by Avery Flynn
He hovered near the staircase for a few moments, expecting that was the best way to catch her, and it wasn’t long before he was rewarded. She emerged from a room farther down the hallway, frowning when she saw him.
He moved to meet her. “Where are you staying?”
“Here.” She grimaced, probably not intending to be so forthcoming, and that made him smile. With a nervous motion, she smoothed her hands over her skirt, a voluminous crimson affair that hit above her knees.
It would look mighty fine up around her hips.
He gentled her back into the room she’d exited, a bathroom, and shut the door behind him.
“We need to talk, Addy.”
Green almond-shaped eyes flashed fire. “No, we don’t. I told you nothing would happen again. It wouldn’t have anyway, and it especially won’t now.”
“Not sure I can be satisfied with that answer.” He leaned in and inhaled her. Something sweet and floral. Very sexy. “Can you?”
“The others . . . we have to get back . . .” She loosed a growl of annoyance, tinged with something like helplessness. “You need to let me go.”
Hell. He wasn’t in the habit of forcing unwanted attentions on a woman. Crowding her like this was inappropriate, so he stepped back, creating a clear path to exit.
“I’m sorry. I just—Addy, I needed to touch you. See if you were real. Imagining your taste has left me with no appetite for anything else. I’m sure the dinner is great, but damned if I know.”
Thoughts chased each other across her face before finally settling on determination. Shit, he’d blown it by coming on so strong.
Her hand strayed to the doorknob, a subtle shake in it, and she paused. With her other hand, she placed gentle fingertips on his chest, then flattened her palm against him. Like she was checking if he was real. Her heat through his shirt burned him with her brand.
“This is all wrong,” she whispered, her eyes wild with emotion. “Do you realize you’re putting your career in jeopardy or,” her brow crimped, “or is this some weird strategy to get one over on my ex?”
Anger flared. He grasped her hips and pulled her close until she was right against his “strategy.”
“Does that feel like I care about my career?”
The words coming out of his mouth made no sense. In this moment, there was no Cup or Rajuns or Michael Babineaux. There was only her.
She was breathing heavily, the rise of her breasts straining against a top that covered her all too well, but fired his imagination and memories of her as the pin-up of his fantasies. He wanted those tits filling his mouth until he came from her taste.
Bright eyes beating with desire, she strained closer, as if she couldn’t help the movements of her body.
“Fuck, Addy, what are you doing to me?”
“I—I can’t think around you.”
Neither could he, and he suspected clarity would not help this situation any. He grasped her ass and yanked her hard against him, then he made sure his mouth gave her something to think about. Her lips moved softly against his, then opened to accept him, her tongue’s velvet slide whipping up spirals of need throughout his body. The taste of her blew his mind, a million times better than his brain could have imagined.
And he’d spent close to twenty-four hours in a fever of imagining.
She clutched at his button-down. He’d debated getting dressed up and now he was glad he had, because a woman like this would be used to a sharp-dressed man. She wouldn’t stand for a scruffy skater on her arm.
Not sure why that thought had even entered his dumb brain, he aimed for dumbing down his brain even further in the pursuit of mindless pleasure. The kiss dragged him in, pushed him under, ruined him for all others.
They parted, both of them panting hard. Her full, soft breasts smashed against his chest. He liked that she was tall and they aligned in all the right places.
“What are we—? Oh, God.” Those eyes shone like big headlights.
“Call me Ford, Bright Eyes. Say my name.”
“No.” She dug into his shoulders, an additional marking. Every touch was a barb under his skin that couldn’t be detached. “No names. No cutsey monikers. It’s bad enough what happened last night. There wasn’t supposed to be a follow-up. It was supposed to end on a nice note and—”
“A nice note, Addy? You’re calling the best orgasms we’ve ever had nice?”
She canted her head, wryness in the motion. “Speak for yourself, Callaghan.”
