by Skye Jordan
But the doors opened to an empty hallway. He put his foot in the door’s path, leaned forward, and glanced into the hall, looking both ways.
“Get your key out,” he told her.
“What?” she asked.
He glanced back. “Your key. Get it out so we can go right into your room.”
When she pulled it from her purse, he snapped it up, kissed her hard, and let her go with a little momentum toward her door across the hall.
He pushed the door to her room open and didn’t wait for it to close before gathering her close and kissing her again. She responded like she’d been waiting all night for this moment. Her passion acted like a catalyst for an explosion between them. He groaned into her mouth, pushed her against the wall, and kissed her the way he needed her—like he was drowning, and she was his air. He poured all his confusion, frustration, need, desire, want, and love for her into the kiss.
Mia pushed at his jacket until it fell off his shoulders, and he released her waist to let it slide off his arms. He wanted to slow down. Wanted to savor her. But that would have to come later, because this need was white-hot and wild. While she worked at his buttons, he worked on his belt. And by the time she spread his shirt, Rafe bent to slide his hands under her skirt and pull at her panties.
They were both breathing fast and hard when he lifted her and pinned her against the wall with his body. When she slid a hand between them to grasp his cock and position it right where it belonged. Rafe managed to pause a moment there. He moved hair off her face, then tightened his fingers in the strands.
“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you, Mia,” he confessed, his voice ragged. He dropped his forehead to hers. “This is…”
He didn’t have words to describe the depth of need and emotion inside him and just shook his head.
Her nails bit into his shoulders where she’d peeled his shirt back. “Shut up and fuck me, Rafe.”
A growl rolled through his throat, and his hips lunged forward, penetrating her in one long stroke. Her cry mingled with his. His brain went white with pleasure. And need took over. The need to drive and drive and drive the intense pleasure between them.
With Mia’s legs tight at his hips, her nails digging into his skin, Rafe slammed her against the wall with each thrust. Her cries for more, harder, deeper drove him until she broke, arching against the wall, head dropped back, mouth open.
The feel of her coming, squeezing his cock, her juice raining over him, pushed him to the edge of sanity. Pushed him to demand more. He fucked her until her hands slipped on his sweaty skin. He fucked her with the frenzy of a man who’d found the Holy Grail. With the desperation of a man who knew the prize would be taken from him at any moment. He fucked her until she begged for mercy. And when he came, Rafe’s world spiraled.
While they caught their breath, Rafe grappled with the realization that there was no way in hell he could let her go—Tate or no Tate. Joe or no Joe. Riders or no Riders. He needed Mia with him more than all three of those combined.
15
Rafe felt like he was glowing when he hurried up the steps to the arena the next afternoon, glancing at his watch as he pushed through the locker room doors with two minutes to spare. He could have a goddamned light stick up his ass, he felt so amazing.
But as he walked the familiar cement hallway in the bowels of the stadium, with the familiar sounds of his team working out and talking echoing off the walls, Rafe was high on his fantastic day with Mia. A day that had given them time to bond. Just the two of them, relating as more than friends. And more than friends with benefits. Today, they’d bonded in a whole different way, in a whole different setting, with a whole different future on the horizon. Now, he just had to figure out how to get two other key individuals to see the same future.
And that shit was not going to be easy.
Or even possible.
Rafe turned into the locker room and greeted a few of the guys changing at their lockers, tossed his own bag down, and pushed off his shoes as he unzipped the duffel.
“’Bout time.” Tate dropped to a seat on the bench beside Rafe’s and leaned back, wiping his face with a towel. His hair was damp, and a dark gray sweat stain marked the front of his light gray tee. “Where the hell have you been all day?”
Rafe’s defensive instinct was immediate and automatic, and he had to consciously, purposefully tuck it away and relax. “I told you to come to the party. It would ease your mind about her being so far away if you saw where she was going to live and met some of her friends.”
