Ruthless (Playboys in Love)

by Gina L. Maxwell

  I have no idea why I came tonight. I told myself it was just so I could see that she’s okay. That she’s moved on and she’s happy. All I want is for her to be happy, and I don’t know that I can give that to her. I don’t know that I can be who she needs. Who she deserves. What if I try and I fuck it up, hurting her worse than I already have? I couldn’t live with myself. But now that she’s in front of me after all this time…I don’t think I can live without her.

  She’s with Austin. I expected to feel some residual jealousy or irritation at seeing them together, but I don’t. Thanks to our conversation earlier in the week, I know my friend has nothing but the best of intentions where Addison’s concerned. He was a part of our relationship because I’d asked him to be, not because he had any romantic designs on her.

  I’m so caught up in my musings that I almost don’t notice the man on the other side of her until she places a hand on his arm to gain his attention. Something she says causes Austin to scan the room quickly before locking onto me. Addison doesn’t look my way again, but the other guy follows Austin’s line of sight and finds me easily enough. For a second, I’m dumbfounded. The man who appears to be her date—that word alone has my fists clenching and itching for knuckle-to-jaw contact—is none other than Sam Larsen of the Chicago Blackhawks. She didn’t just move on, she upgraded to the best enforcer in the whole goddamn NHL. And he doesn’t appear very happy about my presence. Well, the feeling’s fucking mutual, pal.

  A few minutes ago, Larsen was one of my favorite players in the league, and I’d have been stoked for the chance to meet him. Now I’d like to lay him out flat for the familiar way his hand finds Addison’s waist, and how he dips his head to speak intimately into her ear. She shakes her head slightly and places a palm on his chest to smooth down the lapel of his jacket as though to reassure him. Of what, exactly? That I don’t matter? That I’m not worth worrying about?

  Fuck. That.

  He’d better fucking worry about me, because I’m coming for my woman, and I’ll walk through him or anyone else to get to her. Before I even take a step in their direction, though, Larsen shakes Austin’s hand then spirits Addison through the exit on the far side of the room. Austin starts making his way toward me, and by the firm line of his lips, I can tell he’s on his way to stop me from following her.

  Sorry, bro, not in the mood for an intervention.

  Spinning on my heel, I go back through the doors I’d entered only minutes ago. Rounding the corner of the hallway, I see them just as their elevator door closes. I stab at the button to call another one, but I don’t want to take the chance that a few minutes’ head start will be the difference between stopping Addison from leaving with Larsen and watching the tail lights of their cab as they drive off to celebrate the new year in his bed.

  I make a run for the end of the hall, shoving through the door leading to the stairwell just as I hear Austin calling my name. I ignore him and take off, eating up the floors like my ass is on fire. By the time I reach ground level, I’m panting like I just tried beating Usain Bolt in the hundred meter dash, but there’s no time to catch my breath. I race through the lobby, snaking through the crowd, barely avoiding trampling several people, and finally bursting through the main entrance of the hotel, into the frigid night.

  Up the street a ways, I see Addison kiss Larsen on the cheek and step out of his embrace and into a waiting cab. I don’t even get the chance to call her name before he’s closed her door and rapped on the roof of the taxi to signal it’s okay for the driver to pull away. I stand with my feet planted, fists clenched at my sides and chest heaving, and contemplate my next move. As he makes his way back toward the hotel, I’m flooded with a mixture of relief and resentment. I’m relieved he didn’t go with her, but at the same time, what sort of man sends his date off in a cab by herself on New Year’s Eve? What an asshole.

  “Roman Reeves, I presume,” he says when he reaches me. “I’m—”

  “I know who the fuck you are,” I grind out through clenched teeth. “Why the hell would you put her in a cab? Hoping to go back to the party and find a puck bunny to finish the night with?”

  Larsen arches a brow in interest and glances up to the top of the building like he can see the ballroom full of guests. “You know if there’re any up there? It’s almost midnight, and now that I don’t have a date—”

  Rage eclipses my vision and destroys my restraint. My arm cocks back and sends my fist flying, lightning quick, right into my idol’s jaw. His head snaps back and he mutters a curse, but he isn’t stunned or even mildly fazed. Thanks to his career, and a record number of brawls on the ice, he recovers instantly and returns the favor, splitting the corner of my lower lip in the process.

