by Lynda Aicher
“Come on.” He waved his arm at the crew of five left in the room. “I’ll buy everyone dinner.” At least he wouldn’t be alone with Samantha then. It might be safer for both of them. This heated tango with her was stacking up to be another challenge he wanted to tackle. Literally.
“You’re the man,” Feeney cheered with a slap of his big paw on Dylan’s shoulder.
“Then I say we head to Bart’s,” Walters said as he shoved the door open. “I’m starving.” Bart’s Bar was a team favorite tucked away on a side street about a mile from the stadium. The owner was a huge hockey fan who fired any staff who dared to ask for an autograph. The no-hassling rule went for the customers too. Bart had no issue tossing a person out if they didn’t adhere to his policy.
“I’m right behind you.” Feeney paused to wave back at them. “We’ll meet you there.” He followed Walters out, leaving Dylan with the two women.
“Are you coming, Meg?” Samantha asked when the other woman hesitated.
Megan scanned her phone. “I should go home and work on a paper that’s due this week.”
Dylan did a double take. The little sprite barely reached midchest on him but he hadn’t realized she was still in school. “U of M?”
She looked up. “Yeah. Senior year. I took last year off to play on the USA team.”
He turned to Samantha where she stood waiting by the door. “You graduated though, right?” Belatedly he realized he’d shown he knew more about her than he’d let on. Damn it. He stifled his cringe into a tight-lipped line.
She narrowed her eyes, a knowing smile creeping over her face. “I’m on my last semester. But my college skating career is done.” She held his gaze for a moment longer then turned to her friend. “Come on, Meg. You need to eat, and he’s buying.”
“All right.” Megan shoved her phone in her pocket. “Do you know where we’re going?”
“You can follow me,” Dylan offered, despite his desire to retract his dinner invitation.
“We’re good.” Samantha waved her phone. “I got it right here.”
She pushed out the door as Megan shot him a smirk. “See you there,” she called before the glass door closed behind her.
The two walked away, skate bags slung over their shoulders, sticks in hand. His gaze fell to the soft sway of Samantha’s bottom hidden beneath her jersey. It didn’t take much imagination to envision how toned and firm it would be. Shit. He swiped a hand over his eyes and forced his mind blank before he sprouted another woody.
And somehow he was now the last to leave. Good. Let them wait for him. He rested against a table and settled in to pass a bit of time. His stubbornness only lasted a few minutes when a slow-moving swarm of females passed outside the glass front of the building. He made a run for it once they’d gone by. He was in no mood to dole out the charm and pleasantries.
He turned up the country station in his truck and let the rolling tunes soothe him. There were some aspects of his background he exaggerated for show, but others were bred deep and solid. That included going easy on Samantha today.
His granddad would’ve slapped him upside the head if he’d shut down a woman in public like that. Sure she was good—damn good. Did that mean she was better than him? Not likely.
Maybe?
Damn. What did it matter? He had nothing to prove to her or anyone who’d been at the rink. Maybe he’d take her up on her offer of a repeat. One where no one else was around and he could play without worrying about their audience. And why was he stewing on it if it didn’t matter?
He let his truck idle outside Bart’s and listened to the end of the current song. Stalling? Whatever. He tossed his hat on the passenger seat, tugged his jersey off and dumped it in the seat as well. There was no point in advertising when they were seeking anonymity.
The bar was dark and slightly on the dingy side, walls plastered with hockey memorabilia—most of it signed. The wood floors emanated a stale beer stench and were stained dark from years of wear and spills.
He made his way to the others at a corner table near the pool tables and dartboards. The place wasn’t that busy, given it was the middle of the week, but the bar seats were filled with patrons watching college football bowl games on the mounted flat screens. Music played through the speakers, and both pool tables were occupied.
“Hey, Cowboy,” Feeney called in greeting. “We were starting to think you’d bailed on us.”
