by Mia Wilde
That’s not to say that I’m just some impulsive asshole. I play as well as any of my teammates. And at 6’4, with my broad shoulders, powerful build and all the skills with a stick you could ask for, I do as well off the ice as any of them, too.
Piotr and I form the defensive spine of the Stormbreakers. He’s the strong, silent one. I’m the one who knows how to party. Which wouldn’t be a problem, except for that a particular brunette tabloid reporter decided to splash my exploits all over her front page and got me benched for half a season as a punishment for my lack of discipline off the ice.
Which means that I’ve got something I’d like to splash all over her face in return. The way I see it, she pretty much owns me as much.
I throw on my street clothes and get out of the locker room first. I want to be the one to tell Madeleine that she’s been invited to the team dinner. Invited is maybe too nice of a way to put it. Really, we’re shanghaiing her into a group date, knowing that she won’t be able to say no if we offer her the olive branch. And once she’s at dinner with us, we’ve got her all to ourselves.
She didn’t hang around after her little shootout. She said something about putting together promo packages, then headed to the offices in the back of the stadium while we went for our post-practice shower. It takes me a minute to find her, walking along the corridor that leads between the offices and the concourse. She must have been heading home, hips swaying softly as she messes with her phone.
Which means I only just caught her in time.
“Hey!” I shout, lengthening my strides to catch up to her. “Madeleine! Maddie!”
She turns over her shoulder, a surprised little look on her perfect, pouting face.
“You boys are done licking your wounds?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest and fixing me with a sexy little glare.
God. I dunno who Jared and the other guys had been kidding, acting like this was going to end any other way than us competing to fuck her. She looks so good that it takes all my admittedly limited self-control not to rip her clothes off right here.
“Yeah, yeah.” I brush off her sharp little comment. I move around in front of her, leaning against the wall, blocking her way. “I’ve got something else in mind I might like to lick next, if you’re up for it.”
“Oh my God.” She rolls her eyes, trying to act disgusted, but I can see how her cheeks are turning pink. She might play like she’s not into me, but despite the little sneer on those full lips of hers, she doesn’t try to move away from me. “You’re a pig, Garrett.”
“Oink oink.” I shoot back at her, smirking. Usually, the girls who hang around the Stormbreakers are so easily taken with our physicality, our fame and our cash that they don’t do much other than ooh and aah over us—and eventually, moan and come too. But Madeleine’s different. She gives as good as she gets. I just hope that goes true for more than just banter. “Listen, me and the boys wanna invite you to dinner tonight. Just you and the team. Special treat. On account of you being such a skillful player and all.”
“Dinner, huh?” She raises an eyebrow at me quizzically. It looks good on her. Hell, every expression looks good on her. “And why should I want to spend my night being heckled by you idiots?”
“Because we’re such charming company,” I reply. Or at least, we certainly can be. If you count boisterous, competitive and testosterone-fuelled to be charming. “And because it’s a chance to get to know us. See us all dressed up. I mean, since you’ve already had the pleasure of seeing us all so dressed down.”
She looks me up and down. I can tell that she’s recalling exactly how I looked when she caught us in the locker room. I may not have Donovan’s glass-cutting cheekbones or Jared’s imposing frame, but my boyish good looks, thick, dark hair and glimmering green eyes are quite the combination all on their own.
I take the opportunity to examine Madeleine right back, imagining her dressed up in something more flattering and glamorous than the professional get-up she’s worn on her first day. Though I’ve known Madeleine almost since I started with the team, it took me until today to realise exactly the way she commands those modelesque good looks of hers. We might not have wanted her as our PR whipcracker at first, but she’s easily able to complement the masculinity of the rest of the team.
Maybe we won’t get rid of her once we’re done with her after all. Looking the way she does, she’d make quite the accessory. Every team needs a little arm candy—and Madeleine looks sweet enough to eat.
“You know, I’d love to, but I think I have plans.”
She finally speaks. The frosty, sarcastic tone of her voice tells me that the plans are totally fictional. But after how we’ve treated her today, I guess I’ve earned a little hostility.
“Fine. I’ll let Don know you can’t make it.” I glance away from her, maybe overplaying my hand a little. Acting cool. Letting her know just how little it bothers me that she won’t be joining us. “I knew you’d chicken out. After the show you gave Piotr, some of the other guys reckoned you might actually be able to hang. But I told them all there was no way you’d want to risk embarrassing yourself like that again.” I grinned. “Don’s gonna owe me a cool grand now. Feels good to be right about you.”
That’s got her. I can tell she can’t resist rising to a challenge, especially not after the last time worked out so well for her. With her competitive spirit, the way she shot today, and the way she’s been fighting…
If only she’d been a guy, if only she hadn’t been such a bitch, she’d have been a pretty good Stormbreaker herself, truth be told. A member of the team, instead of our mortal goddamn enemy.
“You know, if I agree to this, I expect you to be on your best behaviour. None of these bullshit stunts from today. If I find out that you or Ash has rubbed his dick on my food or dunked his balls in my wine glass, I’ll scream the whole damn restaurant down.” She smirks. “And I’ve got a real set of lungs, Garret.”