  The taste of my own blood only serves as a stimulant, and I’m ready to feed off of everything boiling inside me and take it out on him. To make the ugliness I’m feeling show on him. To mark him with my pain.

  I lunge for him, but before I can get my hands on him, Austin hauls me back several steps. “Whoa, Roman, hold up! What the fuck are you doing, man?”

  “Kicking his ass!” I say, trying to twist out of my friend’s hold. “He sent Addison off by herself, and now he wants to go trolling for pussy.”

  Larsen tests the mobility of his jaw and cuts a wry look over my shoulder at Austin. “Well, that explains the right hook.”

  “Roman, settle down. Sam is Addie’s cousin.”

  I freeze. “He’s what?”

  “I’m Addie’s first cousin,” Larsen repeats. “She asked me to be her plus one to keep her from getting bored.”

  Austin finally lets me go and gives me a pointed look, chiming in with, “I suspect it was more for insurance in case you showed up with someone else.”

  “Why the hell would I show up with someone else? I haven’t even looked at another woman. She’s all I fucking think about.” My hands rise to fist in my hair until my scalp screams in protest, and now that the adrenaline is dying down, the knuckles on my right hand feel like they’re on fire. But I don’t care. I welcome the pain. I deserve all of it and more.

  “That’s nice to hear,” Larsen says, his thumb checking the damage to his previously split lip. “But do you think maybe we’re not the ones you should be telling?”

  Addison. “I need a cab.”

  “Take mine.” Larsen nods to where a valet is pulling up to the front entrance in a brand new Ferrari F12. “I asked them to get it before I helped Addie hail a cab. She insisted I stay, but I’d rather ring in the New Year with my dog and a beer on my couch. The cops know my car, so they won’t bother you as long as you’re not endangering anyone. Perks of being a Blackhawk.”

  Everything in me is telling me to bolt, but I force myself to hold. “You’re sure?”

  He’s both encouraging and threatening when he gives me a hard look and says, “Make things right.”

  I don’t even take the time to nod. In seconds, I’m in Larsen’s three-hundred-thousand-dollar car, breaking land-speed records down Lake Shore Drive on my way to Addison’s apartment. On my way to her. I just hope I’m not too late. If I am, it won’t be by minutes…it’ll be by about three months, and I’ll have no one to blame but myself.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Addison

  I’d succeeded in making it to the cab before succumbing to the water works. As much as I despise showing my weakness to anyone—including a cabbie who’s likely seen it all—I can’t hold myself together until I get home. C’est la fucking vie.

  On the bright side, I make good use of the ride over and get it all out. I stop crying a few minutes before the cab pulls up in front of my building, allowing me to walk into the lobby area with a modicum of dignity. The best part about reaching the bottom of your well of tears is the numbing emptiness that follows. I embrace it, letting my mind go vacant and my body run on autopilot.

  Once inside my apartment, I close and lock the door behind me. Dropping my small clutch and keys on the console table, I catch
my reflection in the mirror and wince.

  So much for dignity.

  I forgot that I’d run out of my waterproof mascara and had to use my backup. My cheeks are stained with black streaks, evidence of my broken heart for all to see. A choked sob escapes before I can stop it with the back of my hand pressed against my mouth. Numbness. It doesn’t matter what sort of volatile storm of emotions is rioting on the inside. If I can keep the numbness wrapped around it all, I won’t have to feel the deeper stuff.

  Taking a slow breath, I cross the room and use the remote to put on the local channel showing the New Year’s festivities out at Navy Pier to drown out the silence of my surroundings. Maybe with the sounds of music and happy people floating around me, it’ll make me feel less lonely and pathetic. Or not. Whatever.

  I toss the remote onto the couch and head to the kitchen. Alcohol will help me sustain the numbness I need. But my lack of motivation to do any grocery shopping lately has left me without any of my usual stock. No wine. No beer. Not even the vodka I use to make my chocolate martinis. Then, I remember that I do have something. Opening the far cabinet, I stare at the half-full bottle of Glenfiddich I kept for Roman.

