by Lynda Aicher
Her standing leg trembled against his arm as her other leg constricted, her heel digging into his back. He plunged a finger into her tight channel and flicked his tongue over her clit. The heated hold of her body reminded him how incredible it’d felt to be buried balls-deep within her.
“Dylan.” The soft, open call of his name was so honest, unguarded and gentle. He glanced up and almost faltered at the exposed passion on her parted lips and closed eyes. Head tilted back, throat displayed in a long line above peaked breasts. It tore at the persistent urge that had driven him here in the first place. This was the woman she kept locked down, the one he wanted to free.
A hard suck on her nub, a second finger added with a twist inside her heat, followed by more quick flicks over her swollen bundle of nerves, and he had her. She tensed, shuddered, her muted sobs of pleasure jerking his eyes up.
Her back arched, breasts thrust forward, mouth open as her muscles pulsed around his fingers. Whatever brain cells had started functioning fried instantly. He’d never witnessed something so erotic. His dick gave another halfhearted jerk in an attempt to revive itself as her orgasm passed, her chest heaving at a pace that matched his.
He eased away from her, pressed a kiss to her stomach, lowered her leg and slowly stood. His knees gave a shout of protest and he pressed into her, arms encircling her waist as he rested his cheek on her head. His heart still raced, blood humming with the incredible sensation of simply holding her close.
Her cheek settled on his shoulder, her quick exhales gusting over the damp skin of his throat to heat and chill it. She was lax in his embrace, her hands resting on his arms, and damn if this didn’t pull him in even more.
He was still processing the events, most of his focus shifting to staying upright instead of sinking back to the floor, when she shot up. He jerked back, but not before her head smacked into his chin, blasting his jaw with pain. Fuck.
She eyed him, face emotionless, before she slid out of his arms and back into the distant challenger. Her eyes flicked over him. Her mouth worked but stayed silent. She grabbed her stuff off the shelf, yanked her towel from the hook and strolled out of the showers without a backward glance.
What. The. Fuck?
He rubbed his sore jaw, too stunned to react. The fresh scent of her soap overpowered any hint of what they’d just done. Did that really just happen?
A part of his mind was waking up enough to think about where he was and how easily they could’ve been caught. Still could be. Yeah, he hadn’t cared about that before. Just like at the bar. She short-circuited everything in his brain having to do with self-preservation.
He ducked his head under the water before he switched it off, swiped the unused condom off the shelf and made his way to the lockers. The colder air blasted his wet, heated flesh and he shivered. Goose bumps covered his skin. Water dripped from his hair onto his shoulders and down his back in icy rivers that should’ve motivated him to move. Instead he stood there and stared at Samantha’s back as she jerked her jeans over her hips.
An odd déjà vu moment from the office romp crept in to chill him on the inside too. “So that’s it?” he asked, his voice pitched lower than he’d intended.
She whipped around, her smile brittle when it came. “What?”
What indeed. The hollow sensation expanded in his chest to push out whatever had him wanting more. “Nothing.” He shook his head and grabbed his shorts off the floor. “Never mind.”
She didn’t respond, and the awkwardness settled between them once again as she packed up her gear and he tugged on his clothes. The material stuck to his wet skin, impeding his efforts at a hasty exit.
Great. Could he get nothing right around her?
He slipped on his flip-flops but found himself hesitating instead of bolting for the exit. She was stuffing her jersey into her bag, her locker empty, wet hair streaming over her shoulder to leave dark marks on her gray sweatshirt.
Her movements were jerky, hard, and he didn’t understand that. “Are you mad?”
She flinched then yanked the zipper closed on her hockey bag. The ripping sound cut through the silence before she finally looked to him. “No. Should I be?”
“I don’t think so,” he answered, leaning against a set of lockers. “But your actions say you are.”
She huffed out a sigh and rolled her eyes. It reminded him of his younger cousin whenever she didn’t get her way. “Why? Because I’m not fawning over you or shoving my number into your pocket?”