“Nah.” Dylan ran a hand through his hair and took the last seat next to Walters, which was adjacent to Samantha at the end of the table. Of course. “I see you didn’t worry about waiting for me.” He motioned toward their beers.
“You were taking too long,” Samantha said before she took a drink from her glass. Her knee bumped his under the table, and he leaned his leg into hers just to see what she’d do. She increased the pressure. Heat shimmied up his thigh as the contention intensified.
She eyed him, the silent test going on under the table darkening her eyes. Or maybe it was the same attraction that vibrated through him. Was it purely the ingrained drive to win that most pro players had, or was it something hotter?
“But I ordered you one,” Feeney said, pointing to the full glass in front of Dylan. He jerked his eyes away from Samantha to stare at the glass. It was a water. Ha, ha. “What?” Feeney asked at Dylan’s glare. “You never finish a beer. I thought I’d save you some money.”
Dylan ground his teeth, waved the waitress down and ordered a draft when she came over. Of all the nights he wanted a drink, this was one. If the action meant his leg shifted away from Samantha’s, that wasn’t him backing down.
After his first big drag of the cold beer when it was delivered, he ended up sipping at the rest of it. There’d been a period after Aunt Bea had died that he’d mirrored his mother and buried his grief in alcohol. Thankfully, his granddad had pointed out the obvious in his gruff, no-nonsense way, and Dylan hadn’t gotten drunk since. That was when he’d discovered perception wasn’t that hard to manipulate.
He let the conversation flow around him through the process of ordering and eating dinner. It hopped from hockey in general to the Glaciers to the current season. Samantha was animated in her analysis of the professional teams and various players, including a few of his teammates. She clearly had a keen eye and a deep understanding of hockey. His respect grew the more she talked. Passion like hers only came from an honest love for the sport.
Her cheeks were flushed, eyes bright as she debated with Walters over who was the best goalie in the league. She licked her fingers clean after eating a fry. Slow licks that he tracked, sucking and an eventual flick of her tongue over her lips.
Damn. He leaned back in his seat and shifted his hips to give his dick more room. He tried to look away from the sensual display, only to catch another glimpse of her tongue as she slid it over her bottom lip. So much for controlling his boner after that little show. Was it intentional on her part?
He grunted and shifted again, which had her turning to him.
“What?” she asked. “You disagree?”
He froze, dread twisting through his stomach. He had absolutely no idea what she’d been talking about. Leaning forward, he moved to tip his hat, only to remember he’d left it in his truck.
She caught his action and smirked, brow lifted. It goaded him that she knew what he’d been habitually moving to do.
He shoved away from the table, burger unfinished. He’d lost his appetite. Thank God his sweatshirt covered the bulge in his jeans when he stood. “Anyone up for a game of darts?” He’d do anything to get away from her before he did something stupid like yank her onto his lap and kiss the hell out of those lips she kept licking.
“I have to get going,” Megan said, grabbing her purse from where it hung over the back of her chair. “But thanks for dinner. It was nice meeting all of you.” She smacked Feeney on the shoulder as she passed. “I think you might be right.” She gave them a wave and headed out.
“About what?” Samantha asked, glanci
ng at Feeney, her expression flattening out.
Feeney grinned, a big, cheeky spread that was blatantly cheesy. “That I’m the best damn enforcer in the league.”
Walters barked out a laugh, and Dylan scowled but chuckled along. Those two were hiding something, and he suspected it was about him. Great.
Feeney covered a yawn. “I’m out of here, too. I’m still dragging ass after last night.”
“Too much beer?” Walters joked. “Or pus—” He cleared his throat and shot a glance at Samantha. “I mean…”
Dylan let loose with a full laugh, more than happy to see someone else being schooled under Samantha’s somehow scathing but conspiratorial look.
“You were saying?” she asked Walters, head cocked, fake innocence gleaming from her eyes.
“Hell.” Walters shoved to a stand, chair scraping over the floor. “I’m running while I still can.” He shot a smile at Samantha. “Look me up if you ever want to shoot some pucks around.”
