by Avery Flynn
“Michael James Callaghan,” Marcy yelled, “stop rifling through your uncle’s crap.”
“What’s rifling?” Coby asked.
Ford grinned at his sister-in-law. “It’s all right.” He’d seen the kids at away games in Chicago over the last couple years, but had missed watching them grow up, and there was something achingly everyday about how they made themselves right at home with his stuff. Guilt flooded his chest. That was on him.
All three signed jerseys had been pulled out along with his underwear, clothes, shaving kit, and . . . condoms. Marcy yanked the boys away with one hand and repacked his duffel with the other in that efficient way moms had. On depositing the condoms back in the bag, she smirked and he smirked right back, the good-natured exchange giving him a needed moment to get his shit together and face his brother.
They’d never been huggers, and they sure as hell wouldn’t be starting now. Jax held out his hand and Ford clasped it firmly, though his brother gripped harder, probably to prove something. At just twenty-eight, he was two years older than Ford but looked ten. Whiskey and kids aged a man something fierce.
“Thanks for letting me stay,” Ford said awkwardly.
Jax sniffed, and stared him down. “Where the hell else you gonna go when you come home? Some fancy hotel?”
Not going there.
Ford turned back to find Mikey and Coby carrying his duffel, looking like they might collapse under the weight of it. He moved in. “I’ve got that, fellas.”
Marcy held up her hand. “I can’t get them to do a lick of work. Let them do this.”
Two hours later, Ford pushed his empty plate a few inches forward, sat back in his chair, and rubbed his belly, the universal sign of contentment after a good meal. That lasagna was out of this world.
“Marcy, if you’re ever ready to leave all this, I’ll make room for you in NOLA.”
His sister-in-law chuckled, eying her husband slyly.
“Tempting. What do you think, Jax? Should I run off with your rich and famous brother?”
Jax circled his finger along the rim of the glass of pop. He hadn’t touched a beer or anything stronger in three years. “He wouldn’t know what to do with you. I never see him on TMZ with any models—something you want to tell us, Fordie?”
Ford laughed, enjoying this playful side of his brother. Felt like old times.
“Just not interested in some airhead piece of ass.” Oops, not very respectful toward women. He met Marcy’s eyes. “Sorry, Marce.”
“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to airhead pieces of ass everywhere who are missing out on all this.” She flourished a hand in his direction, drawing his chuckle. “But seriously, Ford. No one caught your eye?”
Oh, someone had. Someone who could be trouble for his career . . . but damn she was trouble wrapped in a sweet package. Those gorgeous curves filling his hands as he filled her body, and the way she’d responded when he sank into her—soft and sexy, surrender and a burgeoning awareness of her unique power. He didn’t think he’d forget that as long as he lived.
He really should stay away from her but he was having a hard time coming up with a God-honest reason.
“There is someone.” Marcy dropped to the seat beside him and rested her chin on her hands, eyelids fluttering madly. “A man only smiles like that when he’s thinking of a woman.”
Jax dipped his head with a not-so-furtive glance below the table. “What’s going on down south confirms it.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Ford bit out, but Marcy just laughed her head off. Nothing could shock this woman, not after everything Jax had put her through. They’d had some tough years while his brother looked for the solution to his problems in a bottle of Jack.
Recognizing that Ford wasn’t going to fess up about his mystery woman, Marcy sighed dramatically, stood, and walked to the bottom of the stairs. “Five minutes,” she shouted up, “and then you’d better be brushing your teeth or Uncle Ford’s gonna leave right now.”
Ford heard the scramble-pound of three sets of feet and the oomph of little brothers being tortured by bigger ones. It turned him inside out with memories of Paulie and Jax.
Marcy rolled her eyes indulgently. “I’d better make sure they get a move on.” She left the room, probably deliberately to give them privacy.
Ford slid a glance toward his brother, disappointed to find any trace of levity gone and in its place something he couldn’t quite label. No, that wasn’t right. Ford knew what it was. It was the same message that crossed his brother’s face anytime he looked at Ford.
