by Avery Flynn
He framed her face with his hands in that possessive way she never thought she’d like. “I’m not ashamed.”
She couldn’t look away from him, but that didn’t stop her from trying to hide some of the sheer tenderness that threatened to swell its way through her skin. “I don’t want my mom to see us.”
His mouth curled into a smile. “Valid point.” He stood up, dusted the back of his jeans, and reached his hand out to her. “Come on.”
As they walked back to his room, Dahlia was quiet at Anders’s side. It wasn’t an easy sort of silence. It was the kind of not-talking that said more than words usually did. And it made him anxious.
“Did I do something wrong?”
She stopped short and shook her head until strands of her hair stuck to her mouth. He turned and pulled a bit of hair behind her ear. A kind of proprietary energy welled up in him every time she was near. He had to have more of her.
And talking to her up on the boulder brought him more clarity than months moping around alone, going through the motions of PT, and doubting himself.
“Then why are you so quiet?” He missed her busting his balls, but she’d kissed him like she was dying—or like he was dying—and then wouldn’t talk to him. “I don’t want to mess things up for you here, but we don’t have enough time together.”
“How much would be enough?” The vulnerability in her voice made him feel about ten feet tall.
He didn’t dare give her the real answer, that he wasn’t sure that there would ever be enough of the two of them. He said, “I think we should experiment and see.” He grabbed her hand and touched his forehead to hers. “Come to me in New Orleans.”
A fine tremble went through her. “Yes.”
The silence during the remaining short walk to his room wasn’t filled with tension. It was ripe with the knowledge that he’d have her again, that he wouldn’t have to gorge himself on her for one last night. Still, he planned to use their last night together to convince her that giving him a chance was the right decision.
He didn’t know if he had what it took to be a great boyfriend, but he would try. If she could stick with him during the season—especially this one—then maybe he could give her everything during the off-season. By this time next year, maybe they’d be in Paris together. He’d rent a place and find a spot to train while she cooked. He’d be in their little rented apartment waiting for her every night. He’d wake up with her curled next to him every morning, and he’d make her give him those breathy moans and sighs he’d never known he’d needed every morning.
When the door snicked closed, he pressed her up against it, burrowing his hands under her t-shirt, near-desperate to get his hands against her skin.
She hissed and arched her body into his. He set about laying her open with his kiss, gentling her fears with his touch. He knew that it was risky for her to trust again after the guys she’d opened up to had thrown all her gorgeous vulnerability back in her face. But he would give her no reason to lose faith in him, like he knew he was right to place his trust in her.
She traced the muscles of his shoulders with her strong yet delicately shaped fingers, as if she needed to assure herself that he was strong enough to hold her. Her touch sent an electric charge through his skin that found its way straight to his cock. Having Dahlia had turned on a faucet of lust inside him that flooded everything in him.
He turned her for the couch and rethought his decision. When they broke for air, he motioned towards the loft bedroom. “What I’m going to do to you, I’m not going to do in front of the Cup.”
She laughed, sort of raspy, coughing thing that shouldn’t have turned him on more, but did.
She ascended the stairs in front of him, and the sway of her hips made the pain in his knee go away entirely. With her back still to him, she pulled off her t-shirt. He couldn’t help but reach out and touch the muscles and ink she revealed. This wasn’t the last time, he was sure of it. But it might be the last time for a while, and he wanted to make sure he didn’t forget an inch of her body. He’d need something to think of when he took care of himself before she came to him.
He pressed himself to her back and unbuttoned her jeans. Her hand fluttered over his for a second, and he spread his palm over her belly, feeling the heat of her and edging his pinky finger under her waistband. Almost unconsciously, he rubbed his cock against her supple ass until she let her head fall back onto his shoulder, eyes closed and lips parted.
She was completely vulnerable to him this way, and he stared down the slopes and valleys of the front of her body, unsure as to whether he’d ever seen anything so beautiful. His family had always raved about the scenery up here, but that wasn’t the draw for him.
He could give a shit if the lake drained itself and the trees disappeared—as long as he could look at Dahlia like this.
Open and waiting for him. He pushed her jeans and panties down her hips and molded her hips with his palms until she squirmed against him. He grabbed the cord at the side of her neck with his teeth, hard enough to make another mark before he dipped his fingers into the center of her, feeling her more than ready for him.
He turned her in his arms, and she swayed slightly on her feet. It filled him up with more lust to realize that he did this to her. She looked intoxicated, like she’d had a case of beer instead of just one. Anders never thought he’d be able to command this type of lust from anyone—not his money, fame, his looks—him.
“Why are you smiling like that? Neither of us has come yet.” Dahlia’s words were lazy and soft.
“Soon.” He dropped his hands. “Undress me.”
Her throat moved as she gulped, and she lifted her still shaking hands to the hem of his shirt. He liked that he made her unsteady because that was how he felt inside when he was around her. Years of playing in high-pressure situations enabled him to push down the outer signs of nervousness, but it was always there, inside. Some players had lucky gloves or shirts or elaborate pre-game rituals. He’d had none of that. The only thing between him and a mental breakdown all these years had been his control. He’d erected an icy barrier to any possibility, and it had worked. Until now.