Her smile wavered, some of the spark visibly fading from her. “Sure thing.”
Dylan frowned at her slight pause. Did she think Walters was humoring her?
“Let me finish my beer,” Feeney said to Walters. “And I’ll walk out with you.”
Dylan debated on taking the easy out provided by the others and leave with them. That’d be the smart thing to do. “What about it, Samantha? You in for a game?” For some reason, his intelligence seemed to be in short supply around her.
Samantha eyed him for a moment before she lifted her chin a degree. “I’ll play,” she finally said, standing. Dylan’s internal groan seemed to vibrate through his chest as his mind raced through all the kinky ways he’d love to play with her. “Unless you’re afraid of losing to me again,” she added.
He laid on the charm with a full smile and hooded eyes. “Not a chance, darlin’.”
“Really?” She grimaced, distaste marching across her face. “If that seriously works on women, then I feel sorry for you.”
Her hit sailed through his protective front to nail him with yet another call on his bullshit. His brows shot up before he could suppress his reaction. He straightened his shoulders, part in defense to her statement, the rest to fend off Feeney’s and Walters’s laughter. “Why?” The question leaked out when he shouldn’t have cared what she thought.
She studied him for a long moment. The crack of pool balls shattered through the tension that strung almost tangible between them. He stopped himself before he leaned in to catch her words. But it was suddenly very important to hear her response.
“Because I would guess you’re better than that.” She turned away after the flat delivery, and it took all his effort not to wince from the verbal punch that landed as a drop flip in his stomach.
He kept his eyes on her back and followed her to the dartboards, teammates forgotten. Samantha left him unbalanced, and he’d worked too damn hard to keep his world focused. Hockey—it was the only thing that mattered. The image, parties, women and everything else he nurtured were all a means to an end, which had always been hockey.
His way out. His passion. His survival.
And here she plowed in, challenging who he was, defying his words and actions like she knew him. Oddly enough, it was her repeated little comments that were meant to be digs that had him following her to the dartboards. Those insights were the deepest any woman had bothered to look into him since he’d put on the southern party boy façade six years ago.
Combine that with the tight swell of her ass visible below her hoodie, and he was a goner—whether he wanted to be or not. Whatever was brewing between them deserved further investigation. Especially since he’d never experienced that urge before.
*
Sam busied herself sorting out bar darts until she had three that matched. The mishmash in the plastic cup on the railing held a variety of weights, tips and flights. She wasn’t an expert at the game, but she’d played enough to be fairly confident in her abilities.
The fact that the task allowed her to ignore the man at her back was the main reason she took extra care in picking out her darts. She was completely aware of his every movement, including the step that brought him directly behind her.
“So you’re a shark at this too?”
The low drawl seemed to shimmer over her nape before it sank down her spine to peak her nipples. She should’ve left with the others. She should’ve let him leave the rink without forcing him to pay up on the bet. She should’ve ignored the way her body reacted to him.
But she hadn’t.
The reckless streak that had nudged her into taunting him to begin with was still running hot and strong within her.
She hunched her shoulders and rolled her neck as she turned to face him. “There’s no point in playing if you don’t intend to win.” One of her father’s favorite quotes rolled off her tongue before she’d thought about it. She bit her traitorous tongue to keep from cringing. In general, she avoided spouting her father’s words.
He flashed a smile that displayed a slight dimple at the corner of his mouth. Something she’d missed before. It softened his features and tweaked a tender spot in her chest she didn’t want to go near.
“Now that, I do agree with.” He reached around her, cutting away the little space between them. Her breath caught. She held her ground and his gaze, her pulse thumping too hard, until he eased back, the cup of darts in his hand.
Her repeated reaction to his closeness frustrated her more than every fake thing about him. “Good.” She spun away to wipe the previous game off the small chalkboard. “Then you won’t pout when you lose this time.” Like their legs under the table earlier, backing down was something she couldn’t do. Give an inch and he’d run over her, and that was ground she refused to give up.
