Rookie (Seattle Sharks Book 4)

by Samantha Whiskey

  It broke something inside me.

  I darted for her, stopping her and yanking her against me.

  I crushed my mouth on hers, fingering the strands of her hair to angle her head back. Slanting my mouth over hers, I plunged my tongue deeper, faster, stealing her breath to fill my ragged lungs.

  Each swipe of my tongue felt like a goodbye, and pain lanced through me like a thousand knives.

  She drew back, hot tears on her cheeks like she could feel it too.

  “I love you, Bentley Rogers.”

  The words slid through me, trying like hell to weave me together when I had already broken myself with my decision.

  “It’s truer now than it was then. Deeper. Stronger.” She shrugged. “That will never change.”

  I pulled her back into my arms and whispered against her lips, “I love you. I’ve never stopped.”

  Two tears rolled down her cheeks, and I licked each one, savoring her salt and the tiny gasp from the contact.

  I caught her gaze, bending at the knees to meet her eyes.

  So many words I couldn’t speak, crowded and clogged in my throat.

  The world had brought us together again just to cleave us apart—the timing never, ever right for us.

  I smoothed a soft kiss over her lips, holding her against me as she trembled.

  “I know it’s selfish,” she asked. “But can I have you? One last time?”

  I pressed my forehead against hers, my eyes closing against the onslaught of emotions ripping through my soul. “Always.”

  “And never,” she finished for me, her voice coated with her tears.

  I snaked my arms around her back, clinging to her as I kissed my way up her neck, over her jawline, and beneath her ear.

  She arched within my embrace, her body submitting to wherever I directed it.

  I palmed the globes of her ass, hefting her up, and she locked her ankles around my hips. Slanting her mouth over mine, her fingers clutching my shoulders like she was afraid I’d let her fall.

  Never.

  I could never let this girl go.

  But I had to.

  Ten years ago, she pushed me away.

  For my own good.

  To ensure I chased every damn dream I ever had.

  Every one of them but her.

  And while it had ripped my heart in half—I had achieved everything I’d wanted to.

  Now it was my turn.

  Walking carefully, kissing and holding her, I made it to my bedroom and gently laid her on the bed.

  Slowly, as if I could stretch the moment, I peeled off her clothes, layer by layer, until she was bare for me.

  And I feasted on her.

  Devoured her.

  Consumed her.

  Savored her flavor on my tongue as I lapped and teased and sucked until she writhed against my face and sighed my name. And right when I felt her clenching, felt that energy coil around us like we had our own atmosphere, I slid two fingers inside her, and made love to her with my mouth and hand. Over the edge she went, arching off the bed, hungry for more as she shattered.

  “So damn beautiful,” I managed to say despite my heart stuck in my throat.

  I kissed the inside of her thighs, working my way up to her hips, her naval, and then her breasts. Lingering there, I rolled her nipples between my fingers—still damp from her slickness—and then popped one in my mouth. Grazing my teeth ever so slightly over the puckered flesh until she whimpered.

  Raising, I only took long enough to shed my clothes, then fell between her thighs with nothing separating us.

  Nothing but timing.

  A barrier that never gave us a break.

  I tangled my fingers in her hair, arching her head back so I could slant a kiss over her mouth, deep and consuming as I teased her center with my dick. It was ramrod straight and hard for her, and she was drenched for me, soaking my tip with each torturous rub.

  Up and down.

  Up and down.

  Watching her eyes as she arched.

  But not in.

  Not yet.

  No, I wanted to claim her mouth, taste her before I took her.

  One last time.

  I drew my mouth away long enough to catch her eyes as I slowly, inch by painful inch, slid inside her, until I was seated to the hilt.

  Flames crackled, sparked, and I swear I felt the heat from that gaze.

  The understanding roaring between us as our bodies clung to a truth that could never be.

  One pump.

  Then two.

  Pause—the pulsing ache of holding her there enough to shove me toward my release, but I locked it down.

  I wanted this to last.

  Forever.

  If only.

  She thrummed around my cock, clenching and pulsing as she rocked against me while I held her there—allowing her to take control despite being under me.

  God damn, this woman.

  Perfection.

  Meeting me when I decided to thrust.

  Slaking me when I decided to hold.

  Her nails dug into my back, her sighs filled my ears, and that face . . . those eyes . . . they filled my soul.

  Pain and pleasure.

  Love and hate.

  We clashed together in a hungry, desperate way.

  The more I teased, the more I brought her to the edge and then yanked her back, the more worked up she got. Until she hooked her legs around my hips, gripped with all her might, and urged me to move.

  I flipped over, obeying the ferocity of this woman, and let her ride me.

  “Fuck,” I hissed, marveling as I looked up at her.

  The usual sleek black hair was wild around her beautiful face. Her lips parted, moans slipping out as she rocked on top of me—back and forth and up and down—hitting every perfect spot as she went.

  I gently gripped her hips, merely holding on as she unleashed herself on me, clenching so damn tight, so fucking perfect.

  “Oh god, Bentley,” she cried out, one hand on my chest to steady herself as she increased the pace, the other in her hair, holding it back so she could watch me.

