-operated fake moforantula.
And it’s still fucking staring at me.
Be cool, I hear Ares saying. You could crush its batteries with your ass.
I picture him taking a sledgehammer to the beast, and my lungs start working again. I snap the handcuffs apart and contemplate grabbing each of the women by the throat, except I don’t hurt women, even crazy-ass lady dicks who threaten me with spiders.
I clench my fists and growl.
They share a look, and both scrunch up their mouths like they’re trying not to giggle.
Fucking women.
Gracie straightens first. “Peach, meet Zeus. Zeus, meet Peach. If you hurt my sister, that spider’s just a hint of what’s coming next.”
“I’m not going to fucking hurt your sister.”
“So what do you want with our Joey?” Peach demands.
I pinch my lips together, because I barely know what I want.
Those feelings that started in Copper Valley? Yeah. They’re still there. And they’re stronger. I look at her, I hear her voice, I touch her, and boom.
She’s everything I never thought I could have. Everything I never thought existed. Strong enough to put up with my shit. Smart enough to challenge me. And I’d never make the mistake of calling her soft, but she is where it matters.
She’s in my head. She’s in my blood. She’s in my heart.
Gracie takes two menacing steps toward me until she’s close enough to threaten my breastbone. She has to crane her neck to glare up at me. “She’s not nearly as tough as she acts,” she says, and fuck if fear doesn’t slink down my spine.
What if I can’t handle the delicate stuff?
The world’s seen me and Ares as nothing more than two big brutes for too long for me to ever discount another human being having feelings. World sees Joey as a big pilot badass, but she’s more.
Yeah, we both have feelings.
Just not a lot of practice with letting them show.
“Nobody’s ever as tough as they act,” I say to Gracie. I turn a glower to Joey’s business partner. “Leave the fucking spiders out of it next time.”
Before either of them can get to me any more, I turn and leave.
And I don’t slam the door behind me. Or tear it off its hinges.
Turns out, sometimes being quiet makes the biggest point.
I step into the hall and almost run over Joey.
She glances at the closet.
Back to me.
She doesn’t say a word, but she grips me by the hair of the troll on my shirt, yanks me down, and kisses me like I’m a fucking god.
Yeah.
Me and Joey?
We’re gonna be just fine.
29
Zeus
For the first time in my life, I fucking hate training camp.
Before training camp? Time to see Joey at least three times a week.
During training camp? No Joey.
Fucking training camp.
Drills. Weight training. Scrimmage. Prep for press shit. Team meetings. Bullshitting.
Ares is doing the same in Copper Valley. Last-minute trade between the Blackhawks and the Thrusters. Still not sure he’s getting a good enough deal, but he says he likes the change.
After ten years in the NHL, we know most of the guys in the league. Always a few rookies, sometimes fresh blood from overseas, like Manning. Ares will be fine. He makes friends better than I do.
Probably because he doesn’t run his trap and he’s fucking gold on the ice. One-on-one, he kicks my ass every time.
Still shitty that he’s so far from home. Chicago was a short drive back to Minnesota. Virginia, not so much.
If the Preds traded me anywhere, I wouldn’t be close enough to drive to see Joey while I’m home.
And the fact that I’m more worried about seeing Joey than I am about my performance during scrimmage today is a problem.
I bang into my condo just after eight.
I don’t want to be in my condo. I don’t want to be getting shit for letting Giovanni through six times. I don’t want to order a pizza and eat it by myself. I want—
“You know security in this building is shit when I can use my feminine wiles to get through it.”
I want the hot pilot chick sprawled out on my sectional in athletic shorts and a sloppy T-shirt, flipping through my Sports Illustrated.
My dick sprouts into a redwood, my cheeks split in a grin, and I drop my bag on the big decorative vase of sticks my mom and sister insisted I needed for décor to detract from the way this place looks like a college frat house.
Neither me nor Joey pay attention when the weird-ass thing clinks and spills its load.
“You got feminine wiles coming out your ass,” I tell her while I stalk the short distance across the scarred wood floor to the sectional.
She cracks a smile, and I high-five my smooth-talking skills. “Must be,” she says dryly. She waves the magazine at me. “According to this, you’re going to have a shitty year.”