You might have it all now, Fordie, but you fucked up big time on your way.
“Been a while,” Jax said.
Ford nodded. “Tickets were always waiting for you at the box office whenever I played in Chicago. While it’s great to see the kids and Marcy, I would have been thrilled if you came to see me.”
Jax stood and went to the fridge, holding the door open as if the mysteries of the universe could be unraveled with the explosion of light.
“Haven’t watched a game in ten years, live or on TV,” he said quietly. “Until six weeks ago.”
Ford’s breath caught. He knew how his brother felt about hockey. That pin in his leg reminded him every day how much he’d lost that night. Not just Paulie, the guy who could have been as good as Gretzky, but his own hopes and dreams for an amazing career.
“How’d I do?”
Jax grabbed a big bottle of Coke from the fridge, poured a half glass, then sat at the table again. Drawing it out, he was, and Ford waited, his heart in a stall.
“You had three shots to score in game three and two in five and you held back. You were always too tentative in the crunch.”
Okay. Ford accepted that. As kids, he’d paid more attention to Paulie because he was the oldest, and from mini-squirt all the way to junior AAA, he was the god who knew everything. But Paulie was dead and Jax had watched a hockey game for the first time in ten years.
Fucking hell.
“It’s faster than you think on pro ice.”
Jax’s eyes snapped up. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I didn’t mean—”
His brother waved it off, but Ford knew what he was doing. Controlling the conversation as he had done for the last ten years. Everything was on his terms because he was the aggrieved party.
“What, Fordie?” The query emerged dripping with sarcasm. “You too much of a big shot to take your brother’s advice?”
“You’re not giving advice. You’re picking a fight. But you can’t even do that right.” Ford blew out a breath.
Killing the number-one draft pick the night before he was due to start his pro career was not how Ford wanted to be remembered. When that pick was your oldest brother and you destroyed the future of your other brother in the process, that was an even harder pill to swallow.
The worst, though? Not only would Jax never forgive him, Ford would never forgive himself. That night, he’d lost both his brothers, not just one.
Ford looked around the homey kitchen, filled with cookbooks and pots, plants and bric-a-brac. Drawings and postcards clung tentatively to the fridge door with magnets, one of them with the Rajuns logo, a crawfish holding a hockey stick in its right claw and a beignet in the other. Dumbest logo ever. This place wasn’t unlike the house they’d grown up in four blocks over, though their parents were long gone. A fitting home for a man on a city-of-Chicago salary. The money Ford sent to Marcy was spent on the kids.
He’d buy his brother a mansion if he would accept it. He’d do anything to relieve his pain. Raw bitterness tinged the air between them. Ford would rather they fought it out, but he didn’t want to upset the kids or Marcy.
“How’s work?” Ford asked, though that was another minefield. Literally.
“Perfect. I finish filling in holes on one street then go back to the beginning and start over. Job security’s a cinch in the pothole capital of the United States.”
“You should be coaching over at
Rebels youth hockey camp. They’d have you in a heartbeat.”
Jax lifted his tee, showing how time had changed his formerly flatter-than-a-pancake abs. Once, you wouldn’t have found an ounce of fat on that big frame.
“Cut out the soda and don’t take an extra serving of Marcy’s lasagna and you’d be back in shape before you knew it.”
“Right. That’s all it takes. Didn’t ask for your advice.”
“You’ve no problem giving it to me when you’re watching my form.” Although Ford would prefer the rough criticism if it meant his brother talked to him again. He’d take that call after every game.
“Well, don’t worry, that’s the last time I watch. You’ve got it now.” It, being the Cup. It, being the life they’d all dreamed about every morning when they got up at four thirty to hit hockey practice before school.
“Jax—”
His brother held up his hand. “You stay out of my business and I’ll stay out of yours.”
He got up and blew the room, leaving Ford and his heart halfway to breaking.
