Benched

by Elise Faber

  “Wh-what?”

  With a sigh and an eye roll, she walked over to him. “I’m not super girlie.”

  “Like fuck you’re not.” He was practically sitting on his hands, so he didn’t grab her.

  Her lips curved up, and she stopped less than six inches from him. Close enough that her delicate feminine scent coated the air between them.

  “You know, I’ve never felt so powerfully sexy before,” she said, stroking a single finger down his shirt, pressing the column of buttons lightly into his skin and setting him on fire, “but hearing your voice go all growly . . . Damn, I kind of like the way you make me feel, Barie.”

  Sweet baby Jesus, she was a menace.

  “Me too,” he agreed, even though Brit was making his balls turn permanently blue.

  And apparently, she had no plans to stop because she plunked herself down in his lap, leaned close, and pressed her mouth to his.

  No preamble. Just hunger, plain and simple.

  She wrapped her arms tight around his neck, mouth opening, their tongues tangled in intimate embrace.

  Stefan’s control snapped.

  He grabbed her hips, pulled her flush against him, and twisted one hand into her ponytail, angling her head so he could plunder it even more deeply.

  Brit moaned. The sound was sexy as fuck.

  He needed more. More skin. Her pinned beneath him. He needed to be inside her.

  His fingers found the hem of her tank top and swept it up and over her head.

  “I need to get my mouth on these,” he said, placing one hand at the base of her spine to coax her closer as he bent to take one pink bud in his mouth.

  “What—Oh!”

  She arched and her soft moan of pleasure echoed through him, ratcheting his arousal to even higher levels. God. The woman was hot. Twisting, he tossed her to the mattress and followed her down. She spread her legs, effectively positioning himself in the place he most wanted to be.

  Of course, it would be a lot better minus his pants, but he’d promised himself—

  Her thighs wrapped tight around his hips, and she moved, undulating against him in a rhythm that literally made Stefan see stars.

  He gripped the comforter fiercely, trying desperately to not blow his load in his pants. “Stop,” he ground out.

  “I can’t,” she said, panting. “I need—” She rubbed against him again, and he couldn’t stop his hips from pressing forward, the layers of fabric between them creating both delicious friction and intense frustration.

  He wanted—

  “Stefan,” Brit panted, “please.”

  It was in that moment he realized he’d never be able to deny her anything.

  Good intentions gone, he reached between them and slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of her shorts, pressing firmly against her clit. She was wet and hot, the dampness of her arousal soaking through the fabric and onto his slacks.

  “Please,” she said, as he stroked her. “Please. Please. Please.”

  He circled the bud, stroked until she was writhing beneath him. White intruded on the edges of his vision, blurring all reason, shrinking this moment until he didn’t think, until his sole reason for existing was to bring Brit pleasure.

  “Oh fuck!” she cried, and her thighs clenched hard around his hips, trapping his hand between them, grinding against his erection. She bucked wildly as her orgasm made her break apart.

  That was it for him.

  Pleasure exploded in his brain, tore down his spine, and into his groin.

  He came in a rush and collapsed on top of her.

  Holy shit. “Holy fucking shit,” he said aloud when he could breathe again.

  Brit looked up at him, wide-eyed and flushed. She brought her fingers to her lips and he noticed that her hand was shaking. “What the hell was that?”

  Stefan hadn’t come in his pants since he was a teenager. Five minutes with Brit, and he’d regressed fifteen years. But for some reason he was grinning, probably because even though his dick hadn’t been where it wanted to be, the orgasm had still been the best of his life.

  “That, I think,” he said, “was chemistry. A shit ton of it.” He flopped to the side and stared up at the ceiling.

  They glanced at each other then burst out laughing, so loudly they barely heard the knock at the door.

  Stefan reached down, picked up Brit’s tank top, and tossed it to her. He gestured at the wet spot on his slacks. “I think you’d better answer the door.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Stefan grimaced and adjusted his pants as Brit set the tray on the desk. It was a lot more uncomfortable than when he was a teenager.

  She turned to face him, pointed at his slacks. “Take ‘em off.”

  And immediately he was hard again.

  “Not for that.” She yawned. “As sexy as this chemistry between us is, it’s getting late.” Raising her hand up, she twitched her fingers. “Take off your pants, I’ll wash ‘em in the sink.”

  “You don’t—”

  “You’re on your own with your underwear, though.” Brit was talking a big game, but her cheeks were pink.

  He raised a brow. “What makes you think I’m wearing any?”

  Her mouth dropped open, and he smirked. How she was such a mix of sweet and sexy, confident, and innocent he would never know. But he loved all of those things about her . . .

  Loved.

  Holy shit.

  That may be the first time Stefan had ever thought the L word with respect to a woman who wasn’t his mother.

  He went very still, studied the emotions coursing through him.

  Somehow the notion of loving Brit didn’t actually scare him.

  Now wasn’t that something?

  “Stefan?”

  He looked up; saw Brit studying him with concern. “You okay?”

