by Kate Meader
True. Violet had gone batshit crazy on Isobel when she heard Middle Child was prepared to risk her life trying out for the Olympics after she’d been told by doctors that playing hockey again might kill her. “So I don’t know how to practice what I preach. I’m a failure at life.”
“None of us have the sharing gene,” Harper said. “And God knows I haven’t exactly been the most open person. But it’s probably something we need to nourish.” She threw an arm around Violet’s shoulder. “So it was a false alarm?”
Relieved that the reaction drama was over, Violet described her lumpy armpit, which they both found amusing now that the life-threatening element had been removed.
“I’m going to schedule the outpatient surgery when Bren’s back in town so the girls’ care won’t be interrupted.”
Isobel held her gaze intently. “We’ll be there.”
It was on the tip of Violet’s tongue to say they didn’t have to be, but she merely nodded instead. Apparently, they needed this more than her.
“Remy’s giving a pregame interview,” Addy called out from the living room.
Harper shrieked. “Pause it! I miss that face.”
Once she was out of earshot, Isobel leaned her elbows on the counter, cupped her face coquettishly, and delivered an all-knowing grin.
“You’ve already paid a visit to the Scottish lowlands, haven’t you?”
Fobbing off Isobel had always been harder—they were just two years apart and had connected more easily when Violet first moved to Chicago. She was also dying to share it with someone.
“Yes!” She grabbed her sister’s shoulders dramatically. “And it was so fucking good.”
Isobel chuckled, then said in a singsong, “The single dad and the nanny. Sounds like a nineties sitcom.”
“I know, I know. Clichés abound. But it’s been building for a while and now the balloon has been—”
“Pricked?”
“Yeah. Pricked big time.”
“And what comes next?”
The billion-dollar question, but only if she assigned it more importance than she should. “Neither of us is looking for anything. He was just there at the right time.”
“Aw, hell no,” Isobel said. “You mean, you heard you weren’t dying and you banged him first thing? Do I need to kick some hot Scot ass? Because it sounds to me like he took advantage of your frazzled state.”
“No one took advantage. Jeez, it was”—crazy emotional, hot as fuck, the best sex I’ve ever had—“just a roll in the sheets. A relief bang. A ‘yay, I’m still here, let’s finally do this’ screw. That’s it.”
Isobel didn’t look as gleeful as when she’d first guessed the big news. “And now you guys go back to before like nothing happened?”
“Why not?”
Iz shook her head. “Not how it works, Vi. The relief bang has a habit of becoming a ‘one more won’t hurt’ bang followed by a ‘let’s get a quick one in while the kids are at violin practice’ bang.”
“The kids don’t play violin. Stop overcomplicating it.”
“You work for him. He works for you. There’s nothing uncomplicated about this.”
“I’m fully capable of keeping my job separate from my sex life,” Violet insisted.
Isobel smirked. “If there’s one thing I know from the experience of these past nine months, it’s that no one in this family is capable of making that distinction.”
Vadim Petrov opened the door to his hotel suite, shirtless. Bloody typical. The richer-than-God Russian never made do with a regular hotel room, either; it was always a hot-shit upgrade, and for away games, this was usually where the party was at.
“Captain, you are late.”
“I had to check in with my girls.”
The Russian widened the door and gestured for Bren to enter. “How are your angels? Have they driven Violet over the edge yet?”
“If they have, she’s not saying.”
The usual suspects had gathered on the off-night between the LA games. Other team members had gone out to a trendy hotspot, but the guys Bren was closest to preferred to hang in Petrov’s suite, play video games, and shoot the shit.
Bren had an inkling they did it for him. He was fine with hanging in bars—saw it as a test, to be honest—but he had to admit, the older he got, the more he preferred a quiet night in with his girls or his boys.
Or with Violet.
Since that afternoon in her cottage three days ago, he’d been entertaining strange thoughts. Notions, if you will. He’d texted her more than usual to check in, needing to read her sharp wit, relive that look on her face when he shot all over her golden body.
He’d set boundaries. She’d accepted them without argument, making it clear that Chicago was just a way station on her journey. That he was just one of the stops.
Was that what was eating at him—her ready willingness to understand he had nothing to offer her? If it was merely sex, he would have called her after the win last night, but it was late and . . . he wasn’t sure where he stood. Or if he had a right to check in, plainly looking to get his rocks off.
He was living the dream. Why couldn’t he just enjoy the ride?
Petrov’s suite was exactly that: a humongous set of rooms that included a kitchen. That’s where Bren headed now, drawn by the scent of cooking, and it’s where he found Remy, leaning close to a stockpot. The smell of something amazing wafted from it.
They could have ordered room service, but Remy needed cooking to make him feel useful. Now that Harper couldn’t travel because her pregnancy was a little rough on her, keeping his mind occupied was key. It had the added benefit of making them all feel like they were kicking back at Remy’s place in Riverbrook, their usual haunt at least once a week.
“What’s on the menu?”
“Étouffée.”
Bren took a closer look at the fragrant stew with crawfish. Petrov opened the fridge and handed him a bottle of water.
“How’s Violet?” Remy asked.