Tate’s gaze drifted to the floor, and he lifted a shoulder. “If you say she’s good, I know she’s good.” His eyes darted back to Rafe just as he pulled his shirt off. “Is she? Good?”
Rafe’s mind immediately went in a whole different direction than Tate meant. And for the first time, it wasn’t even completely sexual. Mia was good for Rafe in every way. She always had been. Rafe just wasn’t convinced he was good for her in every way. Definitely not living across the country. And especially not if he cost her these important relationships.
Rafe nodded and told him the truth. “She is.”
“So what did you do today?” Tate asked, clearly miserable over the topic, but compelled to know.
“We drove down the coast—man, what a gorgeous day. Stopped at a popular beach spot for lunch. I let her walk around, shop, sort of get the feel of the place, you know?”
When Tate nodded, Rafe went on, leaving out all the handholding, all the smiles, all the sweet caresses. All the kissing and laughing and dreaming. He left out walking barefoot in the sand, chasing her in the cool ankle-deep surf while she laughed at him over her shoulder, picking her up off her feet and twirling her around until her hair and skirt flew out behind her.
“We stopped by the apartment, talked with Cynthia, her roommate, again. Then I dragged her to a department store and got her what she needed so she wouldn’t have to worry about the logistics or the finances of it when she got here. You know how she is. I had to argue with her and call it her housewarming, birthday, and Christmas present all wrapped into one and agree to let her pay me back at least half—which was a total lie on my part—before she relented.”
“Bet that got ugly. Good call, bro.”
“We took the drive to and from work to see what that was like. Did a little research on public transportation and the price of cars…” Rafe trailed off and cut a look at Tate where he bunched the towel in his hands, thoughts turning in the wheels of his head. “You’re taking this move awfully hard.”
“I just wish she’d talked to me first. Between you, me and Dad, we could have found her something closer.”
Another thought Rafe had been tossing around entered his mind again. He braced his hand against the locker, took a breath, and just said it. “You think you might be connecting Mia leaving with Lisa leaving?”
Mention of his ex-wife brought Tate’s head up, and if eyes could throw daggers, Rafe would be a dead man. “That’s stupid. The two don’t connect at all. What are you trying to say?”
Rafe lifted his hands in surrender. “Just that it might bring back some of the same feelings, which could be making this harder for you than it should be.”
“When did you become Dr. Phil? I noticed you and Mia patched up your yearlong silence fast. You two are suddenly inseparable. Want to tell me what that’s about?”
The accusing tone burned straight down Rafe’s spine. “Forget I said any—”
“He’s doin’ her.” Kilbourne walked through the locker room from the direction of the gym, wiping his face with the hem of his tee.
Both Rafe and Tate frowned at him and his random, monotone comment to no one in particular, almost as if he were talking to himself. He reached his locker and turned his head, looked between them, then lifted his chin toward Rafe and settled his gaze on Tate. In that second, Rafe knew what he’d meant, but he couldn’t react fast enough to keep it from spewing from Kilbourne’s mouth a second time.
“He’s doggin’ her because he’s doin’ her, man. I told you weeks ago.” He opened his locker. “Shit, nobody listens.”
Fury launched Rafe the twenty feet between them. He grabbed Kilbourne by the bicep and flipped him around, slamming him back against the lockers. “Stop talking shit. That’s his sister and my friend. And she’s been nothing but nice to you. You don’t talk shit about family here, you got that?”
The cocky bastard looked Rafe right in the eye and said, “It’s not okay for me to talk shit about her, but it’s okay for you to fuck her?”
Someone caught Rafe’s arm before he even realized his hand was fisted. Surprise cleared the haze of venom, and he found Beckett holding Rafe’s fist where it was pulled back to his shoulder and on a trajectory to Cole’s smug face. And Rafe hadn’t wanted anything as badly as he wanted to pound Kilbourne right now except Mia.