“Nope. That’s not it.” He smiled when she scowled at him. He couldn’t help it. She just gave him proof that he was right. “That look right there though.” He pointed at her. “That screams of being mad at something or, most likely, me. So what’d I do?”
She turned her back to him and shoved her arms into her winter coat. Her hair splatted against the nylon when she lifted it out and let it fall back down. “What didn’t you do,” she muttered.
An entire truckload of thoughts filled his mind at her response. From his point of view, he’d done nothing to provoke her reaction. Which meant one thing—he was getting to her. And that knowledge was good enough for now.
He snuck up behind her and leaned down next to her ear. She stiffened, going still. “I didn’t mark you.” He nipped the delicate skin on her neck then shifted around her, intent on finally leaving.
“Are we still on for Thursday?”
A grin filled his face at her crisp question, but he didn’t slow his steps or turn around. He still wanted her help and knowing he’d see her in two days lightened his mood considerably. The game of chicken they seemed to be playing wasn’t over, and he couldn’t wait to see how the next round played out.
He jerked the door open then he said, “I’ll see you at ten.”
*
Sam waited until the door clicked closed then waited even longer before she slumped onto the bench and buried her face in her hands. What am I doing?
Acting out? Rebelling? Projecting? Was there any other coping mechanism she could own? Self-destruction—was that on the list?
She rocked on the bench, quick movements that helped to keep the building tears at bay. Her throat scratched and burned with the tight need to release the pressure that welled behind her eyelids. She didn’t cry. Couldn’t afford to show a weakness like that. Boys don’t cry. She’d been too scared to respond when she was eight years old. Now she wanted to scream the obvious. I’m not a boy!
Damn it. She blinked, sniffed and blew out a long breath. She’d let Dylan through her guard when she should’ve shut him down, and now she was vulnerable. Too exposed and open to being burned again.
Being a woman didn’t mean she couldn’t be strong. Or in control. She had to get her shit together before everyone saw how screwed up she was.
This stupid game with Dylan wasn’t smart or logical. Yet she was going back for more. Why? A creative form of self-harming? Denial?
Because she had nothing to lose? Was that still a viable excuse? Or was it simply time to let go of another part of her past?
She hitched her bag over her shoulder, grabbed her stick and kicked the locker closed. The crashing slam of the metal rang in her ears and did little to soothe her. The fact that she was looking forward to Thursday had nothing to do with the man. It was about being on the ice and playing against someone who challenged her.
She’d tried to forget the adrenaline rush that never failed to flood her when she was in the heat of a game. There was nothing like battling a strong opponent. Nothing she’d found at least.
And nothing had tested her like Dylan Rylie since she’d left the game—off the ice or on. Walking away from that was almost impossible. Or should she say from him?
One thought of his dazed expression, copper eyes lazy from his orgasm, had the heat flooding her cheeks. Her brazen act was getting hard to maintain. He’d almost had her with his tenderness, especially at the end. Thankfully her brain had engaged and overruled her desire to linger.
&n
bsp; Sex with Dylan was already a mistake. Getting intimate with him would only lead to disaster. She didn’t even like the man. She huffed out a derisive sigh and left the locker room. It was definitely time for more denial.
Chapter Ten
Sam studied Dylan’s footwork, eyes narrowed in concentration. Technically, she didn’t see anything wrong. He had a powerful stride. His stops and takeoffs were quick and on his toes. So that wasn’t his issue. She’d meticulously analyzed every aspect of his play and had yet to find a definitive thing that was glaringly off.
“Okay¸” she called out to get his attention. “Come over here.”
She shifted on her skates and gripped her stick tighter as he complied. His hair was damp around his face and matted from when he’d had his helmet on. If anything, the dirty, sweaty look was more dangerous because she liked it too much. She’d sworn she wouldn’t fall for his charm or, even worse, his dares, yet her pulse still shot up when he stopped beside her.
