by Lia Riley
“Wow. There’s a sight,” Neve whispered.
Above them rose the soaring mountains that framed the valley’s box canyon, snow blanketing the rust-colored peaks, aspen forests devoid of leaves, gleaming like bone. A frozen waterfall hung suspended off a cliff. Maybe, just maybe, an avalanche would trigger right now and extinguish this mad hope.
“Another mistake. There were supposed to be two beds,” he said stiffly before she could accuse him of masterminding a hookup. It had been a while, but he’d never press his advantage.
“I’m not great at math but . . .”
“Shit.” His mouth dried at her teasing tone and he spun around, defensively raking a hand through his hair. “I feel like I brought you into a mess. First the shared room, now . . . this . . .” He waved his hand at the thick mattress that looked capable of handling the urgent thrusts of even the longest dry spell.
She didn’t look over. Frown lines bracketed her mouth as she reached out and touched the comforter as if it were dangerous. “Well, I’ll tell you what. After that drive, we need a drink and a nap.”
“I never nap.”
“Neither do I.” She shrugged off his glare. “But you just drove seven hours. And I spent six of them feeling fifty shades of warmed-over death. So I don’t want to stress over Bedgate. I do want to pop open that minibar, treat myself to a stiff drink and pass out until I wake up feeling vaguely human.”
“A plan that I can get behind. Two highballs coming right up.” He leapt into action and opened the fridge, peering inside. “Vodka. Check. Ginger ale. Check. We can pretend it’s a Moscow Mule.”
“It could be a Moscow Donkey Surprise and I’d be perfectly content.”
“You’re on.” It was exactly what he needed, a task. There were two tumblers on the desk. “I’ll show you a trick I learned on the road. Hold on a second.” After scooping them up, he went into the hallway, filled them with ice cubes from the closest machine and came back in. Neve sat on the edge of the bed, legs dangling, feet not quite touching the ground.
Her smallness intrigued him. It would be so easy to toss her against those goose-down-stuffed pillows, open her up and let her ankles dig into his shoulders while he drove in hard.
The easiest and hardest thing in the world.
The image of her perfect breasts arching up to meet his hungry mouth redirected a wave of blood to his cock. Before she could notice his hard-on, he strode into the bathroom, seeking out two smaller drinking glasses to finish the task at hand. Focus.
“You’ve got me all curious with this fancy-schmancy prep,” Neve announced as he came back.
“Nothing but the best for you.”
She mashed her lips, gaze riveted to his face. “Who are you and what happened to Tor Gunnar?”
“What do you mean?”
“If I looked up charming in the dictionary right now, your face might be staring back. I’m getting a glimmer of Rovhal30 with the daily jokes. Which were corny as a Kansas farmer, by the way.” A beat. “And I meant that as a compliment.”
He dropped his chin and poured the ginger ale into the vodka, trying not to fizz everywhere. Even though he had a hundred reasons not to smile, she gave him one.
When he placed the smaller glasses on top of the large tumblers, Neve gasped.
“Poor man’s cocktail shaker,” he confirmed. “Necessity is the mother of invention. And I’m on the road enough that I had to get creative.”
“You must miss it, right?” she asked as he mixed their drinks. “Your job? The games? The players? That road? The last two weeks must have felt strange. To put so much buildup and preparation in for a season, get started and . . . poof.”
“I miss it every second of every day,” he admitted, but didn’t let on the whole truth. He loved his job. He made no apologies for the fact that his work was his life. His passion. But whereas the lockout should be an exercise in torture, it hadn’t been as bad as he’d expected. He’d had a distraction. Her. “Try this.” He cleared his throat and passed her the glass.
“Yup. This’ll do nicely—delicious,” she said after a small sip, kicking off her snow boots to reveal a pair of brightly colored socks.
Socks that were . . .
“Yeah baby, feast your eyes.” She noticed his gawking and smirked. “Rainbow-shitting unicorns.”
“On your feet,” he deadpanned.