  Fuck it. I grab it, unscrew the cap, and place the bottle to my lips for a healthy swig. I cough as the burn takes my breath away, but bring it with me as I head to the bathroom. I suddenly want to sit in the shower and let the hot water wash away the night, the pain, the loss. Somewhere along the way, I step out of my heels and take several more drinks of the whisky. Minutes of my life are swallowed up by thoughts of Roman and the way he looked tonight, so sexy and confident, just like the first time I met him. Nothing has changed for him, and everything has changed for me.

  I blink, realizing I’ve already turned the water on and steam is starting to build in the large glass enclosure. I almost remove my dress, but stop myself. I can deny it all I want and say that I didn’t get ready tonight with Roman in mind, but it would be a lie. I chose my dress carefully, wanting to wear something he would like. My hair, my makeup, my jewelry…everything. All were catered to his tastes. I wanted to look good to him. For him.

  Now I want it destroyed. I want my outside to match my inside. So I step into the hot spray. Prada dress, bottle of whisky, and all. Giving in to the weight of the last three months, I slide down the wall and bring my knees to my chest, letting the water soak through the black lace and nude lining. I tip back another drink of whisky and think I’m fine, but as I pull the bottle away and swallow the fiery liquid, my tentative composure breaks. The shower is doing its job, the spray eroding everything in its path, including the blessed numbness I’d found, if only temporarily. Tears flow freely, unchecked, to mix with the falling water.

  “Addison.”

  I almost don’t hear the tortured sound of my own name, but it finally registers when I see movement in the corner of my eye and turn my head to the right to find the sexy devil of a man standing in the doorway to my bathroom.

  Roman.

  The alcohol must be doing its job to dull my senses. I don’t startle at his presence, or even question it, half-believing he’s a figment of my twisted imagination. But he must be real because I don’t feel even the slightest bit drunk. I just feel…sad. So very fucking sad.

  I’d left the glass door to the shower open, giving me a clear view of him instead of what should be a blurry image through foggy glass. He’s so perfect, it almost hurts to look at him. Refined with an edge. Safe with hints of danger. A good man and a bad boy. There’s no one in the world like Roman Reeves. And he doesn’t want me.

  So then why is he here? What does he want? A dozen questions are pushing at the walls of my mind, but they don’t make it to my lips. I don’t want to speak, to provoke him to say things I don’t want to hear. Things like he’s only here as a friend. Or he saw me with Sam and was driven here by a jealousy he has no right to feel. Or he’s in the mood to fuck someone familiar, someone he can have an easy one-night stand with and then go on with his life like it never happened. I can’t even bring myself to look him in the eye for fear that I’ll be able to read the answers in his arctic-blue gaze.

  The water is hot, but a shiver trails goose bumps over my flesh at the thought of being cast aside again. I tremble because I know that if he touches me, I won’t have the strength to turn him away. Not tonight. Not now.

  He removes his tux jacket and drops it carelessly to the floor. I watch him warily as he moves toward the opening to the shower, then suck in a breath when he steps inside, fully clothed. As he sinks down next to me, I draw my knees in tighter and shy away from him. His white shirt is plastered to his body and now completely see-through, revealing the arcs and swirls of his tattoos over his chest and arms.

  Deft fingers skim over the inside of my ankle, zapping me with electricity that races straight to my core, melting parts of me that have been frozen for months. It feels so damn good. Like my body’s been lying dormant, waiting to stir and come to life under his touch. I’m tempted to look for those answers in his eyes when his hand moves up the inside of my calf, so I turn my face away in favor of the whisky.

  Before I can drink any, the bottle is pulled from my grasp. I follow it to where Roman places it to his lips and tips it back, but then sets the bottle aside without swallowing. Instead, his hands palm the sides of my face to hold me still as he looms over me. I can no longer avoid his eyes, and when our gazes finally collide, I’m struck by the mirrored emotions I see swirling in those blue depths. Pain, sadness, passion, longing. All the things twisting around my heart like thorny brambles, they’re doing the same to him.