His last name, but a victory nonetheless. He loved how she was trying her best to stand up to him, grasping at the straws of her slipping control. She wouldn’t be a pushover, not like the women who hung out at bars close to the arena looking to get laid by a champion.
“Tell me that wasn’t the hottest thing you’ve ever done, Addy.” He backed her against the vanity. As befitting a fixture in a mansion belonging to Harper Chase, it looked plenty roomy for what he’d love to do. Marble, too, so all class. “Tell me touching yourself while I stroked one out in the dark didn’t take you to places you’ve never traveled before.”
She bit down on her lip, let the moment ride. Like she was thinking back to her résumé of orgasms and weighing last night’s against them.
Maybe that one? No, not as intense.
Maybe that time when he . . . ? No, not as explosive.
Maybe the . . . ? Oh, not even close.
Too fucking right. He couldn’t help the smile that conquered his face.
“Quit looking so damn smug.”
He curled a hand around her neck. “Ain’t smug if I’ve got the tools to back it up, now, is it?” A roll of his hips against hers made it clear he had the tools.
She groaned at the connection, at the blatant display of his need. This is how much I want you, baby.
Pulling at his collar, she drew him close to her mouth. “I’m going to regret this—” And then she ended that sentence with a searching kiss filled with heat and not an ounce of regret.
Backed-into-a-corner Addy kissed pretty damn fine, but all-in Addy was another thing entirely. A force of nature, a typhoon in this tiny space.
Another hook into his soul.
Fuck. Me.
“Please. Oh, God, please, I need . . .” He thought she meant for him to touch her, but she grasped at the zipper to his jeans and pulled it down. She was that desperate to get her hands on his dick and hell if that didn’t make him as hard as the marble he wanted to fuck her on.
Her hand shook as she yanked his jeans south, his boxer briefs with them. He didn’t help her, even though every urge in him wanted to hurry this along. The winning urge, however, wanted her to make the decisions. No one would be confused later about the choice made here.
His would be the name on her lips when she came. His touch alone would bring her the satisfaction she craved.
She gripped the erection she’d sprung free and inhaled a wobbly breath.
“This is what I missed last night.”
Christ, she was touching him at last. “It missed you. Needed you. Imagined your hand stroking hard while I tongued between your legs. Reality is a million times better.”
Her eyes flipped up from watching her hand do exactly what he’d imagined. Blood surged through his body at what he saw in her gaze. The power she harnessed, now that she’d accepted his desire for her, was an unstoppable force.
With her eyes locked on his, she continued to work him, using the pre-cum beading from his crown to ease the glide of her soft hands.
Yeah, reality was beating fantasy into submission.
“Addy,” he grunted, then yanked at the folds of her skirt, pushing it up over her hips while at the same time seating her on the vanity. The pretty cream fabric shielding her core wasn’t wispy or transparent, yet he knew it wouldn’t hold up under his assault. He could rip it but it felt like some sort of sacrilege.
She was watching him carefully, and he hazarded a guess why. “Your design?”
“Yes. Seamless
hipster with lace trim.” She urged him forward, her hand still gripping him, his cock on her leash, and painted a line of his pre-cum along the fabric, right where the crease of her pussy would be if she were bare. There was something unbelievably sensual about the fact this was happening against a beautiful thing she had created. Those sexy panties she’d designed, the ones covering her curves, now wore his mark.
It felt like they were making something together.
“Jesus.” The sensation of the soft, silky material against his cockhead was exquisite. Or maybe it was the fact she was dragging it back and forth, using him to get herself stoked.
He was going to blow if he didn’t get inside her soon. “Now.”
Maneuvering her body to get better access, he dragged the panties down and it was just as she’d described, a little landing strip, but better, so much better, because she was here consuming his every sense.
“Tell me you have a condom.”
“I have a condom.” He un-pocketed his wallet and extracted the foil. While he smoothed it on, she watched approvingly.