She pulled his shirt over his head and undid his jeans. When she went to her knees gracefully to push his pants and boxers down, he wanted to drop his head back and yell. But he couldn’t stop looking at her. She coasted her fingers over the small scars from the surgical repair to his knee.
Her attention there made him feel raw and scraped open, but he didn’t stop her. Fortunately for him, she didn’t linger. She stared at his cock with a hungry look in her eyes. He didn’t know if he’d ever get over the wonder that she wanted him enough that she’d get him off with no consideration for her own pleasure. This prickly girl, named after an exotic, untouchable flower, wanted him so much.
She glanced up at his face, as if she was asking permission, and something took hold. He didn’t want her mouth, he wanted the center of her. He nodded to the bed and she smiled.
“Hop on.”
“I thought you liked me on my knees?”
“I do, but that’s not what I want right now.” She crawled up on the bed, giving him a show of her gorgeous backside. He reached out and palmed on her cheeks, making her start and gasp. “Turn around.”
She immediately complied and draped herself across his bed like the feast that she was. He ran a hand down the center of her chest and kept going until his fingers found her pussy. He rubbed her clit for a long moment, until she stirred her hips and threw her arms over her face. The skin of her chest reddened, and he knew she was close to coming.
“You should come now.” She shook her head from side-to-side, fighting the orgasm he wanted to give her. She was always fighting people wanting to give her things. He liked that she was self-sufficient and didn’t want to take any handouts, but he wanted to give her everything, and as many orgasms as she could imagine was just the start.
Here, where it was the two of them, he’d teach her ho
w to take. And then she’d give to him right back.
9
All of Dahlia’s reservations about spending one last night with Anders flew out the window the second he’d cupped her face in his hands, searching for and finding the very core of her. In that brief moment, seeing him question himself had made her believe that she wanted a future for them beyond tonight.
If she explained about the check, he’d understand. Wouldn’t he? Sure, it would have been better had she stopped him on the path to his room and spilled the truth, but the moment between them stretched so perfectly that she couldn’t bear to ruin it.
At least that’s what she told herself when she was laid across his bed, letting him touch her everywhere, fighting off the pleasure that came as naturally as a summer thunderstorm whenever his hands were on her.
“Your skin is petal soft.” His voice was distant and filled with a kind of wonder that she’d never heard from a lover. “It makes sense you’re named after a flower.”
She’d been trying to be hard for her entire adult life, and she could stop when it came to Anders. It filled her with awe and tenderness on top of the avalanche of lust she couldn’t get out from under.
In a few days, he knew exactly what to say to her and how to touch her. When he’d sat down at her bar, looking sad and lonely, something in her universe had clicked into place for the first time.
Fire flashed under her skin, and a ball of heat centered on her clit burst. He kept touching her as the orgasm crested until she wanted his touch anywhere but there. She felt rung out and wide open, as though she’d had a good cry.
He moved up the bed, and kissed her neck, his voice deep and sure, uttering nonsense words like perfect, lovely, and mine.
She didn’t know how long they lay there, touching and kissing and brushing body parts against each other. But she couldn’t keep her hands away from his cock for long even though he seemed content with less than everything she needed from him.
“Anders?”
He propped himself up at her side and looked down at her. His ice-blue eyes were more like the gas lighting a stove than the winter sky, and they bored through her. Maybe she could get used to the way he paid attention to her, but she wasn’t sure. It could be years, and he could still make her skin pink from a look.
“Yeah?” She didn’t know why he looked so happy, couldn’t explain the lazy smile across his face.
And she couldn’t help the matching, stupid smile that crossed her mouth. “Are you going to fuck me anytime soon?”
“You don’t like to take your time with anything, do you?” He bent and licked the shell of her ear. “Don’t you think the best things are worth waiting for?”
Fuck, he meant her. For him, she was worth waiting for. The size of him saying that she was worth the grief he’d gotten from the media, the taunts from his teammates, the bounty, floored her. If she hadn’t been flat on her back she would have fallen over.
At the same time, his admission didn’t bolster her patience. She hooked his thigh with her leg and flipped them over so she was on top of him. “You don’t have to wait anymore.”
She ran her hand over his cock, but he winked at her as if he weren’t painfully hard. “Then, by all means, have your way with me, woman.”
He made her feel like a woman. Alone, with him, she was more than a failed chef, a disappointing daughter, the town bike. She was fresh and new again.
She rubbed herself against him, teasing them both now that she was in control of when and how he got inside her. It was her turn to take her time, until he nudged her with his hips.
Finally, she sunk onto his cock. At first, neither of them moved, the shift from two bodies to one taking a moment of adjustment. Then she rocked her hips against him, holding onto his torso for balance and leverage.
In moments, they found a rhythm, and rocked and rolled together until she was arching her back, bracing for another climax. His hands were everywhere. When he took one of her nipples between two fingers, she broke again.
“So pretty.”