7
Drinking alone was perfectly okay.
That ever-so-slightly judgy statement rang in Addison’s ears as she tipped a bottle of red into her empty glass for the third time in the last hour. It wasn’t her fault she was riding this fruity little number from the New World solo. Harper had abandoned her to attend some glitzy charity gala as Kenneth Bailey’s date. That guy definitely had his eye on her as the future Mrs. Bailey, though Harper insisted they were just friends.
Since the divorce, Addison hadn’t read a single word, seen a single picture, watched a single video of hockey even though she’d always loved the game. She and her brother Jamie were die-hard Spartans fans. Growing up in Brooklyn surrounded by the fan base of the rival Boulders, it was a risk they took. (And given the state of the Boulders these days, it was a risk that paid off.) So it was hard to give it up. But the thought of being faced with photos of Michael with a younger, slimmer model-of-the-week at every game had made the decision for her. Better for her sanity to totally exorcise him from her life, and hockey with him.
But after two years, she might be ready.
It wouldn’t have anything to do with Ford Callaghan.
Clicking through the online reports of the Finals, she was struck by how often the right winger appeared in photos. Perhaps she was just acutely conscious of his outsize presence now she had seen him naked. Felt him naked. Desperate to minimize the heat blazing across her body at the memory of his perfect, chiseled body, she took another sip of her wine. No dice. X-rated images played back relentlessly. His fingers kneading her ass, his whispered dirty talk in her ear, his hard length rooting deep inside her.
Moving on.
He had scored four goals during the series and had the record for assists in all seven games, despite that being more typical of a center. A giver, in every way. Zing! She watched a few videos, marveling at the easy grace of a man so large. Skating often gave that illusion, but she’d noticed it in him the night on the balcony. Fluid, not lumbering. A man at ease with his big body.
Lost in visions of Ford and the magic he could create with those wonderful hands, it took her a moment to realize the doorbell was ringing. She remained still. What the hell? There was no one in the house but her, and whoever was out there either wanted to see Harper or was cold-calling, neither of which Addison could help them with.
Ten seconds later, it rang again, and Addison imagined she heard urgency in it. A short blast—and there it was again. Longer this time, a burst of “I’m not moving until you acknowledge me.”
She walked to the foyer, slowly, not owing anything to the impatient caller, and silently hoping the time it took her to get there would be time used by the person on the other side of the door to just go away. Harper had a one-way video intercom near the door and Addison pressed the button to activate it.
Ford Callaghan stood on the doorstep, looking directly at the camera. Shit.
“Harper, I need to see Addy. Could you open up?”
Even through the barrier of technology, she could hear the hitch of desperation in his voice. He was upset.
She shouldn’t know that. She shouldn’t understand that nuanced change in the timbre of his voice, but she did. And that frightened her more than anything.
She also knew that if she opened this door, it could end only one way.
Just one more time. Once more to feel the pleasure only this man could give.
She pulled back the bolt, keeping her eye on the video to see if his expression changed. Looking for—ah, shit. Relief.
He stood on the doorstep, wearing jeans and a plain gray tee that was elevated to a work of art because of how lovingly it hugged his pectorals and broad shoulders.
“Callaghan, what are you—?”
She had no chance to finish because he took the words right out of her mouth. His lips crushed, his tongue twined with hers. There was no gentleness to it.
Somehow, she found herself three feet back in the foyer—he must have lifted all one hundred ninety-three pounds of her—with his hands on her ass. The door was kicked close. Damn, Harper would kill her if she found a boot print on that oak.
He was everywhere at once, but it wasn’t enough. She needed to reciprocate, so she grabbed his hair, his shoulders, and his ass to just plain indulge. That’s what she wanted to do—indulge in this delicious treat of Ford Callaghan. So, so bad for her but she’d spent her life defying convention for how a woman should look and behave. If ever there was a moment she should take pleasure as her right, it was now.