“What the hell is wrong with you guys?” Beckett’s bellow echoed off the walls. He used Rafe’s arm to shove him backward, then stepped between Rafe and Cole, glaring at them. “Do you want to win the fucking Cup or not? Because we’re not going to win it with our heads up our asses, which is where your heads”—he used a hand to point to each of them—“are right now.”
“Kilbourne.” Tremblay’s bark made Rafe start and turn. “My office. Now. Savage. Hit the ice. The rest of you, try to teach these guys how to act like adults. These are only the most important goddamned games of the season.”
Rafe jerked his arm away from Beckett, whirled toward his locker, and ripped his pads from the hook. A weird, icy-hot panic swirled around his ribs. Adrenaline and fury still burned in the pit of his stomach, joined by the innate anger of injustice over having to hide his feelings for Mia and the guilt of both hiding them and still seeing her. And in about sixty seconds, he was going to have to lie about it, because Rafe could feel Tate coming up behind him.
This sucked. The pressure inside Rafe was so intense, he felt like he was going to crack. He had to just…
Tell Tate.
God, he had to just…
Tell Joe.
Fuck, he had to just…
Let Mia go.
The pain that hit him dead center in his chest could only be described as agony. Rafe closed his eyes and rubbed his hands over his face.
“Is there something you need to fuckin’ tell me?” Tate’s low, menacing, rough voice, shaking with tension, sounded at Rafe’s shoulder.
He pivoted on Tate, putting his face within two inches of his friend’s and matching his tone. “What the hell do you think?”
“I think you’re still playing like a motherfucker on fire when the chick you were screwing is back in DC.”
“I think you’re looking for someone to take your frustrations out on. We both know I play just fucking fine regardless of who I do or when.”
Tate searched Rafe’s eyes for a long, extremely tense moment.
And stood down.
But he didn’t look happy about it. “I think it’s time to get on the fucking ice and take out some of this stress on the pucks.”
Tate disappeared down the hall toward the rink, and Rafe dropped to his bench, taking his sweet time suiting up. The guilt and anger and frustration had reached a fevered pitch. The stress of Tate finding out added a little more weight to Rafe’s shoulders every day. And the thought of losing either Mia or Tate ate at Rafe’s gut like acid.
As he jerked his shoulder pads over his head and tightened them into place, Rafe knew something had to give, because if it didn’t, he’d snap.
Consciousness tried to drag Mia to the surface, but she resisted. She didn’t know why, only that she wanted to stay right where she was—comfortable, warm, content, and happy. So very happy. Everything about her—inside and out—was at complete and utter peace.
She felt complete.
Complete.
Something about the thought created a burr beneath her blanket of comfort. Mia stirred, repositioning her head on the pillow, searching for that utopia again. What she found was a whole different kind of paradise, hard and warm and erect—again—cradled by the indentation of her ass cheeks. Which was when she felt the familiar, rhythmic tug of her hair as Rafe stroked one piece before he wound it around and around his finger, let it fall, and started over again.
A sleepy smile lifted the corners of her mouth. She parted her lids and searched for the LED numbers on the clock. They read 2:00 a.m. “Baby, you need to sleep for your game tomorrow.”
He just hummed softly.
The front of his body cradled the back of hers from shoulders to ankles. He was like a heated blanket. She reached back and took the hand playing with her hair in hers. Threading their fingers, she pulled his arm across her body and hugged it tight.
“What’s wrong?” she asked softly. “Something’s been bothering you since you got back from practice, and it wasn’t any better after you had dinner with the team.”
He pressed his face to her neck, took a deep breath, and let out a hum of pleasure, then kissed her there. But he didn’t talk, and she realized this was why she hadn’t wanted to wake. This tension stole the joy between them.
When he lifted his head, she leaned back and parted her lips in offering. Rafe took them with a moan of relief. He pulled his hand from hers and cupped her face, deepening the kiss with a greedy quality that bordered on desperation. Mia recognized the tactic—drowning himself in distraction.