“Take off your shirt,” she whispered, and because he would have done a jig if she asked him to, he peeled it off.
Her hands flew to his pecs, coasted across his shoulders. “So big,” she murmured. She trailed soft fingertips down his arms until she reached his hands. Against his left, she measured her own palm. It barely made up half the surface area of his hand.
“I hoped they’d be big. I hoped you’d be big everywhere.” Her sleepy-lidded gaze dropped to his jutting cock, huge and ready for her. It felt bigger than it ever had, engorged by the sight before him and the need pumping through his body like rocket fuel.
With the big hands she liked, he pulled her to the edge of the vanity, nudging against her slick entrance before he drove in deep and true. Just the sheer greedy-hot grip of her dragged a roar from him.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she panted.
He withdrew and plunged again, balls deep, mesmerized as her eyes exploded into mini-suns of passion. Alternating between watching her and watching his cock disappear inside her was incomparable. Need had a catch on him, keeping him in a state of “fuck her to oblivion or die in the process.” Either result would be fine as long as he could feel her walls milk him to an explosive end.
This was where he wanted to be. This was what he’d been holding out for, the connection he’d longed for. This. And still, it didn’t feel deep enough. He cupped one perfect ass cheek, strayed his hand to the back of her thigh, and lifted to increase the angle of penetration. Only an extra inch, but it sent her eyes rolling to the back of her head.
“Jesus, that’s . . .” Her admiration was cut off by another punishing thrust. So deep. So tight. The slick sound of juicy suction filled his ears, as did the heightening octaves of her groans.
Watching that plunge home again and again, each withdrawal showing his dick coated with her desire for him, made him wilder than he’d ever been for a woman. Was it the taboo they were breaking? Who they were to each other? Where they had chosen to fuck hard, wet, and deep?
As if there’d been a choice.
Because there wasn’t for him. That voice and dry wit of hers had drawn him in and nothing could have stopped him from joining his body to hers in reality. Not her identity. Not a dinner table spat about gender politics that turned him on more than off. Not this inescapable breach of guest etiquette.
He wanted her, he was having her, and he would have her again.
“Please. Ford. Too much,” she moaned. “Too much.”
Placing the heel of his hand over her clit, he pressed with an upward stroke that sent her crashing over with a scream that must have shattered the chandelier in Harper’s salon. The resulting clamp around his cock almost killed him—he held on a moment to delay because it kept him buried in heaven, and then he let go. Pounding the orgasm out of her to prolong her high, and taking his own as a reward for bringing them both so much pleasure.
6
Addison walked into the kitchen at chez Chase and almost buckled under the all-seeing gaze of Harper. Her friend stood at the kitchen island, dressed in tailored city shorts, a sleeveless teal silk blouse, and Cole Haan peep-toe wedges. No such thing as schlubbing on the weekend for Harper—she was ultra conscious of the image she had to maintain as an almost-CEO of an almost-world-class sports brand. Addison, on the other hand, preferred yoga pants and T-shirts on her days off. People never recognized her with her clothes on, anyway.
“Morning,” she murmured and headed to the Keurig. Hmm, lots of lovely flavors . . .
“How does it feel?” her friend asked.
“How does what feel?”
“Ford Callaghan’s massive—”
“Harper . . .”
“Stick,” she finished with malevolent glee.
“I should never have said a word to you.” Addison grabbed the almond mocha K-cup and popped it into the cradle of the machine.
“You had no choice. When a woman returns to the dinner table with stubble rash and a look of immense satisfaction, quickly followed by a man who is a lot smugger than a guy in my house has a right to be, she can hardly expect to get away without a little interrogation.” She cupped her mouth with her hands. “So, you know when I said stick, I meant cock, right? That’s hockey humor.”
Addison skewered her with a look over her shoulder. “Your grandparents would turn in their graves if they could hear your language, Harper Chase.”
“Are you kidding? Nana taught me all the best swear words before the age of five. She wanted me armed for the playground. And stop trying to change the subject.”