“What’d you see?” he asked, intent. To his credit, there’d been no flirting or suggestions during their last two sessions. He’d been completely focused on his game, as was she.
“Nothing,” she answered. “Your technique is fine. Strengthening and stretching your legs and glutes is the only thing I see that will give you more power.” And she knew firsthand that those muscles were already highly toned. She swallowed and tossed up a thanks that those body parts were hidden beneath his baggy bibs.
“Damn.” He frowned and grabbed his water bottle. “Of course it couldn’t be something easy.” He squirted the water into his mouth, and her focus lowered to the working of his throat that bobbed with each swallow. How in the hell was that sexy?
She jerked her gaze to the ice and forced her mind back to helping him. “What do you want to work on next?” A glance at the clock showed they had ten minutes left. “More drills or something else?”
“Do you ever take a break?” he asked, a smirk softening the question.
“When practice is done, I do.”
His snort was part-humor, part-admiration. He wiped the sleeve of his gold practice jersey over his brow and shook his head hard enough to send sweat droplets flying. Again, something that would disgust most women had the opposite effect on her. “How about we work on my transitions? I want mine as quick and tight as yours.”
“Sure,” she answered automatically, even though her mind took a dirty dive with his comment. Tight as yours…
He flashed a smile and set his water bottle on the edge of the boards. There’d been none of his southern boy charm either, which ironically had her on edge every time they met. She kept waiting for the pass or comment about their shower escapade, only to get none. Its absence was driving her a bit crazy.
Exhaling her frustration, she led the way to center ice and got to work. Whatever mental game he was playing, she wouldn’t let it affect her. Opponents did that all the time. It was the other part of the game and often the more constructive one to pick at. Skills were honed and trained to automatically react, but the mind could flicker and hitch at any time.
They spent the last of their time working on what he wanted, but she’d been distracted running down the track of mind games and how it affected game play. She was ultimately studying to be in that field, yet she hadn’t given it much thought when it came to Dylan. But maybe…
“That’s it,” she said after checking the clock. “Our time’s up.”
Dylan looked down the ice to confirm her words and nodded. “Thanks.”
They headed back to the bench to grab their water and helmets. Sam worried the nugget of idea the whole time.
“I think Coach has set up time for us on Tuesday,” Dylan said.
She squinted, running a mental check of her calendar. “I think that’s right. You guys are away this weekend, right?”
“Yeah. In Vancouver and Edmonton.”
“Tough offenses. You’ll need to watch your left side. Tanick will use it every chance he gets.” The Edmonton center was excellent but a bit predictable.
Dylan puffed out a breath of air, smiling. “You don’t miss much when it comes to the game, do you?”
“I couldn’t afford to.” That had been honed into her since she’d started playing. “Knowing my opponent kept me ahead of them.”
“I know.” Dylan shuffled his feet back and forth, blades slicing on the ice in a short dance of energy. “I’ve studied their players and game. I do that before every game.”
She wasn’t surprised. A lot, if not every pro player, did, at least to some degree. They wouldn’t be playing at that level if they didn’t. “Good. So what do you know about Vancouver?”
Dylan listed a series of strengths and weakness for both the team and some of the key players. She was impressed and agreed with most of his assessments. They weren’t that different from the common sportscasters, but it showed how much he thought about the game. Not just his but others’.
Maybe too much. Overthinking could be as much of a hindrance as knowing nothing.
“Are you willing to try something different next week?” she asked when he’d finished.
He lowered his chin a touch, just enough for him to look at her through his lowered lids. “I’ll try anything once.” And there was the drawl. Finally.
Her laugh broke free before she could stop it. It held a note of relief that filtered through her entire body. She knew how to defend this. “And here I thought we’d get through another session without you hitting on me.”