  She tightened and pulsed, and when she gasped, her orgasm ripping through her, I found my own release.

  A deep, raking shudder rippled from the base of my spine and onward, but I continued to move within her, slowly bringing us down.

  Another moan and she collapsed on top of my chest, her breasts lined with the hard muscles of my chest, her cheek flat against it as she caught her breath.

  “Your heart is racing,” she said after we’d come down a bit.

  I slid my hands over her curves, my fingers drinking in her shape.

  “My heart beats for yours,” I whispered.

  New wetness dribbled onto my chest—not sweat but salt—her tears slow and easy and accepting.

  For so many moments, we stayed like that—her on top of me, my arms holding her like I’d never let go.

  Until we fell asleep, exhaustion of many forms sweeping us away.

  And when I woke up . . .

  She was gone.

  Chapter 16

  Chloe

  My nerves felt frayed—stripped pieces of raw flesh that jolted and jarred with any sudden movement.

  Which was constant considering I worked with a bunch of hockey players.

  And currently, each one of them was operating on a high-alpha frequency because the Ontario game was in an hour.

  My ex had already texted me four times to confirm our postgame coffee meet-up. The one where I prayed I’d get closure. Prayed I’d make him realize I no longer meant anything to him. Urge him to move on to bigger and better things and leave me the fuck alone.

  Pair that with the fact that it had been exactly one week since I’d climbed out of Bentley’s bed, taking only a moment to look back at his peacefully sleeping body before I got in my car and left him for good.

  A flash of pain speared my heart—as it had done each time I thought about that night.


  The tender way he’d held me.

  The wild abandon in the way we’d made love.

  The fact that we both knew the risks were too great to keep it up.

  I sucked in a sharp breath, willing my body to relax.

  The combined knowledge of my ex in the same rink as I sat in now, and the fact that I was still shredded over Bentley’s heartbreaking farewell—I was a fucking mess.

  But, a sliver of hope bloomed amongst the darkness sticking to my soul.

  If I could get my ex to leave me alone, then I’d be free.

  And Mom was healthy.

  My job was secure, for now, and so she’d be taken care of.

  Life would align, and I would survive.

  It’s what I did.

  What I’d always done.

  And yes, seeing Bentley at work every day . . . it hurt like acid on an open wound.

  But we understood each other.

  Understood that while our love was real, the timing wasn’t right.

  Sometimes I wondered if it ever would be.

  I sighed, shifting in my office chair.

  One step at a time.

  First, I had to survive tonight.

  Then, I could figure out if some distant future included the kind of happiness I’d only dreamed of before.

  The kind of happiness I’d touched with Bentley and let slip through my fingers all too quickly.

  I wasn’t a nail-biter, but if I was, I would’ve chewed every single one clean off. The game was that intense.

  Each team brought the kind of ferocity that only comes with a deeply rooted rivalry—likely so buried no one remembered how it started.

  Didn’t matter.

  They glided and stalked and hunted each other like Sharks—so many fights, penalties, and scores.

  Too many times the ice splattered with red.

  Sweat and spit and spite mixed in.

  Clashing, thrashing, unbridled testosterone swarmed the arena, transmitting to the die-hard fans who watched from the stands. Creating a kind of war-like-battle-cry among them as they clung to every second of the game.

  Coach split Bentley and Gage’s time in half—weaving them in and out—wielding their powerhouse combination so well Ontario didn’t know who or what had hit them. A brilliant strategy—utilizing the rare gift of having two of the best grinders around—but one that made my heart ache.

  I felt every hit Bentley placed on the opponents, gasped at every returned threat.

  I’d seen him play a million times before, but tonight—with my emotions so raw, my heart still bleeding from the Bentley-sized hole shot through it—I barely hung on to my sanity.

  More than anything, I wanted the night to be over.

  For it to be tomorrow and the conversation I had to have after the game be done.

  And at the same time, I almost didn’t want the game to end.

  Because then I would have to face him.

  Alone.

  But I had no other choice.

  His threats had to stop.

  I had to stop living with his shadow over my shoulder.

  I needed his claws unhooked from my skin.

  With freedom, I hoped I could find clarity enough to sort everything else out.

  Twenty minutes later, the crowd erupted in a chaotic frenzy of cheers and screams—the Sharks won in overtime.

  I celebrated with the team, my cries more of relief that it was finally over but still ecstatic they won all the same. Smiling a painful grin at Bentley as he rushed into the locker room with the rest of the team.

  I saw myself out, knowing Coach would talk for at least half an hour, then showers then . . .

  Well, I suppose it didn’t matter.

  It wasn’t like I was meeting Bentley after.

  No, my steps carried me toward my past.

  Not the good kind filled with the boyish Bentley who stole my heart, but the terrifying kind where a true predator had damn near sucked the life from me.

  My legs wobbled as I filtered through the crowds leaving the rink in excited bursts. Trembling, barely catching my breath as I made my way to the small coffee shop we’d designated to meet at—my choice, of course because there was no way I was meeting him anywhere outside the rink.