She was sure it wasn’t pretty being turned inside out by the last man she should ever let herself get involved with, but she didn’t correct him. Not that anything that came out of her mouth at that moment made sense—she was too busy having her own out-of-body experience.
Before she finished, he took her hips and fucked her like he needed to come. She leaned back onto his thighs, letting him have her. She didn’t flinch when he cupped her throat with one hand to keep her in place. From anyone else, it would make her feel hemmed in and controlled. With Anders, feeling him take control of her body was delicious.
When he finally came, the rush of heat inside her melted the last of her resistance to him. She never expected to fall for a someone like him—she’d honestly never expected to fall for anyone. But he was different from anyone she’d ever known. He was steady, but he still made her laugh. He’d been a virgin, but he knew how to turn her on and make her come harder than anyone. He played hockey, but he wasn’t a douchebag.
She looked down at him, his eyes closed and his breathing still ragged. Touched his lips with her own.
He said one word, one she hadn’t been sure she’d heard before, mine, as though it was a seal.
Anders Sorenson wanted her to belong to him. And, to her surprise, she very much wanted that to be true.
10
Anders had always slept hard after a tough training session. When he woke up the morning after he’d claimed Dahlia as his own on the night after she’d relieved him of his v-card, he felt as though he’d run every drill in the book the entire day before. His body was wrecked, but he hadn’t had this much energy in months.
And he wanted to jump on top of a table or a bar to tell everyone that he’d fallen for the sweetest, prickliest bartender named after a flower who’d ever lived.
The only thing wrong with how he woke up was that he as alone, and he didn’t hear Dahlia anywhere in the room. As mushy as it sounded, he missed her already. Even though he’d slept like the dead and long-buried, he missed the feel of her body curled up next to his. He wanted her raspy wake-up/fuck-me voice in his ear when Edwin Motz wasn’t looming over them with the Cup.
Fuck. Motz would be coming to get the trophy any minute. He’d pretty much decided to go back to hockey, and he didn’t want to spend any more time with the leering piece of shit, Motz. For an instant, he felt bad for thinking ill of a person he didn’t honestly know that well. But he banished his guilt when an image of the guy trying to get a glimpse of Dahlia’s tits flashed before his eyes.
He got out of bed and cleaned up, throwing on workout clothes. Although he was heading out today, he needed to double down on his rehab before getting back to New Orleans. If he wanted the doctor to clear him to start training with the team again, he needed to get serious. He e-mailed the team’s lead physical therapist, Etienne “Bayou” Beaufort, and asked if they could Skype sometime that morning.
The fire in his gut that had gone away when his knee blew out was back, and he had Dahlia to thank for it.
Over the years, one of his teammates had joked that he needed to “pop his cherry with a pretty candy striper, and get it over with.” Anders wasn’t dumb or shallow enough to think that finally getting laid was what had given him motivation to get better, but meeting the right woman had gone a long way towards crystalizing what he wanted his future to look like.
He was about to scroll through his e-mail and social media notifications when there was a knock on the door.
He kissed his fingers and then the Cup, and took a lingering look at the piece of metal. On its own, it had no meaning, but it held the weight of decades of tradition in the League, and all the sacrifices he’d made to win that thing with his team. Every family vacation, dance, milestone he’d missed because of his dream of winning this thing wasn’t worthless. But now that he’d met a woman who’d rocked his world, it didn’t mean everything anymore.
Even though he knew it was
Edwin at the door, he couldn’t help smiling at the thought of Dahlia standing there the other night. His smile didn’t fade when he opened the door to the Keeper.
“On the end table.” He motioned for Edwin to come in the room.
Edwin moved—slowly as usual—towards the Cup. He looked more shifty than usual, and that was saying something. “Do anything fun with it?”
Anders pushed his fists into the pockets of his sweatpants, unsure whether he should say anything to Motz other than “get out.” In the end, he was feeling magnanimous, and the guy already knew that the virginity bounty was a null and void proposition. What could a little bit of chit-chat hurt? “Nah. I didn’t really need it for what I thought I needed it for.”
Motz pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “What did you need it for?”
“To figure out if I wanted to go back.”
Edwin made a choking sound. “You weren’t going to go back? I mean, I’m sure the knee surgery was painful, but your chances of full recovery from that surgery were very high.”
Anders laughed. “Did research on it?” Wow, didn’t this guy have a life?
The other man was totally serious. “I modelled the probabilities myself.”
“I didn’t know if I wanted it anymore.” Anders’s words had Motz looking as though him not wanting to play professional hockey any more was completely unthinkable. “I do now, but not because of the Cup.”
“Is it because of that chef girl?”
He bristled at Motz’s tone and implication that Dahlia was “that chef girl.” He didn’t like her being described as that anything. “Listen, I really appreciate you not saying anything. That bounty is stupid, and you know privacy—”
“She hasn’t cashed the check yet.”
At first, Motz’s words did not compute. Of course Dahlia hadn’t cashed the check because Edwin hadn’t said anything, and there was no check. “What?”
Edwin blanched, and Anders realized he’d barked that word instead of speaking calmly.