“Socks are one of my weaknesses.” She clicked her heels. “These happen to be my favorite pair.”
He took a long swallow of his own drink, shoulders dropping. “I don’t know what to say about that.”
She stared down at her feet, turning them left and right. “We are all allowed to have a vice. Quirky socks are mine.”
They cheers’d to that.
“What’s your guilty pleasure?” she asked in a mock-conspiratorial tone.
“Dark-haired journalists who bust my balls.”
“Hah, I wouldn’t quit your day job for stand-up comedy just yet,” Neve said after a short silence. After another sip, she set her glass on the nightstand, drew back the comforter and burrowed underneath. “Oy. What a day.”
He tensed. “What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like I’m doing? It’s nap o’clock. You’re . . . uh, well . . . welcome to join the party if you don’t mind dimming the light.”
Tor crossed the room and tugged the blinds back shut. The world disappeared and he was alone in an alternate universe comprised solely of a big bed and Neve Angel.
Chapter Eleven
A cool lick of air brushed Neve’s cheek as she stirred awake. The floor creaked and creaked again as if someone stealthily tiptoed across the old floorboards. But it couldn’t be Tor because he was here. Right here. A shiver ran up her spine before she slit one eye open. Her goose bumps were caused less from unease and more from something warm and molten.
Cheese and rice, how long had she been getting her cuddle on with Tor Gunnar? He was sprawled on his back, his face more relaxed than she’d ever seen in waking. In sleep, her own hand had found its way to his chest and currently rested over his heart, her head nestled in the crook of his shoulder. His blond spikes were mussed on top. And there was the matter of the tiny mole dotting the left side of his bottom lip.
She’d never noticed that mark, had never trusted herself to stare long enough to register all the little details in his face. To do so would be like staring straight into the sun. Even now, if she closed her eyes, this image, his face in repose, was probably seared on her retinas for all time.
“I’m not drooling, am I?” he rumbled. Not opening an eye.
“No. No.” She moved to draw back her hand and crawl to safer territory on her side of the giant bed. At the very least she should apologize for being all over him like a human barnacle.
Instead, he took her wrist and stopped her retreat, then slid his hand down until their fingers laced.
They were quiet, in bed and holding hands as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if beyond the drawn curtains a world didn’t exist that was black-and-white, where he wasn’t a head coach and she wasn’t the tough-as-nails reporter.
“You’re an octopus when you sleep,” he murmured. “An octopus genetically mutated with a honey badger.”
“It’s a bad habit.” Her nose wrinkled in embarrassment. “Breezy used to hate sharing a bed with me when we were younger. It’s annoying.”
“Not to me.” His Adam’s apple rose in a heavy bob.
She lay on her hip, her thigh casually slung over his waist. The evidence of just how much he didn’t mind her unexpected cuddling bored into her inner thigh.
His body went rigid as if he registered the hard-on at the exact same moment that she did.
“Neve.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t want to make this weird.”
“Too late.” She dared wriggle a fraction closer. “Don’t tell anyone but . . . I think we’re mutually weird.”
“Speak for yourself.” He squeezed her h
and and finally opened one eye. His pupil was large and dilated in the room’s shadows. “You talk in your sleep.”
“Sometimes.” Her cheeks heated. “I didn’t say anything terrible, did I?”
“My name.”
Shit a brick. She could never remember her dreams. Hopefully, she didn’t tack on anything dirty.
“But then you said, ‘Hold the pickles.’ So I don’t know how to take that.”
“Pickles?” Her mouth twitched. “Maybe you were making me another sandwich.”
A chuckle rumbled deep in the back of his throat. “Flattering.”
“Hey, it was a pretty darn good sandwich.”
He opened his other eye, and the force of his stare was seismic. Something shook her deep inside, setting off a core chain reaction that left her flushed and aching.
He mashed his lips before speaking. “I’ve been meaning to clear the air. I shouldn’t have kissed you in the bathroom the other day at The Watering Hole.”
