Destiny on Ice (Boys of Winter #1)

by S. R. Grey

  Wait, what? I don’t recall bringing anyone back to my bed. And what’s with this chick calling me “pal?” Not the term of endearment I’m used to hearing once I get through with ’em.

  I sit up abruptly. “What the fuck? Who the hell are you?”

  I receive no answer, as Mystery Woman drifts back to sleep.

  Huh, this is a first. Not that there’s a girl in my bed; that’s happened before. What’s weird is that I have absolutely no recollection of nailing this particular one. It’s a real shame too, since she’s hot as hell.

  Did I hit that, though, and just can’t remember?

  Nah, I don’t think so, seeing as I’m sporting some impressive morning wood.

  My cock strains against the comforter, pointing over at Mystery Woman like he’s a divining rod. Yeah, that wouldn’t be happening if I’d been laid properly.

  Shit. Maybe we did do it and she sucked, and not in the good kind of way.

  Mystery Woman, who may or may not be a good lay, finally comes to. She sits up next to me, stretching her lithe form. Yawning, she rubs her eyes, not bothering to look over at me. She must be half asleep and unaware I’m here. She probably thinks the guy she replied to a minute ago was part of a dream.

  I check her out more thoroughly before she notices she’s not alone.

  Hmm, I don’t think she’s a puck bunny. Although if she is a PB she must be a wildly popular one, based on how sexy her body looks in that tight-as-sin red dress. The confident air surrounding her, though, screams to me that she’s no dingy pushover. Nope, not with the kind of fire I see in those pretty turquoise eyes.

  Oh, shit.

  She just discovered she’s not alone. And those stunning eyes are trained on me, narrowed in what appears to be anger.

  Yeah, I definitely didn’t fuck this one. She wouldn’t be so mad if she’d gotten some Brent Oliver cock.

  “Who the hell are you?” she asks as she pulls the comforter all the way up to her chin.

  Maybe her eyes aren’t narrowed, after all. I think she’s just squinting. Can she not see me all that well?

  “Hey.” I wave a hand in front of her beautiful face, which she quickly smacks away.

  Okay, not blind. Maybe near-sighted, though.

  “Ugh. Boundaries, please,” she snaps.

  I suppress a laugh. This chick is cute, all worked up like this.

  I try again to make nice by holding out my hand. “Hey. I know this is awkward and weird as hell, but I guess we should introduce ourselves. I’m Br—”

  She winces and holds her head. “Can you just shut up for a minute? My head is killing me.”

  Wow. No one ever talks to me like that. “Talk about rude,” I snap.

  She squints over at me, still like she can barely see me. But see me, or not, she has no qualms about reading me the riot act.

  “Whoever you are, mister, next time you fall into a bed you should check and make sure it’s not already occupied.”

  Is she for real?

  “Wait a goddamn second,” I volley back as she’s busy reaching for something over on the nightstand. Glasses, it looks like. “For the record, lady, this is my bed. Maybe you’re the one who needs to check before invading someone’s personal space.”

  “Invading your personal space?” She fumbles with the glasses, drops them once on the bed, and then picks them up. “That’s rich coming from you, especially when it was your big, warm body, among other things, pressed up against my ass—”

  She’s gotten her glasses on now, which incidentally make her look even sexier, in a hot librarian sort of way.

  “Why’d you stop?” I ask.

  Behind the lenses, her pretty eyes are widened in shock. “Oh shit,” she utters as she stares at me intently. “This can’t be happening.”

  “What can’t be happening?” I query, at a loss.

  “It’s—it’s…you!”

  Her appalled tone catches me off guard, prompting me to say, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Glancing away, she says softly, “Uh, it doesn’t mean anything.”

  Okay, if she’s going to play games, then so am I. And do I ever have one for her. It’s called: If I Can’t Fuck You, Then Let Me Fuck with You.

  “Hey,” I begin, smirking, “I have a question for you.”

  “Okay?” She eyes me warily.

  I lean in close and lower my voice to my sexiest rasp. “Did we”—I gesture between our bodies—“you know.”