I laugh. “Funny—I always kind of figured you’d be a screamer.”
“I’m serious, Garret. I’ll dine with gentlemen—not dogs. Understand?”
“Oh, Maddie, do you even know us at all?” I grin at her as I move away, finally letting her come past to head out of the door to her car. “We’re only at our best when we’re on our worst behaviour. But for you…” I shrug. “Guess we’ll try. See you at eight.”
10
Madeleine
I’ve gone insane. I must be losing my fucking mind.
If taking this job in the first place didn’t prove that I need to be institutionalized, going on what was practically a date with all six of the Stormbreakers at once? That just proves the diagnosis.
As I stand in the middle of my bedroom, I don’t know whether to head to the restaurant or call the men in white coats to take me away.
The first item of business is my outfit. Obviously. Getting dressed this morning seemed an ordeal, but it’s nothing next to the stress of picking out something to wear to the nicest restaurant in town.
I know that getting the Stormbreakers drooling over me is my best offensive strategy. I have a wardrobe stuffed with glamorous dresses, a legacy of fancy dinners with media sources and luxe parties with Seattle’s high society. But even though I try on one after another, nothing seems to meet my requirements.
I don’t just want to impress, I want to stun.
Eventually, deep within the depths of my closet, I find the perfect weapon. A long, classy gown in a striking pure white. The cut reveals a hint of cleavage and cinches at my delicate waist, hugging my body all the way down to my hips.
It’s the kind of dress that screams fuck me, and also make one wrong move and my lawyer will fuck you over, too.
It’ll do.
I bind my hair in an elegant updo, add a splash of silver with earrings and a necklace. Dark eye make-up and a crimson lipstick finishes the look.
As I stare at myself in the mirror, I feel like I could stop a man in his tracks at 50 paces. Six men,
though? That’s the real challenge.
But now that I’ve got on my war paint, I think I’m more than up for it.
By the time I finally get to dinner, all six of the guys are there. Garrett hadn’t been exaggerating. They really do look incredible all dressed up.
Donovan looks like a professional model in a deep blue three-piece that he’s matched with a salmon pink shirt, just the right side of flamboyant. It looks expensive and tailored, probably ripped straight from a Milanese catwalk.
Chase has gone for timeless, the dark charcoal shade of his jacket playing off the golden blonde of his hair.
Ash looks laid back in lightweight copper-colored linen, sprawled across his seat.
Garrett’s slim fit exaggerates those powerful shoulders.
Piotr towers even while sitting at the table in a flattering navy suit that brings out shades of blue in those greyish eyes.
Hell, even Jared looks good, dressed down in a suit that would be plain on anyone else. But on him, it’s striking. His muscles stretch the fabric, his open-neck shirt revealing a dark thatch of chest hair that I catch myself imagining running my hands through.
“…and the cop tells me that if she’d known I was packing that all along, she’d’ve arrested me for carryin’ an unregistered weapon!” I don’t hear the set-up to Ash’s punchline, but I can tell it must have been filthy.
The guys are still chuckling as I make me way across the room to the table. But as soon as they catch sight of me, the laughter stops and their jaws start to drop.
I can tell from the way they catch themselves and try to regain their composure that they’re not trying to flatter me. I really do look that good.
Ash, Garrett and Chase are staring at me openly, looking like they’d like nothing more than to take bites out of the exposed strips of my porcelain skin and then expose some more just to carry on feasting.
Piotr is more coy, hand wrapped around a wine glass as he takes me in like he’s admiring a work of art.
Donovan and Jared are different to the rest. The team’s suave captain and his macho best friend stare at me with cool, predatory intent. The other guys might want to rip my clothes off, but Donovan and Jared look like they’re already planning exactly how to do it.
As Chase leaps up to pull my chair out for me, bowing and gesturing in a display of mock politeness, I’m feeling like I’ve been flanked and outmanoeuvred. No sooner do I sit down than Ash hands me a glass of wine. I give it a tentative once-over—it doesn’t look like he’s stuck his balls in it—then sip at it casually, trying to settle the way that I’m fluttering at all this attention.
“You’re late,” Donovan tells me, his blue eyes still fixed on mine. I feel like I’m being hypnotised. “Ought to punish you for that.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Stone. Dining with the six of you is already punishment enough.”
“Ah, but you’ve missed Ash’s story. Guess it saves us having to see it again in the paper tomorrow, though.”
I surprise myself with how deeply I blush as I take another sip of wine. I’ve been working with the Stormbreakers for all of one day, but I take my work seriously. Up close, all those rough edges and bad boy ways have a charm that’s impossible to deny.
“I work for you guys now,” I remind Don, glancing down at my glass. I’ve half-finished drink already. “My days of dishing on all your dirty little secrets are behind me.”
“You work for us, huh?” Garrett asks. I turn to see him staring at me with that same starving gaze as before.
“My contract says so, anyway.”
Christ. The way he pushes his way across the ice, all elegant and slick. The way his clothes cling to his powerful build. The way he pressured me into coming tonight. It’s entrancing. I almost want to offer myself to him just to see what he’d do. Let him make me come a few dozen other ways, too.