  Lowering his face to mine, he kisses me softly. Eyes on mine, he presses his thumb lightly on my chin and encourages my lips to part. I allow him to physically manipulate me to his liking. I’m malleable clay in his dexterous hands, ready to be molded and shaped into whatever he wants, whatever he needs. The whisky trickles from his mouth into mine, and I drink it greedily, as though he offered me water after I crawled through the desert.

  That’s what this kiss feels like. Life-giving sustenance for my malnourished soul. I’d fooled myself into thinking I could be happy with my heart perpetually catatonic, but one taste reminding me of how it feels to be alive and my survival instincts kick back in.

  He tentatively licks the underside of my upper lip and the edge of my teeth, testing his welcome. I want to give in so damn badly. To let him in. To let him take. And that’s exactly why I can’t.

  “No,” I say weakly as I push on his chest. “You shouldn’t even be here.”

  “You’re wrong, baby. I was wrong. Here with you is the only place I should be. I need you.”

  I defend myself against the husky desperation in his voice with a huff of indignation. “Need me?” I choke out. “You don’t need me. You don’t even want me, remember?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. Water droplets fall from the heavy chunks of his hair hanging over his forehead. His hands wrap around the sides of my face just below my ears, his fingers gripping the back of my head and his thumbs pressing in on my cheeks. “That’s not true. Not back then and not now. It’ll never be true because I will always fucking want you. Do you hear me? Always.”

  The truth of his words is written in the crystalline blue of his eyes. I believe that he wants me. I even believe that he needs me. The question is…for what? Does he need me to be his—completely and solely his? Or does he need me to be the woman between him and another man?

  As much as I’d like to pretend the answer doesn’t matter—that I can go on happily enjoying the benefits of a frequent sexual triad and accept that the man I love needs to have someone else in our bed to feel fully satisfied—I can’t.

  But I also can’t pretend that I don’t want this. That I don’t want him. I choke back a sob and curl my fingers into the base of his neck. This might be the last time we’re together, so I’m overruling my head and giving my heart temporary free rein. I’ll deal with the broken pieces tomorrow.

&n
bsp; With a tiny sound of resignation, I let my lids drift closed and I surrender myself to the moment. I surrender myself to Roman.

  His wet lips ghost over mine, the barely there kisses like liquid silk. But I’m too desperate for slow and teasing. I open under him, and he doesn’t hesitate to accept my invitation. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and he devours me in deep, hungry strokes. The kiss isn’t rushed or frenzied. It’s slow and intense, consuming and claiming.

  He stands and pulls me up, pressing my back into the cool subway tile as he continues to devour me. We paw at one another’s wet clothes with all the grace of wild animals while we kiss like starved lovers. Buttons ping to the tile when he rips his shirt open, and I push it off his shoulders so it lands in a sopping mess at our feet. My dress suffers the same fate after he pulls it up and over my head. I barely finish unbuckling his pants before he drops to his knees.

  I brace myself for the moment when he rips my panties like he’s done so many times in the past—damn it, I love my sheer cheekinis. But he doesn’t this time. Instead, he presses his nose into my silk-covered mound and sucks on my clit through the damp material. I fist his hair with both of my hands and arch my hips into him. His teeth graze and his tongue flicks, teasing me with what I can’t have as long as he keeps the barrier of my underwear between us. Favorite new pair or not, he can rip them into shreds if it means finally getting his mouth on my flesh.

  I mewl and buck, begging without words and praying he puts an end to the torture. Finally, he slips my panties off, places my right leg over his shoulder, and attacks my sex. Licking and suckling, he swirls his tongue around my clit, dips it inside, and laps up the juices he draws from the deepest parts of me.

  Quivering, I lose myself to the sensations he’s creating with the magic of his oral talents. My head is dropped back and my eyes are closed. I tell myself it’s so that the water splashing doesn’t get in my eyes, but a tiny part of me knows it’s so I can avoid the glaring reality of giving in to my weakness. I know I shouldn’t—and if I’d seen him somewhere that my armor was in place, like court or the office, it would’ve been a different story—but circumstances were such that my guard was down and I was left vulnerable and exposed to the onslaught of emotions seeing him brought on.