“Now, where’s the fun in that?” He wiggled his brows before breaking into a grin. “Sorry. That was too laid out to pass up.”
“Fine,” she huffed without heat, conceding that one to him. “Now back to your game. I’d like to try something different next week.”
“What?”
“Come here without pads or skates, and I’ll show you.” His lips twitched, and she smacked him on the arm, smartly avoiding his pads. “Mind out of the gutter, Rylie.”
“But you’re the one who keeps putting it there.”
At times like this she was reminded he was still a man growing into his maturity, despite what he’d already accomplished in his career. But then, she’d been around this mentality for years. The sexual innuendoes were a part of playing a predominantly male sport. “I wasn’t talking about sex.”
He skated closer until she was backed up to the boards. The heat in his eyes reached across the short distance to sear her. All of the boyish playfulness was gone, replaced by a focused man. Her heart raced again as her nerve endings jumped to attention to hum with that strange awareness that seemed to grow stronger every time he got close.
“That’s too bad,” he said. He traced a finger down her jaw, a line of tingles following a path that raced down to squeeze her chest. “Because I can’t stop thinking about sex with you.”
Danger! Danger! The warning flashed bright red in her head and she stupidly ignored it. He lifted her chin and kissed her while she did nothing to stop him. His lips were a welcoming warmth in the chill of the rink. Soft, gentle brushes that tied her stomach in knots and snarled her brain.
The sharp scent of sweat and man greeted her when she inhaled, and she savored it in a purely odd way. It was rough, earthy and a better aphrodisiac than cologne. She reached back to brace herself on the edge of the boards. The threat of falling increased with each featherlight touch of his lips.
He didn’t push his advance, not even adding tongue to the kiss before he lifted his head. It was too short and not enough, yet somehow was more intimate than the blow job she’d given him.
She stared up at him, words gone. How in the hell did she respond to that? To him? She swallowed, her throat protesting the dryness, and closed her eyes to escape the intensity in his. She couldn’t take the honesty she saw, not when she expected more plays. This had to be part of his game. Another step to outmaneuver her.
She grasped ahold of that thought and shoved him in the chest. The brilliance of sk
ates was he glided backward a few feet before he dug in his blades to stop his movement. It was enough for her to grab her stuff and get away.
She turned around when she was out of his reach, cheeks burning. He’d gotten to her yet again. “Good luck this weekend. I’ll see you next week.” She took off across the ice to the exit next to the penalty box and the locker room she used.
“Hey, Samantha.”
His call stopped her with one foot out the door in the boards. Her pulse beat way too fast for a simple kiss, and she wanted nothing more than to ignore him but she didn’t. “Yeah?” She turned enough to see him.
He tipped a phantom hat and cocked that half smile she recognized from the interviews she’d watched of him on the internet. “Have a good weekend.” He winked and turned his back to her before she could respond.
God. The desire to skate back there and smack him on the head warred with the logical one that said to let it go. She shook her head, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. His boyish charm was hard to resist when it was played like that. He was egging her on, and damn if she didn’t like it.
She turned away and headed to the locker room without another word. The back-and-forth with him was exhilarating and exhausting. Yet her smile held while she changed into her street clothes. She stuffed her pads in her bag, checked the surrounding area to ensure she had everything then zipped it closed.
Sweat still clung to her skin and the chill had already sunk into her bones. She scratched at her neck, irritated by the salty residue, but she wasn’t taking a chance of Dylan finding her in the shower again. That play was too risky to repeat no matter how much she might desire a replay.
She laced up her winter boots, tucked her arms into her coat and hitched her hockey bag over her shoulder. The fifteen-minute drive home wasn’t that long of a wait to get cleaned up.
The hallway under the bleachers was dark, and she trudged down it without paying attention, which was why she almost had a heart attack when she finally looked up just feet from crashing into Dylan. “Crap.” She stumbled back, hand over her heart, like that would keep it from thumping out of her chest. “What the hell?”