  She jumps away from me, seemingly horrified I’d suggest such a thing. “Absolutely not,” she states.

  Good God, I don’t want to give her a coronary.

  Toning it down a notch, I say, “Relax, sweetheart. I know nothing happened. I’m just giving you a hard time.”

  “Why would you do that?” She’s cute when she’s perplexed.

  I make an “isn’t it obvious” face, nodding down to how our bodies are positioned, almost intertwined, in the bed. When she still doesn’t get it, I lay it on the line for her.

  “You’re in my bed, honey. And, well, you know what usually happens when a man and a woman end up in bed together.”

  “True.” She blows out a breath. “But though I ended up in your bed, I can assure you that didn’t occur.”

  “Yes, yes”—I roll my eyes—“we’ve established that. But if I didn’t bring you back, which I know I didn’t, then how’d you end up in here?”

  “It’s not important,” she murmurs.

  Really, I don’t think she knows. “Okay,” I say.

  Mystery Woman starts looking really uptight. Well, she’s been looking that way since she put on her sexy librarian glasses, but this is more. Truth is, she probably could use a good roll in the hay to loosen her up a little.

  Hey, I’m up for it—in more ways than one—if I can get her to agree. And I hope I can. Not only am I horny as hell, but look at her. She’s gorgeous, even if she is a little weird. But, damn, weird or not, those turquoise eyes are mesmerizing. And all that shiny black hair would look good splayed out against my pillows. Don’t even get me started on that sexy dress. The curves and ample cleavage it’s showing off make me want to tear that red fabric away so I can see more.

  We should definitely nail her, my dick urges. Make a move, stupid.

  Leaning back against the pillows and lacing my fingers behind my head, I let my cock “dick-tate” my next words.

  “So, we clearly missed our chance to hook up last night, seeing as we were both crushed.” I flex my chest and arms, a move I know makes girls wet. “But you know what they say, right?”

  Wary, she asks, “No. What do they say?”

  “There’s no time like the present.”

  She gawks at me like I’ve grown an extra head, and not the one I’m hoping to show her. Oh well, it was worth a shot. It’s always a risk, letting the unreasonable head speak for the reasonable one. The guy below the belt is so impulsive, and, really, only ever has one thing in mind.

  Gathering the comforter around her curvy little body, and providing her with more than enough coverage considering she also has on the dress, Mystery Woman scoots away from me, like I’m some kind of a pervert.

  Really?

  “If you didn’t bring me here, then how do you think I got in your bedroom?” she asks, still clearly suspicious.

  This again, please.

  I lean forward and fold my arms across my chest. “Good question. Why don’t you think about it a little harder so you can tell me?”

  I really don’t need an answer, though. I think I know exactly how she ended up in my room. This woman, like so many others, wandered down the wrong hallway while searching for a goddamn bathroom. It’s happened too many times to count. And I must admit that sometimes one of the lost and weary—or should I say hot and horny—finds her way to my bed. If they’re really sexy, like this one, I let them stay. And then I give them what they want—superstar cock.

  This one, however, appears to be truly stumped as to
how she ended up in here. Biting her full bottom lip, which makes my dick twitch, she glances around.

  Finally, her tone turning apologetic, she says, “I don’t really know how I ended up in your bed. I don’t remember much of anything from last night, just bits and pieces.”

  “What do you remember?” I softly inquire.

  I’m easing up since she is kind of adorable, all confused like this. What I’d really like is for her to stick around a while longer. Not so I can seduce her—though I won’t rule that out—but so I can look at her some more.

  Shit, I’m turning into a creeper.

  “Well,” she goes on, while I evaluate my motives. “I remember my sister bringing me to a party. And then I drank, like, a lot. I really don’t drink all that often, so it hit me kind of hard.”

  She raises a hand to her head, like it’s still hurting, so I say, “Hey, I have some aspirin in my medicine chest.” I jerk my chin to indicate it’s in the attached bathroom. “You can go grab some if you want. Or I can get it for you.”

  “Thanks, but that’s okay. I think only time can heal this hangover.”