“It can eat my dick.”
She lifts a brow. A silent have you ever jacked off with a Sports Illustrated wrapped around your dick?
I grin.
She laughs and throws it at me. “You are such a guy.”
I bend down and lick her neck. “Mmm. Bacon.”
She grips my hair and holds my head in place so I can lick and suck and nip at her skin.
“I missed you,” she whispers in a small voice.
Not my cock swelling now.
No, that’s all my heart. Puffing up and sauntering and shaking its dick at my dick, yelling Suck this, she likes me too.
Yeah, my heart’s such a guy. You got a problem with that?
I know Joey.
And I know those three words cost her more than she’ll ever admit. The fact that she confessed them to me?
That’s the same as another woman saying I love you.
I toss her over my shoulder, because I can already feel her retreating from the emotions, and I’d rather have her here with me than making an excuse to leave.
“Not as much as I missed you,” I say while she squirms and protests and takes advantage of the opportunity to hit my secret ticklish spot on the back of my ribs.
By the time I throw her down on my monster-size bed, we’re both laughing and squirming like two normal people in movies. Like I’m not some giant freak of nature and she hasn’t taught herself to be such a badass so no one ever knows how much it scarred her when her mom left.
So she never hurts like that again.
I might be an ogre, but I pick up on shit. Even when it’s two whispered sentences on a blanket under the stars.
I’m also hell with blackmail when I need to be, and I know who Gracie’s been texting with, and for some unknown reason, Gracie trusts me.
That, or she’s spilling Joey’s secrets all over the countryside, in which case I might have to pull out some of my old tricks that I used to use on Ambrosia to get her to leave my shit alone.
“Holy hell, this bed is like a cloud.” Joey moves her arms and legs like she’s making a snow angel on the moose-emblazoned mega-quilt my granny made when I was in high school.
I take advantage of the situation to settle between her legs with my dick poking her sweet spot. Fuck, she feels good.
All of her.
The press of her boobs against my chest. The curve of solid, lean muscle in her arms and shoulders. The strength in her legs.
The softness of her skin. Her silky hair.
There’s never been a woman more perfect. And she’s pulling me in for a kiss that woul
d make fucking Cupid himself weep.
This kissing shit?
It’s making me hard as steel in the cock area, tight as cookies and chocolate chips in the balls, and mushy as cheese curds in the chest.
I reach under her shirt to fondle her boob and do that trick where I tease one nipple with my thumb while my pinky tickles the other. She gasps in my mouth, grips my hips like she’s that Bond chick who strangles people with her legs, rocks against my cock, and—
“Fuck.” Fuck fuck fuck.
Not again.
I leap off the bed.
Or try.
You ever try leaping when your cock’s fucking spurting dick juice up your pants?
I didn’t fucking think so.
This woman.
Fuck.
I barrel into my bathroom, fisting my hair in my hands.
I blew it on the ice.
Now I blew it in the bedroom.
I slam the door, lock it, strip, and glare at Jupiter in the mirror.
What the FUCK, dude?
He shrugs as he deflates. She’s the dick whisperer.
I crank the shower handle so hard it snaps off, and water shoots everywhere.
Out the handle, dribbling out the faucet, all over the walls. I dive to cover it, slip on the tile, and ram my shoulder into the shower tile like Ares fucking checked me against the boards.
Water’s shooting into my palms and spraying out between my fingers. If I yank any harder, I’m pulling the whole fucking pipe out of the tile wall.
Water. Off switch. Somewhere.
Something clicks behind me.
“Oh, Zeus,” Joey says on a chuckle. She slides a hand down my soaking wet T-shirt, presses a kiss to the top of my head, and disappears.
A minute later, the water dribbles to a stop.
The good news?
I’m clean as a fucking baby.
The bad news?
I’m a fucking monster dumbass.
I drop my head against the tile wall. Joey comes back in—mental note, locks are impervious to this woman’s skills—and her fingers trace down my spine. “We should get you out of this T-shirt.”
Jupiter lifts an interested eye.
“Penalty box,” I growl.