  “I’m better than okay.” In one smooth movement, he rose from the bed and pulled her close. The kiss he laid on her was sweet and gentle, and it still filled him with raging desire . . . even more so when she responded without hesitation.

  Kissing her until his control threatened to erode for the second time, Stefan forced himself to drop his arms and step back.

  “Start eating,” he told her and brushed his thumb across her reddened lips. God, he wanted to kiss her again. “I’ll take care of the pants . . . and underwear.”

  He set his phone and wallet on the desk before going into the bathroom and stripping down. After rinsing both his pants and boxer briefs with soap and water, he hung them up to dry before hopping in and taking a quick and frosty shower.

  Brit had used every towel in the bathroom for some reason or another, so he scooped one off the floor before drying and wrapping it around his waist.

  When he emerged, it was to find Brit curled up against the headboard, a plate balanced precariously in her lap.

  She had the determined look of someone who was finishing a plate of food simply because it was good for them.

  Not that he blamed her. The regimented diet Rebecca recommended got really old really quick.

  “That good, huh?”

  Brit grimaced but determinedly shoveled in another bite and swallowed. “It’s good for us.”

  “Yes,” he said and picked up his plate. “It is. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t get boring.”

  “True.” She chewed and swallowed another bite before glancing up and smiling. “But don’t think I didn’t see what was hiding under the other cover. How’d you know?”

  Stefan sat next to her, tucked a stray blond strand behind her ear. “That you don’t like chocolate but love mint chocolate-chip ice cream?” He shrugged. “I have my sources. And that makes no sense by the way.”

  “It makes total sense. You don’t taste the chocolate! And besides, ice cream is in a different realm than other desserts. In ice cream, having some chocolate is totally acceptable.“

  Stefan grinned even as he
heard his phone buzz again. He needed to check that, but he didn’t want to leave Brit’s side. Not yet.

  “Your very random dislike of various types of chocolate aside, I want to know everything about you, Brit.” Wanted to know all the little things that made her tick. His heart gave a hard squeeze as he realized he meant those words with every piece of his soul. The depth of feeling he had for this girl . . .

  He cleared his throat, concentrated on his plate, feeling both at peace and a whole lot vulnerable. “So anyway, choke down that rice and chicken so you can have some ice cream.”

  When Brit didn’t answer, he looked up.

  Her face was sheet white, and her fork was almost vibrating, her hands were trembling so badly.

  “Brit? What’s the matter?” he asked. Had he revealed too much too soon? He’d thought she was right there with him.

  “Stefan,” she said. “I need to tell you something. I”—she broke off, shook her head—“I . . .“

  “What?” he asked when she stopped again. “What is it?”

  “I don’t really know where to start.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he told her. “Just start somewhere.”

  “Management—”

  His phone began ringing, and normally he would have ignored it.

  But it was his mom’s ringtone.

  “Hang on,” he told Brit. “I need to answer that.”

  “Of course, but I need—”

  He wasn’t listening closely. His phone was already on his ear. “Hello?”

  No response.

  “Mom? Are you there?”

  “Stefan?” Her voice sounded weak and fragile.

  “Mom?” His gut twisted. “What is it? Talk to me.”

  “Stefan?” She sounded disoriented. “I . . .”

  “Mom!” he said sharply. “Focus. What’s going on?”

  There was some crackling, the sound of heavy breathing. Until, “Fell.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Kitchen. Blood.”

  He whipped toward Brit. “Call 911.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Brit

  The pictures of Stefan exiting her hotel room clad in only a towel made the media circuit the next day.

  Management was thrilled.

  Brit didn’t give a shit.

  Stefan’s mom had cancer, and she was manipulating him into a relationship.

  Enough was enough. The contract didn’t matter. She was going to tell Susan she was done and damn the consequences.

  Being on the phone with 911, relaying Stefan’s instructions as he frantically tried to keep his mom alert and reach someone who could get over to his house, had been both heart-wrenching and terrifying.

  The moment the dispatcher told her that the paramedics were with Stefan’s mother, that Diane was alive and responsive, Brit had shoved Stefan out of the room and told him to pack.

  “I’ll call Bernard,” she’d said, “and arrange the flight. You go and pack.”

  “I don’t—”

  Brit had put his wallet and phone in his hand, gestured at the towel. “You’ll need clean clothes at least,” she’d said. “Go. I’ll take care of it.”

  A car was waiting fifteen minutes later, the flight booked, and Stefan had been home before the sun rose in California.

  Brit hadn’t slept a wink, not until Stefan had texted midmorning after she and the team had landed in Chicago, telling her that his mom was alive and in the ICU.

  Bernard hadn’t canceled the meeting or the afternoon skate, and she’d been grateful for the distractions. The mood on the ice had been subdued but determined, and the Gold had handily beaten the Blackhawks with Jules in net.

  Later, alone in her room, she texted Stefan and asked how his mom was doing.

  No response. But fifteen minutes later, her phone rang with an unfamiliar number.

  “Hello?” she asked after picking up.

  “It’s me.”

  “Stefan. Thank God. How’s your mom?” Nervous energy bunched in her legs, and she began pacing the hideous-green-floral carpet.