  I selected a small table that rested near the edge of the arena’s walkways—a place with an eye-line to every exit or passerby.

  No hiding.

  No place for him to back me into a corner.

  This was on my terms. And despite the ice-cold fear clutching its boney fingers around my spine, I would handle this.

  I would be stronger.

  Ordering two black coffees, I waited, watching as the crowds thinned to just stragglers.

  And after too long and all too fast . . .

  There he was.

  My heart switched to stone, threatening to sink me to the floor, a helpless creature at his mercy.

  Tall, dark, and brutally handsome—he’d been exactly what I thought I needed to move on. Who I needed to fall into to tear myself away from the torturous eye I kept on Bentley’s career, his life . . . all his conquests.

  He sauntered up to the table, his black hair freshly washed, his right cheek slightly puckered from a hit on the ice. Towering over the table, over me, he shaped his lips into that smile that now turned my bones to jelly.

  Cold crept into my gut, but I steeled my spine.

  He’s not in control anymore.

  He opened his arms. “Chloe, come here, honey,” he cooed. “I’ve missed you.”

  I narrowed my gaze, hissing slightly. “Please,” I said, shaking my head. “Sit down, Archer.”

  He cocked an eyebrow, all charm disintegrating from his eyes.

  A lethal threat in a blink.

  Before, when I’d been with him, that kind of sass would’ve earned me some serious reprimand—too-tight grips or an all-out verbal war on my character. The kind that was just real enough to make me believe it. Make me never want to embarrass him again.

  Finally, he sat, his sleek black athletic pants hiking around his ankles. The Ontario t-shirt he wore straining over his massive chest.

  Every piece of him disgusted me and roiled my stomach—such a revelation when I once had purred in his presence. Once believed him to be a salvation from my ruined heart. When he had been charming and kind and listened.

  Then . . . the day I moved in . . . everything changed. A switch flipped.

  It was like I’d been in a fog. A dark nightmare that surely I wasn’t a part of.

  Some other woman let him treat her so terribly.

  Some other woman had believed his lies, believed she deserved to be punished, believed she was never good enough.

  Idiot.

  I’d like to think I would’ve shaken out of it eventually—even if I hadn’t had the jarring wake-up call that my mother was sick and alone and left with no one—but I honestly was glad I’d never know.

  Because whatever the reason, I had woken up.

  And now I wanted him out of my life for good.

  “Damn,” he said after a sip of his coffee. “You do look delicious. Even with that hideous shirt on.” His dark eyes grazed over my incredibly modest outfit—jeans and a Shark’s jersey.

  I wished it was Bentley’s number, but that would’ve raised too many questions.

  And I wouldn’t put him at risk. Not anymore.

  “Tough loss,” I said, jabbing him over the shirt comment.

  A muscle in his jaw ticked.

  Easy. My inner voice warned. I’m here for closure. Keep it peaceful.

  Right, because he’d been so kind in the past.

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at myself.

  “Archer,” I said. “I wanted to see you tonight because—”

  “You realized you made a huge mistake leaving me and you want to come home.” He pursed his lips, the overly cocky glare enough to set my teeth on edge.

  I took a steadying breath.

  “No. We’re o
ver. We’ve been over. You know I was never good for you. I constantly embarrassed you or let you down.” As you so aptly reminded me nearly every single day. I didn’t bother speaking those words. “You have a million women dying to be with you. Please, Archer. I need you to leave me alone. You live your life there, and I’ll live mine here.”

  His eyes twitched, and he tilted his head and nodded. “A million women. That is true. But only one of them is dying to get away from me.” A sick smirk slid over his face. “What can I say? I like the chase.”

  “This isn’t a chase,” I snapped. “This is my life. And you threatening to upheave it at a moment’s notice is cruel.”

  He had the audacity to look offended. “How can you say that?”

  I gaped at him. “Archer, it’s over.” I sighed. “Please. Can you let me go?” I hated the question, hated the desperate plea in my voice.

  My soul was wrung out and raw, and I just wanted it to be done.

  For the threats to stop.

  For the fear to subside long enough for me to put myself back together again.

  “What . . .” he said, his gaze narrowing as he shifted in his seat, leaning his elbows on the table to draw closer to me. I instinctively moved back in my seat. “ . . . is the rush?”

  I swallowed hard, forcing myself to hold those dark eyes.

  To not submit.

  To not show fear.

  I trained the best players in the business.

  I laid out men bigger than him.

  I was stronger than this shit.

  “It’s my life,” I said. “I don’t need an excuse. You have to let this go.”

  Threatening him with the authorities had crossed my mind a dozen times, but he was so much more powerful than me when it came to terms of public image and money. He had lawyers for his lawyers. He had millions in the bank. And he had proof of our relationship before we declared it to HR—he could, and threatened to often, take that knowledge to Coach Harris, the CEO of the Sharks, everyone.

  Paint them a seedy picture of my character.

  And since I’d been with Bentley—I hadn’t risked the threat.

  But if he didn’t let up, I’d have to.

  If he didn’t see reason, I’d have no other choice.

  Perhaps, since Bentley had ended things—shredding us both to protect what we needed—it would be okay.