“It was a one-off. Won’t be happening again.”
Of all Addison’s friends, Harper understood best the danger she courted by getting involved with a player on her ex-husband’s team. Michael might not have the legal grounds to fire Ford, but he could make things very difficult for his star right winger.
Harper studied her. “It is a rather awkward set of circumstances, I have to say.”
“Even without the obvious problem of Michael being his boss, I’m not looking for a relationship right now. I want to focus on the new line, on getting settled in Chicago. Dating is not on my agenda—”
Harper scoffed.
“Dating,” Addison insisted, “is not on my agenda. Not with balding accountants, and especially not with a big brute of a hockey player who’s old enough to be my . . . younger brother.”
“He’s what? Twenty-six? Six years is nothing. You’re only as old as the man you’re feeling up. Besides . . .” She hesitated.
“Besides what?”
“You like him. I could tell at the dinner table before you sullied my first-floor guest bathroom with your hot ‘n’ heavy fuckfest. When’s the last time you actually liked a guy?”
Addison blushed, though she wasn’t sure if it was Harper’s salty language or the accusation of liking Ford. She did like him.
“I don’t know a thing about him.” Except for what was on his Wikipedia page, which she’d read three times last night, along with a shit ton of media coverage he’d garnered in the last few years. He’d built an amazing career since being drafted for Philly eight years ago, though he was with the New Orleans Rage for only one amazing season when everything had come together and they’d gone all the way. Their paths had never crossed. She liked to think she would have remembered those soft, chocolate-drop eyes, the messy, rakeable hair, and his goofy-cocky grin. After her divorce, she’d put herself on a media embargo regarding all things related to Michael. No hockey, no sports pages, nothing.
“What do you want to know?” Harper considered her shrewdly, a glint of mischief sparking her eyes.
“Nothing. I don’t want to . . .” She stopped, remembering something from the Wikipedia page. Something that gnawed at her. “He had a brother who died.”
“Paul Callaghan. Best NCAA center I’ve ever seen, number-one pick in the draft that year. Toronto got him but he nev
er even saw a game. Traffic accident the night before he was due to start.”
How awful. But there was more. Ford and another brother had been in the car. The other brother—Jackson?—was injured as well. A promising talent, the news articles reported at the time, but there was no mention of him making it to pro level.
“Ford was driving,” Addison said, repeating what she’d learned online. He would have been young, sixteen years old. Old enough to drive but not old enough to weather what came after. That must have been gut-wrenching for him.
“I’ve no doubt it was,” Harper replied.
So Addison had spoken that aloud. But it needed to be said, didn’t it?
“And now he has the Cup,” Harper added when Addison remained silent.
Addison stared at her friend. “Hardly a consolation.”
“You’d be surprised,” Harper said, her voice taking on a firm quality while her thoughts seemed to send her somewhere beyond the room. “Winning wipes out a lot of pain.”
“Go for the face, boys.”
Jackson’s voice was barely audible over the shouts of Ford’s three nephews as they tackled him to the ground. He’d considered bringing the Cup for a visit but now he was glad he hadn’t. Not that the trophy couldn’t handle it—that hunk of metal got a serious pounding on the post-Finals tour every year—but these kids might have bonked their heads or cut their lips. Ford couldn’t stand the notion of them getting hurt.
He lay still in the grass on his brother’s front lawn in Bridgeport on Chicago’s South Side, enjoying the moment of normalcy before he had to sit up and face the obvious tension when you don’t visit your family much—or ever.
Seven-year-old Coby sat on his chest while Petie, eight going on eighty, had Ford pinned by the arm. Mikey, just turned six and the smartest one, was already unzipping Ford’s duffel looking for the goods. He whipped out a Rajuns jersey.
“Aw, this is so cool, Uncle Ford!” His bright eyes sparked anew with each additional team member signature he came across on his visual journey from neck to hem.