He smirks. “Does that mean you’ll do as we say?”
Damn it. I had arrived all ready to dazzle them, but between their looks in those slick suits, the glass of wine I’ve already mostly finished, and the way I’ve been hemmed in on all sides of the table, I’m starting to feel like I’m the one falling under their spell. I’ve been trapped in by all this hot, hard muscle. Subjected to such intense and obvious desire.
My body is reacting too. Hard. My pussy is already soaked. Every muscle I’ve got feels like a single sexually tense guitar string just begging to be plucked.
“We ordered for you, since you’re so late.” Jared is sat to the left of me, but given how he’s now leaning against me, his voice a half-whisper, I might as well be sat on his lap. “The braised lamb shank. Thought you might like a big, hot piece of meat.”
He slips his chair back, just a little, and I can’t believe what I’m seeing. His cock is tenting his pants, stretching them to their limits, fully hard just from looking at me in my dress.
That does it. I’m not going to make it through this evening sober if Jared’s massive hard-on is going to be just within reach the entire time. I reach for the wine bottle, intent on a refill, but my hand is shaking. The bottle slips against the lip of my glass, splashing a dark red stain down the front of my dress. I let out little yelp of surprise as I feel the warmth of the wine pool between my thighs.
“Fuck!” It seems impossible that I could blush even deeper than the wine stain, but from the heat on my cheeks, I’d guess that I’ve managed it. “I’m so sorry, I…”
Donovan catches me before I can even finish speaking, moving up out of his chair and dropping to one knee just to my right.
“Shh. It’s okay. Here—you really don’t want to ruin this dress.” He moves to press a white cloth napkin to my lap where the wine has pooled, his fingers pressing hard against my inner thighs even through the barriers of the cloth and my dress. “Let Jared and I take you to the bathroom. Help you clean this up.”
Fuck. I know exactly what saying yes means. I know it, but my head is swimming and I’m too much in need to possibly resist. I breathe out a single instruction to the boys as I nod, taking Donovan’s hand.
“I think that’s for the best.”
11
Donovan
So little Miss Madeleine’s finally understood what’s good for her. Thank fuck—because if she didn’t come to her senses soon, my thick, hard cock was going to end up ruining the zipper of these slacks.
Wiping away the last of the wine, I help her up, holding her tiny, delicate hand in mine. The rest of the team are prickling with jealousy. They can just sit and simmer in it, as far as I care. It’s not my fault I got to her first. Not my fault that I’m the one she wants most. I’ve invited Jared along, knowing that it’ll only double the fun—but it’s me that Madeline wants most of all and I know it. Not that it’s a surprise.
I’ve always been the team’s resident ladies’ man, regardless of what the other guys on the squad might like to think. And it looks like I’m having the same effect on Madeleine, too. The poor hot-cunted thing is almost falling over herself as she tries to stand.
I keep a protective hand firmly on her hip, keeping her close to me in order to prevent further embarrassment. The scent of her perfume catches my nose, jasmine and honeysuckle combining with the sweet feminine scent of, just, her. Combine that with the way her tensed muscles feel under my hand, the way that she’s trembling and shuddering just from how I’m holding her, how she’s finally surrendering to me. To Jared. To both of us.
Big shock—I’m as turned on as I’ve ever been. It’s a lucky thing that I’m a shower and a grower. I made sure to tuck my tip beneath the waistband of my Calvin Kleins while I was getting dressed. Now, it’s almost painfully hard, throbbing beneath my belt—but at least this way, I can still walk.
Pretty soon, I’m not going to be the one struggling with walking though. Madeline is.
Jared follows right behind us, blocking Madeleine from any interested gazes just like he blocks players out on the ice. In the candle-lit glow of the fancy restaurant
, all anyone would see was a group like any other moving across the floor. They’d have no way of knowing that it was actually two of the city’s star hockey studs guiding their newest coworker and oldest enemy to the restroom for a very literal dressing down.
In the light of the unisex bathroom, the damage to the dress is obvious. The splashed wine has turned Madeline’s stark white dress into what looks like a fucking bloodbath. She’s stained burgundy down her center, blood red across her breasts and hips and bright pink around the edges. It’s definitely ruined. We just need to try and mop up what’s left before she’s soaked clear through.
I grab a fistful of paper towels and drop to my knees beside Madeleine, fastening one of my muscular arms around her and trying to soak up more of the spill. It’s no use, though. The gown is saturated. The wine’s probably already hit Madeline’s skin, trickling down her thighs.
There’s nothing for it. It’s got to come off.
“That stain’s just gonna keep spreading if you don’t get out of this dress,” I explain. “Strip, sweetheart.”
I can see that she’s not sure. Letting Jared and I get this close was a surrender in itself. But will she really go the rest of the way?
In theory, it’d be simple for her to tell us that she’ll just deal with this later. She could go back to the dinner and handled the embarrassment. She could just go home. But that was in theory.
In practice, there was only one way this was ever going to go.
“Come on.” Jared flicks the zipper at the back of the dress. “You’re soaked through. You think you’ve got anything we’ve not seen before?”