  She smiles, and I hope it means she’s feeling more comfortable around me. Why that matters, I don’t know. But since she’s right about the hangover healing in time, I say, “I hear ya.”

  We share an understanding nod and a commiserating smile. Ah, we’re finally getting along, this is good.

  I then ask, “Can you tell me what else you do remember?”

  “Sure.” She smiles again, and shit, she’s so fucking pretty, smeary dark eye makeup and all. “I remember wandering around by myself by the end of the night. I remember having told my sister to go ahead and leave a while earlier. I think I called for an Uber to take me back to my hotel.”

  Hotel, eh? So, she doesn’t live around here. Wonder where’s she’s from?

  I plan to ask, but before I get to that I need to know, “Did you call for that ride? Did they cancel on you or something?”

  “No. I canceled it.”

  She’s full-on chewing on her bottom lip now, like digging through these glimpses into last night is taking all she’s got in the memory department.

  “Why’d you cancel your ride?”

  I’m curious as to why a woman would want to remain alone at a party where she obviously didn’t know anyone.

  “Good question,” she says.

  I figure we’re at an impasse. We’ll never know how, or why, she ended up in my bed. But then, all of a sudden, she starts blushing like crazy, like she may have just remembered the reason why she canceled her ride.

  So, of course, I again ask, “Why’d you cancel your Uber?”

  “Uh, no real reason.”

  “Oh, come on now.”

  In the faintest of whispers, I hear her say, “I was kind of hoping to meet a certain someone.”

  Good thing I have good hearing.

  She makes a move like she’s going to get out of the bed, and all I can think is: No, not yet.

  “Wait.” I grab her arm—lightly, mind you—but when she gives me a what-the-hell-are-you-doing look, I release her immediately and apologize. “Sorry.”

  She doesn’t bolt, thank God.

  Pulling her knees up to her chin, she buries her head in the comforter wedged between them. “This is so embarrassing,” she mutters into the fluffy down.

  “Who were you hoping to meet?” I press.

  I’m insanely curious as to who it could have been. Maybe Nolan? Or perhaps it was Benny she’d set her sights on? Both are good-looking men. But then again, maybe, just maybe, she was hoping to meet me.

  And assuming that was the case…

  When she lifts her head and looks over at me, I take a chance and smile. I make sure it’s a sweet smile, not a leering grin, lest it land me back in pervert territory.

  She smiles back, and her eyes tell me all I need to know—it was me she was hoping to meet. And here we are, like it’s goddamned fate or something.

  Just like that, I am intrigued.

  Something about this girl hits me in the right way. I sense she may not be in my bed because of my fame. Maybe she simply likes the way I look, nothing more than that. It’d be refreshing if she has no agenda, no long game of landing a hockey player for a boyfriend or a husband.

  Over the course of the next few minutes, we don’t utter a single word. And it’s not even weird. Even when we let our eyes do all the talking.

  I kind of like you, Mystery Woman.

  I sort of like you too.

  You look really good in my bed, kind of like you belong here.

  I could stay a little longer, if you want?

  Okay, that last one is a reach, but it’s what I’m hoping she’s communicating.

  Is there a connection developing between us?

  Yeah, I think so.

  Until, suddenly…

  A look of horror dawns on her face. Everything in her expression suddenly screams you are not the guy I thought you were!

  No more eye-talk. I flat-out ask, “What’s wrong? What just happened here?”

  She backpedals away from me to more than halfway across my king-size bed.

  What the hell?

  Feeling under the comforter, and then what looks to be up under her dress, she gasps, “Where are my panties? You didn’t take them off me last night, did you?”

  “What?” I’m aghast. “Fuck, no.”

  Still, she persists, “If you did, that’s really creepy. And I totally want them back.”

  Okay, now I’m aggravated. We just went from something nice to something shitty. I shouldn’t be surprised. If it’s not a girl with an agenda, it’s a fucking psycho. I have the worst fucking luck when it comes to women. That’s why I simply love ’em and leave ’em. It’s just easier that way.