Two mentions of Violet in less than a minute. “Fine, as far as I know.”
“She told Harper and Iz about her health scare,” Remy added.
The Cajun let that hang, but Vadim wouldn’t know subtlety if it pucked him in the head. “And I hear that you were the first person she shared the news with. That is interesting.”
“Just happened to be on the spot. Purely geography.”
“Is that what you’re callin’ it?”
Bren turned to find Cade, not looking like his usual friendly Texan self.
“I caught her at the right—or wrong—time. Any set of ears would have done.”
“Don’t know about that. She had opportunities to call me or her sisters with her concerns, to ask us to go to that doc appointment with her, and she didn’t. You knew about it, though.” Cade considered himself Violet’s best friend, and it sounded like he was pissed at being left out of the loop.
“After the fact. And like I said, if I hadn’t been there when she initially found out, then she wouldn’t have told me at all.”
Everyone weighed this for a second.
Cade finally spoke. “Let’s call it how we see it, Bren. You and Violet have been dancing around each other like porcupines in heat for months now. I see how you were in a bind with your kids and all, but I’m not really seeing how placing Violet in your home was done with any intention other than to have her close at hand for things unrelated to nannying.”
Bren sucked back a few chugs of water, hoping the delay might douse the flames of fury. “Are you saying I hired her to take advantage of her? Have you met Violet, by the way? The woman is incapable of being bullied or messed with.”
“Yeah, she acts like a man-eater, but it’s all for show, just like she pretends that Clifford not stepping up doesn’t hurt, but I know it does. And now she’s in a particularly vulnerable position, thinking her cancer might have returned, and there you are pulling the knight-in-hockey-pads act. Probably walking around shirtless in yo
ur kitchen and being all cute with your kids. She’s only fucking human.”
“You sound jealous, Alamo,” Vadim said. “Only, I can’t decide if you’re jealous of Bren or of Violet.”
Cade eyed the Russian and rubbed his beard. “Hell, Russki, you might be onto somethin’ there. Broody Italian does it more for me than Broody Scot, but I can’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind.”
“Jesus,” Bren said. Far too much information.
Vadim placed his hands on his hips and addressed Cade. “What about me? I’m the one on billboards and in magazines. Surely I have figured in your fantasies.”
Cade raised his beer in the Russian’s direction. “Keep your tats on, Petrov, you’re right up there. A close second to Chrises Hemsworth and Pine.”
Everyone laughed, even Bren, glad that they were on easier terms again. He’d not enjoyed the jealousy that wracked his body when he thought his teammate had something going on with Violet. The guy was a good friend, after all.
“Seriously, though, Bren,” Cade said, his tone less belligerent. “Did you hire Violet so you could seduce her?”
“Seduce her? Are we in the 19-fucking-40s here?”
Both Remy and Vadim were quiet, hanging on every word.
Bren sighed. “I hired her because she’s amazing with my kids and their welfare is number one with me. I’m not denying I’m attracted to her, but these days I’m a dad first. Violet and I are on the same page in this.” So maybe he was a few chapters ahead, creating a story for them in his head, one where he and Violet gave this a shot. Only he suspected that if he fell, he would be falling alone.
“But you’d like something more?” Remy asked, sly with it, too, as if he knew something had already happened and Bren was itching to take it to the next level.
“I can’t let my mind go there. She’s made it clear she’s not here for the long haul. She doesn’t want to stick around, and I can’t get my kids’ hopes up.” He couldn’t get his hopes up.
Only, he was afraid they were already sky high.
NINETEEN
His mouth sought hers and she gladly let him find it. Their moves were frantic, every touch magnifying their desperation. A solid kick of his sneaker slapped the door to the cottage shut, then he lifted and deposited her on the farmhouse table in her kitchen.
She tore her mouth away, her breaths labored. “Did you park down the street?”
“Aye.”
“And you were careful about anyone seeing you?”
He held her face with both hands, his intensity cutting through her worry. “No one knows I’m here. But when I make you scream, they might.”
“Cocky.”
“Yup.”
They’d been meeting most mornings he was in town, postpractice, while the girls were with their tutor. Though meeting was too tame. More like crashing and hurtling into each other, every coupling filled with urgency and hunger.
He shoved down his sweatpants, his erection already huge and heavy. How did he walk several blocks with that thing? The thought sent her into giggles.
“You didn’t just laugh at my dick.”
“Sort of. Just wondering how you get through the day with that beast getting in the way of everything. It’s so . . .” She wrapped two hands around it and stroked up to the dark, plump head.
He shut his eyes, drawing a shallow breath. “It’s so . . .”
“Monstrous. All this time I’ve been nicknaming you Nessie, when really this is the true creature of the deep. It’d be very popular in the dicktabase.”
Lust-glazed eyes snapped open. “The what, now?”
“Just a little hobby of mine. A Tumblr where I catalog and celebrate the beauty of the male form.”
He looked a little shocked, if Bren St. James was capable of reaching such range of emotion. “You collect porn?”
“Women like porn as well. Don’t worry, I’m discreet.”
Bren’s eyelids grew more heavy lidded with each stroke. “If your porn addiction gives you ideas, then I’m all for that. Right now, though, I’ve got a few ideas of my own.”