She blinked as his words registered, her stomach flipping over. Her free hand slid to the edge of the comforter as the urge swept through her to duck and take cover. Here she was, so lost in this helpless wanting, her sensitive underbelly on full display. And he was about to let her down, remind her that she didn’t tempt him, that she never could—
“Because I’d been thinking about that kiss for a hell of a long time and it might have deserved a more upscale location.”
She swiped her top lip with the tip of her tongue. “Well, you didn’t hear it from me, but kissing burns six calories a minute. And I didn’t get any exercise on the car ride.”
His gaze darkened, tracing the shape of her mouth with such intense heat that it was a surprise her skin didn’t respond with a sizzling hiss. “The thing is, see, my thoughts never ended with just one kiss. I kept going. Tasting you . . . everywhere.”
Her nipples strained against her bra, volunteering as tribute. “All right, Mr. Big Talk. Are you going to show me or am I going to have to go home and lie in my diary?”
“That all depends,” he rumbled.
“On?” She was afraid to move, to breathe, to jinx the magic.
“Whether you want me to.”
Her core clenched.
“I want my mouth on every inch of that gorgeous body. But if I do that, I’m taking my time, doing it right until you scream my name. But I won’t lift a finger unless you beg.”
“A finger?” She pretended to think it over, like the scrap of lace masquerading as panties beneath her jeans hadn’t melted into a puddle. “If I’m going to be brought to my knees, I’ll expect more than one finger, just FYI.”
For a guy who had a reputation for being so cool, he had a heck of a smolder. “I can see about that.” She didn’t see him move, yet he was closer.
“Go on.” Closer still. His sexy-as-sin smile left her salivating. “Ask nicely.”
“No.” She leaned in and bit the corner of his lower lip. “Nothing about this is going to be nice.”
When they came together, it was like there’d never been any distance to close, like they’d never done anything else in their lives. Her mouth felt as if it had been made just for him. His lips fit against hers perfectly. When he coaxed, she opened and his tongue slid against hers, the heat of the kiss surging to the tips of her toes. She put her whole body into the answer. Her arms wrapped around his neck, his muscles bunching and cording beneath her fingers. He grabbed her hips and rolled her on top. The hard length of his cock drilled into her lower belly as he grabbed her ass and pressed her down hard.
This wasn’t soft.
This wasn’t romantic.
It was clawing. Savage. And fucking amazing.
His fingers worked their way up to the waist of her jeans and, dipping under, he paused.
“This is interesting.” His light snap of her panties’ elastic waistband made her gasp.
“And very tiny,” she teased.
His swallow was audible.
His hands migrated to her front, and with a quick button pop and zipper grind, her jeans came down. She kicked them off her ankles.
“Sit up. I want to see you.” His voice was deeper and rougher than she’d ever heard.
“Has anyone ever said that you are bossy?”
“Mostly you. I think you like it though.” He brushed his thumb along the seam of her pussy, encased in the pale pink silk, scorching her with his possessive gaze. “Not going to lie, it seems as if you like it. A lot.”
She was so wet that the material skimmed over her, his touch the lightest whisper of pressure against her clit. Her hands balled into fists and her head rocked back.
“Good?”
“Not bad,” she gasped.
“Still sassy.” He eased one finger inside her underwear, and inside her.
Good lord, she could hear it, the soft sucking sound of her own arousal. Her muscles tensed in expectation.
“You wanted more than a finger, right?” He joined it with another. That was good. Perfect, really. Enough that she felt full without being too stretched. His eyes glittered.
“Yes,” she gasped.
“Fuck, Neve.” He trembled. She felt it right there, at the core of herself, at the center of everything. He crooked the fingers up in a come-hither gesture and her body bowed.
“Take off your shirt,” he crooned.
She raised her brows, even as her hips began to rock as if of their own volition. “You first.”
“Now who’s bossy?”
“The way I see it, two can play at this game.”
“Fair enough.” He had to pull his hand free. She hadn’t thought it through, because that was the last thing she wanted.