  “I swear I didn’t take your stupid panties off you,” I snap. “I get enough pussy on my own, thank you very much. And to clarify, that would be conscious pussy. I certainly would never stoop so low as to undress a passed-out girl for a free peek.”

  Eyeing me like I’ve just been placed on a sex offenders list—hers—she asks in a snarky tone, “Well, what happened to them, then?”

  “Shit, I don’t know.”

  Okay, enough. Pretty or not, connection or not, I’ve had enough. I obviously misjudged her. She’s one of the crazy ones, like foot-licker. Why do so many of the hot ones turn out to be psychos?

  Who cares? my dick interjects. Let’s fuck her, anyway.

  “Shut up,” I mutter.

  “Did you just tell me to shut up?”

  “What? No.”

  Psycho Girl—who’s gone from Mystery Woman to Crazy Town territory—scrambles from my bed. She just about falls off the edge in doing so, but once she’s standing she spins back to face me, hands on her hips.

  Glaring at me like I’m the devil, she snaps, “You had to have taken my panties off me. I have no memory of taking them off on my own.”

  Fuck, she won’t leave this alone.

  “I told you I don’t have your goddamn underwear.” I let out a sigh. “But you know what?”

  She cocks her head. “What?”

  “I think it’s time for you to go.”

  “Oh, that’s just great,” she fumes, flashing eye-daggers my way. “You not only steal my panties but now you’re kicking me out of your house. To go forth in the world underwear-less! You’re a real prick, you know that?”

  I hold my tongue. I’ve learned it’s best not to rile the psychos. And this one is clearly bat-shit nuts.

  Still, I can’t resist a little fun, seeing as she’s hating on me big-time now anyway.

  Grasping my morning wood under the covers, the clear outline giving her an idea of just how big I am, even semi-hard.

  —Semi-hard, you ask? How can that be?

  What can I say? My dick likes conflict.—

  I raise a brow and smirk at her. “Hey, I bet I know what happened to your stupid panties.” She gawks at me—and als
o at my dick—as I clamor on. “I think you took your own panties off last night, hoping to get some of this.” I wiggle my junk for effect. “And let me tell you, honey. You wouldn’t be the first to do something like that.”

  Scrunching up her face, but not before adjusting her glasses and surveying my cock once more, she hisses, “You are such a pig.”

  “Oink,” I reply.

  She throws up her hands. “God, get me out of here.”

  “Gladly.” I let go of my dick and reach over to the nightstand for my cell. “Let me call you a car.”

  “Don’t bother.” Psycho Girl grabs her purse from the floor and, whipping out her own phone, politely informs me, “I’m perfectly capable of calling for my own ride.”

  “I was trying to be nice,” I grind out between clenched teeth.

  This chick is making me nuts. Her strain of crazy must be contagious.

  “I don’t need your twisted version of nice, Panty Stealer.”

  “Whatever,” I mutter. “If you want to call for your own car, knock yourself out, honey.”

  Walking backward toward the door, she points at me and warns, “Quit calling me honey.”

  As she turns, hand in the air, ready to dismiss me all haughty-like, she clumsily trips over what appears to be her discarded pumps.

  Chuckling, I can’t stop myself from blurting out, “Watch your step, honey.”

  “Go fuck yourself, whatever-your-name-is.”

  Oh my God, she really doesn’t know who I am. This is classic.

  “Whatever you say, tough girl,” I reply.

  “Ugh!” She’s spitting mad now, and spouting off the weirdest things, like, “I hope you get hit in the head with a fly ball. I hope a wild pitch takes out your junk.”

  “Huh?”

  Does she think I play professional baseball? Wherever would she get an idea like that?

  Suddenly, I start laughing at the utter absurdity of this entire morning. Of course, she thinks my amusement is directed at her.

  “Stop laughing at me,” she snaps.

  That just makes me laugh harder. I’m not laughing at her, though. I swear I’m not. I just find this whole ridiculous encounter wildly entertaining. How often does a bona fide psycho, one who thinks you play baseball, end up in your bed?