  “She’s okay.” Brit released a breath as he continued talking. “Out of the ICU now that her blood pressure has stabilized. But she’s still dehydrated, and her blood sugar was very low . . . No surprise, that, since she can’t keep anything down.”

  God, Stefan had to be so frustrated, helpless as he was in the situation.

  “I’m so sorry,” she told him. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No,” he replied. “You’ve been great, Brit. Thank you. But . . .” A beat of quiet. “ . . .did you see the photos?”

  Had she ever. “I did. I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t think—”

  “Not your fault.” His voice dropped. “Any pushback from management?”

  “None.”

  His breath rattled across the speaker of her phone. “Good. I thought maybe Bernard—”

  “He didn’t say anything.” In that moment, she wanted to tell Stefan everything, to lay it out there and take the brunt of his anger.

  She didn’t.

  Because Brit didn’t want to heap one more thing on him, not then, not when he was already dealing with so much.

  “Hey,” he said, “the game went well, huh? I saw the score. Hang on—” But Stefan broke off, and she heard murmured words in the background. He came back on the line. “I’ve got to go. My mom’s awake.”

  “Okay, let me know if I can help in any way.”

  “You’ve already done enough, Brit.” He said goodbye and hung up.

  She had already done enough. Just not in the way he thought.

  Because Brit knew that, whatever the consequences to her or Bernard, she couldn’t do this—the lies and deceit and regret—anymore.

  She threw on a jacket, packed her bag, and went down to Bernard’s room. He deserved a warning, time to get things in line, because she didn’t doubt for a moment Susan would make good on her threats.

  The door flew open before she could knock, and her coach seemed to know what she was going to say before she spoke.

  “It’s all right, Brit,” he said, when she stumbled through the words. “Don’t worry about me. These months have let me get things in order. Even if management cancels the contract, we’ll be okay.”

  Brit found she had to take him at his word, because if she didn’t, if this course led to someone else—Bernard’s wife—getting hurt . . .

  She already had way too much guilt on her plate.

  Swallowing that down, she said, “I’ve got to go back to San Francisco. Help Stefan.”

  Bernard nodded. “Take a cab to the airport. I’ll arrange a flight. It’ll have to be commercial, though. The team is flying out in a couple of hours, and the plane wouldn’t make it back in time.”

  It was better that way, better she didn’t use team resources for personal use. Better that she didn’t give Susan any more ammunition.

  Once Brit was in the cab, she pulled out her phone and sent a text. Her show of spine, of damn-the-consequences-and-move-forward was long overdue.

  But at least it was there.

  No more, Susan. I’m done.

  ****

  Brit made it into SFO on the last flight of the day. It was just after midnight, but her body had been in so many times zones over the last few days it didn’t know which way was up.

  All she knew was that her place was by Stefan’s side.

  When things were calmer, when his mom was in the clear, she’d confess everything and deal with the consequences. Even if it meant losing him.

  But for now, she was going to be there for him, reciprocate the support he’d shown her.

  She shouldered her duffle and walked through the airport. It was deserted enough that her presence only garnered the occasional second look.

  There were a few cabs parked outside the terminal, so Brit hopped in one at random and directed the driver to t
he hospital. It was only when she was a few minutes out that she realized Stefan hadn’t told her what room number his mom was in, or even the floor.

  Surely, he would have hired security with all of the press. Devon, the Gold’s GM, had released a general statement saying that Stefan would miss a few games because of a family emergency, so it wasn’t common knowledge his mom was in the hospital.

  But that didn’t mean the media wouldn’t find out, or that Stefan wouldn’t take precautions.

  And he didn’t know she was coming.

  Brit could picture it, a hulking security guard standing outside his mother’s door, turning her away and, at just the sight of her slightest hesitation, hauling her out the front door of the hospital.

  That would give the press something, wouldn’t it?

  “Not well planned,” she muttered to herself and wondered if she should just go back to the hotel. Her apartment wouldn’t be ready for another week. Maybe she should just try to catch up with Stefan in the morning.

  She started to tell the cabbie, “Can I—”

  “Here you are,” he told her as they turned into the hospital drive, and, just at the same moment, his radio clicked with a call for another pickup. His impatience was a tangible thing when she hesitated, and he barely waited a heartbeat after she closed the door before speeding away.

  Maybe she should call another cab.

  It was a silly thought. Ridiculous.

  Except now that she was at the hospital, Brit was second-guessing herself.

  She’d done a crazy thing, leaving the team. Bernard would pull in a goalie from their minor league team, so at least Jules would have backup, but her leaving was risking her position and any momentum she’d made in the games she’d played.

  Bernard understood why she’d left. Still, this was professional hockey. If she wouldn’t step in, someone else would be happy to take her spot, and she really didn’t like the feeling that she’d put her career in jeopardy.

  She’d acted on pure instinct that morning.

  The team had been in Chicago and the Gold’s AHL team was located in nearby Evanston. It had been an easy fix in her mind. The team would be fine, and Stefan needed her support more.