His rich burst of laughter was low and sultry. Like his overdone accent and slow walk and…
“Cricket?” she snapped. “No points.” The game was straightforward, and she could play it without needing to concentrate too hard.
“Sure thing, darlin’.”
The endearment grated over her skin like a coarse scouring glove. It was fake and pointless. She was grinning when she faced him though. “Well, then we’re all set, pumpkin.” She accented the words, adding a coat of sugar to it. “Do you want to shoot for who goes first?”
His smile held, although it tightened around the edges. His dimple was gone too. She hesitated, a slice of guilt cutting her. For a moment she’d caught a glimpse of the man behind the show, but she’d chased it away with her mocking tone.
“Ladies first,” he said with a pantomimed tip of his absent hat. At least he’d left the real thing behind.
She turned away, cringing at her snide thought. Exactly why was she judging him so harshly? It wasn’t his fault she found him sexy and too damned attractive. Or that his eyes continued to draw her in with their changing tones or that she couldn’t shake the way his touch lit up her dormant sex drive or…
She really should’ve left. Still should.
“Can I get you anything else…to drink?”
She spun around to see their waitress from earlier standing about an inch from Dylan’s side, her eyes on him alone. The obvious insinuation in the woman’s look and tone sparked an irrational flash of jealousy deep in Sam’s chest. One she reacted on before she could question it.
“I’d love a Coke,” she said loud enough to get the woman to jerk her head around, scowling. Sam let sap drip from her smile when she stepped up to Dylan and rubbed her palm over his chest. It was as solid and muscled as she’d pictured and ignited the fire that had simmered in her core since their exchange on the ice.
She blinked up at him and swallowed around her dry throat when she caught the same smoldering heat in his eyes. “What about you, pumpkin?” Her voice had lowered, a sultry rasp unintentionally dropping in. Her hand continued to follow the dip and curve of his muscled pecs, even as she told herself to stop.
His lips twitched, a mix of amu
sement then desire flashing through his eyes. He cupped the back of her neck, palm hot on her skin, and leaned down until the warm hint of his breath caressed her lips. “I’d love a water.” Her heart did a stutter-step in the beat it took before he looked up and winked at the waitress. “Please.”
She squelched her instant reflex to shove him away. There was a challenge layered in there that she wasn’t accepting. A dare for her to react.
She held still until she sensed the waitress retreat, her gaze locked on Dylan’s, lips inches apart. She was aware of him on every level. The firm press of his hand on her nape, the scent of his earthy cologne that reminded her of the outdoors, the solid form of his chest under her palm, the jolt that rushed through her blood to tip her pulse into overdrive.
His mouth parted, eyes darkening to a copper shade that hinted at hidden wants and hunger. Her temptation to seek them out finally had her jerking out of his hold.
She fisted her trembling hands and flashed a strained smile. “I’ll be right back.” She fled then, without a backward glance. She had no problem admitting what she was doing in that instance. It was a tactical retreat to block the score. There was nothing weak or wrong with that.
She found the short hall that led to the bathrooms and swallowed down a sigh of relief. There was no way she would let him see how rattled he’d made her. Not when she didn’t understand her own reaction.
She had a brief moment to register the thump of boots before an arm swooped across her waist and she was yanked against a hard chest. Her breath hitched, caught and held. She briefly caught a Private Office sign on a door as she was spun around, the empty hallway whizzing by her line of sight. The door slammed closed behind them, and she was pressed against it before she could think to fight back.
She sucked in air, chest heaving, and stared into the rusty copper eyes of Dylan Rylie just inches in front of her. Her blood hummed with the sudden rush of adrenaline that ramped up the lust she’d yet to control. She shoved into the hard surface at her back to keep herself upright, palms plastered to the smooth wood.
He leaned into her, forearms braced on either side of her head. The pale light from a desk lamp gave a soft outline to his form, adding a surreal quality to the moment.