Mia pulled out of the kiss and reached back to stroke a hand through his hair. “Hey. Talk to me.”
He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. Sighing, he loosened his hold, allowing her to roll him to his back and turn to face him. She stretched out beside his naked body, resting her head in her hand and let the other one slide over his abdomen. She followed the ridges there with her fingertips while she waited for him to get his thoughts together.
“Weather’s nice here, huh?”
She smiled at his absurdly roundabout way of starting the conversation, but went with it. “Very.”
Silence.
“Your boss and coworkers seem great.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“I was telling Tate at practice that you were solid, you know? That you have everything you need, that you have good people around you. That you’re going to be okay.”
She tipped her head to look at his face in the ambient light. He was wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Her heart pulled, and she lifted a hand to his cheek. “I am going to be okay, Rafe.”
He nodded. “I know. But, Tate, he’s taking it hard.”
“Are you sure it’s Tate who’s taking it hard? I haven’t seen much of him while we’ve been here, and I haven’t been hiding from him.”
Still, Rafe didn’t look away from the ceiling. “I think it has something to do with Lisa.”
A protective instinct surged inside Mia. She lifted her head and sat up straighter. “What about Lisa?”
Rafe shook his head. “I just think you moving away is pulling up some painful stuff for him. I think he’s associating the two and associating your move with some of the junk he’s still carrying around from Lisa leaving him.”
Mia’s gaze blurred over Rafe’s chest. Her teeth clenched. “That bitch.” That got Rafe’s attention, and he finally turned his head toward her. “And Tate’s just as much to blame. He was blind and stupid. I tried to tell him while he was still dating her. Tried to tell him early in their marriage. But he’s so damn loyal. Always believes the best of everyone.”
Rafe heaved a sigh that ended on a groan, and he lifted a hand to rub at his eyes.
A stab of guilt sliced Mia’s heart. “Shit, I’m sorry, Rafe.”
“No.” He laughed, the sound completely humorless. “You’re right.”
Mia squeezed her eyes closed. With her heart already aching, she curled her legs and sat up. “Rafe, maybe it’s time to end this chapter of our story.”
His head jerked toward her, his eyes sharp and surprised.
“What?”
“This stress isn’t good for you. It’s affecting your sleep, your concentration, your relationships, your mood, and eventually, it will affect your game. No one can afford that. Not you, not Tate, not any other member of the team. This damn Cup has been a dream of yours and Tate’s since you’ve been kids—”
“No.” Rafe rolled toward her and gripped her thigh with one big hand. “My dream has always been to get paid to play hockey. I was living my dream at nineteen. I’ve never cared how much I got paid to play. And I don’t give a shit about trophies or titles or my name engraved on a piece of silver on a cup.”
Mia frowned, confused. “But Tate always said—”
“Tate is… Tate is…smart and driven and a leader. He’s honest, dependable, and generous to a fault, and he’s the best friend I’ll ever have. But we both know Tate sees things in black or white. Everything is his way or the highway. And he’s so caught up seeing things his way, believes that his way is so two hundred percent right for everyone, he doesn’t even realize there’s another way to see it.”
“Okay, I’ll agree with that. But I still don’t get—”
“Tate wants the Cup. And Tate loves me. So Tate wants the Cup for me too.”
Mia frowned. “Maybe I’m still half asleep, because that’s not computing.”
“Tate wants to share all the good things in his life with the people he loves. He loves you and me. Which is why—”
“We have Joe.”
“And why I got to take lessons with Tate and the private hockey coach Joe paid for. And why I got tutoring with Tate and the math tutor Joe paid for.”
“I get what you’re saying.”
“And I do want the Cup, just as bad as the other guys do. But I want it for Tate. I want it for the guys on the team who need it to fulfill some dream they had skating on a remote pond as kids in Canada or Russia or Sweden. So, yeah, I want that cup, and you can bet I’ll bleed for it, but it’s not my dream.”