He raised those fingers that had just been buried inside her to his mouth and slid them inside. “You taste better than I imagined,” he rumbled. “And believe me. I imagined.”
It was so sexy and filthy that she almost came from his words alone.
But then he unbuttoned his shirt and she forgot everything. How to breathe. Her own name. Sliding her hands down, she parted his shirt to reveal a smooth chest, a light dusting of hair framing each nipple. His chest was broad and his abs weren’t individually defined but flat and lean.
She circled his navel. Here it was—definitive proof he was a man, not a god. But good lord, he was beautifully made. She bent and licked the center of his chest, savoring the muscle with the flat of her tongue.
He frowned like thunder, a faint sheen of sweat at his temples. “Keep that up and you’ll be in trouble.”
“Good.” She licked again. “I like your version of trouble.”
It wasn’t clear who undressed who. Clothes came off in short order. It wasn’t until she went to slip out of her pale underwear that he stopped her. “No. Not those. Those I need to enjoy a little while longer. Then I’m going to rip them off with my teeth.”
She clenched her inner muscles and dropped her gaze to his boxer briefs, the erection straining the black cotton. “I can’t say the feeling is mutual.” She wanted him bare, Tor Gunnar in the flesh, and for her pleasure. A tug of the waistband and she had him exposed in all his glorious thick inches.
He was rock hard.
She did that to him.
He sucked in so sharply that his lower ribs stood in sharp relief. In her time working in the Hellions locker room, she’d seen many specimens of the perfect male form, in all their hard, chiseled, athletic glory.
But Tor, he managed to exude brute strength and arrogant confidence just by breathing. And yet stripped down, there was a whisper of vulnerability. Not embarrassment, just a sense that he was offering himself up, exposing more than just his body. He was the definition of a closed book and now here he was, cracking the cover and giving her a peek at who he was beneath.
She wasn’t sure what to make of it, but was certain of one fact: Good God, he was perfect. Cut and long. He was rock hard and it was all for her. She didn’t feel like an ugly duckling. She didn’t even feel like a
beautiful swan. The predatory hunger in his wolfish gaze made her feel like a sex kitten, ready to purr, to arch, to drag her claws down his back and mark her territory.
“I love you looking at me like that,” he murmured in a low, intense voice.
“Then you’re going to adore me after I do this.” She moved to lick his shaft but he pushed down on her shoulders, halting her mouth, mere inches away from her desired target.
“Damn it. No,” he rasped, even as his eyes were glazed and eager. His chest—sheeted in sweat—rose and fell in uneven breaths.
“You don’t want me to?”
“Not yet.” His head shake was short but definite. “I want to take my time with you. You touch me the way I am right now and it’s going to be over too soon. Not going to lie, it’s been a while for me.”
“Same.” She gave a frustrated laugh. “Look at us, arguing over oral.”
A flicker of provocative mischief crossed his face as he reached down and lifted her chin, drawing her away. “There is one solution. A win-win.”
She gave his gorgeous cock a longing glance. “I’m all ears.” A bead of precum gleamed from the tip, refracting light like a diamond.
“How are you at multitasking?”
“I’m a woman.” She furrowed her brow, unsure where he was going with this. “It’s sort of our specialty.”
“Then how about flipping over. I want to lick your sweet pussy while my cock’s halfway down your throat.”
Whoa.
Of all the things that could happen when Tor’s ice-cold veneer melted, this was more than she’d dared hoped to discover.
He didn’t treat her like something fragile or delicate. Far from it. He seemed to know exactly what she wanted—to use and be used in return.
Her thighs pressed together on instinct, the slick caress of her panties almost too much sensation against her mound.
“Go on.” He nudged her, his gaze more wicked by the moment. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while. You’re going to come while I fuck that pretty face.”
He knew what he was doing. Oh, this man knew exactly what sort of effect his dominance had on her. She wanted him to take her in every position he could think of. But she paused halfway through her pivot, trying to process what was about to happen.