He inched the hem of her skirt to the tops of her thighs. Strong, roughened fingers delved and found her wet and wanting.
“No panties.”
“No barriers.”
Looking into his eyes, she felt the truth of her words applying to so much more than a lack of underwear. Whereas before he was guarded, since they’d finally given in to the need clawing at them, he now displayed nothing but naked hunger whenever he looked at her. Both in and out of bed.
It was electrifying to be the subject of Bren’s attention.
With each deepening stroke through her, she felt drawn to him in a way that terrified her. Sex had never been like this with anyone else. Freeing and honest and scary.
Out of control.
And she needed to haul it back.
“Want to taste you,” she whispered before pushing him away from her body and slipping off the table.
“Violet,” he gasped as she knelt before him. This way she could focus on his pleasure without risking a complete loss of herself in the moment.
But . . . “You’re too tall. Sit.”
He did as he was told, kicking off his sweats at the same time.
“Take off your shirt,” she ordered, enjoying the rare assumption of a bossy role.
He peeled the shirt off and threw it onto the floor of her kitchen. She took his sweats and folded them up, placed them under her knees. Leaning forward, he ran his thumb along her bottom lip.
“I dream of this mouth, Violet. I dream of it wrapped around my cock, sucking me to the back of your throat, getting wet and slick as I fuck it. But first, I need to see those gorgeous breasts and that perfect ass. Your shirt. Off. Now.”
Command given, he released her, leaving her a quivering mess on the floor. The strength had left her arms, all sensation snaking through her descending to that aching spot between her legs.
How had she thought this might give her control? That she had any hope of retaining a splinter of it when in this man’s presence?
“Violet.” Her name on his lips was a demand.
Get a grip. She obeyed. Her oversized tee slipped over her head, revealing her breasts encased in red satin. Instead of removing her bra and skirt, she hiked the skirt up over her hips. His nostrils flared, and she knew he enjoyed the sleaziness she’d brought out to play, a half-dressed, disheveled, dissolute woman.
“Now, suck my cock, mi reina.”
My queen. The endearment—and in Spanish, too—was so unexpected she almost fell over. To cover her surprise, she averted her gaze from his and held the thick weight of him in her hands.
It felt like she was holding power, life, this man’s future. She’d started out thinking a blow job would put her in charge. Three minutes in and she’d never felt more rattled.
It’s just sex. It’s just smokin’ hot sex with a Scottish man-god. It’s just a beard of awesome and a cock of wonder. It’s just—she took him inside her mouth, and their joint groan affirmed that just was the most inadequate word ever invented.
His hand came around to tunnel through her hair, hold her in place. But he didn’t push. He didn’t need to.
She was all in and all his.
If she didn’t look at him, she could get through this with some semblance of self intact. So she kept her gaze dipped, her eyelids at half-mast as she worked him with a messy tongue bath and jerky strokes of her hands. She used to be better at this, surely. Apparently, overthinking and fuzzy emotion had negated her once-admirable BJ skills.
That strong hand at the nape of her neck applied a slight pressure—not to make her go faster or harder, but to angle her head for further demands.
“Look at me, Violet.”
She was powerless to disobey him. Something about his voice toggled a switch inside her. Giving over control now seemed like the easiest way to retain some measure of it, but staring right at him was like looking at an eclipse.
> She’d always enjoyed living dangerously.
“That’s my girl,” he whispered as their gazes sealed together like powerful magnets. There was no escaping his draw. “Take it all. Take it all down.”
He jerked. She took everything he had to give her, craving his taste, loving the surrender. And within seconds, she found herself straddling his lap, his fingers fondling her in a leisurely motion that in no way matched the urgency of her need.
“Please,” she begged.
Still, he kept his stroke slow, each pass making her mindless and driving her closer to the edge. She shook her head, no longer able to verbalize how much she wanted to come. How much she wanted this to be over but also never to end. How much she wanted.
Those magic digits sought more begging, sensitive flesh, finally reaching her burning clit. The first touch was so gentle she wanted to scream. The second an outright tease. The third accompanied by a kiss, his tongue moving in time with his fingers. She was grinding on his hand, muttering curses in English and Spanish, crazy for her climax.
With one hard swipe, her vision went dark at the edges as pinpricks of light exploded behind her eyelids. Her body shuddered with sensation, her thighs shook with the force of her release. She slumped against him, her head on his shoulder.
The next thing she knew she was waking in her bed with Bren wrapped around her.
He wasn’t asleep. His body was relaxed against hers, but not completely.
“How long was I out?”
“Just an hour. You needed it. I worked you good.”
She snorted. “So full of yourself, Scot.”
“Aye.” His breath was soft against her ear and he snuggled a little tighter. That slight shift felt more intimate than anything they’d done so far. “Could stay like this all day.”
“But you won’t. You have responsibilities, young man.”
He felt the curve of his lips over her neck. He enjoyed that observation. He enjoyed responsibility. It had been tough for him at the start of the season when Remy was traded in, a situation that challenged Bren to step up and lead.
“Do you like being the captain?”