“Addy, baby . . .” He halted his kisses. “I needed to see you. Tonight . . . damn, tonight, I just needed to see you.”
In those frayed words, she heard hurt. Something had happened to bring him here tonight. He’d chosen her to medicate his pain.
Before she could ask more—why me? why now?—he yanked her leggings down and grabbed her rear hard enough to leave a mark. “Love this ass. Love how it feels.”
This ass. She should feel objectified. God knew she was fluent in the language of reduction to her measurements, her body parts, her so-called representation of BBW everywhere. But she was more. She knew that. She suspected Ford also knew it, but this rough, elemental version had primal desires that needed to be slaked.
This man wanted this woman. Needed her. In this moment, she was a great ass, stellar tits, and a riot of curves that pleased him.
As for how he pleased her? The man was six feet four inches of upright perfection. She pushed him back toward the door he’d slammed closed, stalking him with his T-shirt fisted in her greedy grasp. Over his head, she pulled and it got stuck for a couple seconds and he might have grunted at her enthusiasm—sorry, sorry, it’s okay—and then, it was definitely okay. It was more than okay.
She managed a sound. More akin to a gurgle, really, and she wasn’t particularly proud of it. But, you see, his chest had entered the scene from stage left and was stealing every line of her script. A sculpted model of beauty that gushed wetness between her legs.
He didn’t give her time to enjoy it because he was returning the favor, grabbing at her flimsy tank and tearing it apart. She would have just taken it off, if he’d asked or tugged, but his passion turned her on so much. She stood before him in tatters and her bra—not the prettiest one she owned but with breasts like hers, underwear couldn’t compete.
He fell to his knees.
Oh, that was good.
With hands in a possessive grasp of her ass, he positioned his mouth over her damp satin-covered mound and sucked through the fabric right at the cleft.
That was more than good.
Her groan emerged full-throated, like an animal’s.
Moving the fabric aside with his thumb, he licked, then seemed to realize that such limited access wasn’t enough. Those panties didn’t last another second.
Neither did her legs. Lingerie model down.
Luckily, there was a plush rug keepi
ng her ass from meeting cold tile, and now it was just a frenzy of how to get completely naked in four seconds flat. There, that, now, now. Off came her leggings, down came his zipper, on went a condom, and then—yes, yes, fuck, yes. One long thrust and he was inside her, the stretch of her muscles perfect, the way they fit together so, so right.
He set up a steady rhythm of push and pull, invasion and retreat, and how the hell had she gone from Internet surfing to fucking a hockey player on Harper’s Persian rug in the span of a few ragged breaths? Something had been set in motion that night on the balcony, and she wasn’t sure how to go back to before—or if she even wanted to.
She was hooked.
His mouth crashed down over the plush mounds above her bra cup, before he nudged the silky barrier aside and drew her nipple into his mouth. This new source of pleasure near killed her. His suckle on her breast, his plunder between her legs, and then one hand clasped to her ample ass and squeezed hard. His other hand moved to her throat, holding her with a sure, but gentle grip, his thumb moving up to force her lips apart to complete the pillage. She was entirely immobilized, every part of her in his masculine grip. His control was absolute, his need intense.
She loved it. She loved giving him this.
The thrusts became less smooth, more jerky, and she recognized he might not be in as much control as she’d thought. But then neither was she.
He unlatched his mouth from her breast and affixed it to a place much more dangerous—the lips that were about two seconds away from screaming his name. Making this personal. It wasn’t supposed to be this personal.
He’s inside you. That’s pretty damn personal, Addy.
Through soul-searing kisses and bone-melting stares, he pumped harder and faster, so hard and fast she worried he might burrow through to the wine cellar beneath their joined, sweaty bodies. A babble of mostly incoherent words gutted from him. She heard her name and “sogoodsogood” and then what was formerly the ass-owning hand became the clit-stroking hand. It glanced softly against her then pressed hard above the spot where they had become one and she left this world for another dimension.
