by Maria Luis
“Sorry I’m late.” When I step directly in front of her, I offer my hand and hide a grin when she accepts the offer to help her up. “A few mutual friends of ours are the reason for the holdup.” I unlock the front door and push it open, then step to the side so Gwen can enter first. “Seems as though you have some fairy godmothers looking out for you.”
She scrunches her nose, and it’s cute as hell. The minute we step inside, she shrugs out of her trench coat and slips it over one of the hooks by the front door. With her red hair down around her shoulders and her cream-colored dress snug in all the right places, she’s also the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen. Then I notice a stain by her armpit, and I quirk a brow. “You weren’t kidding about the lasagna swimming, were you?”
“What?” Jolted out of the moment, she stares down at her dress and releases a soft sigh. “I thought I escaped unscathed.” She fingers the stain and then lets her hand fall to her side. “My mother had an accident.”
“Sounds saucy.” I wink at her, and she rewards me with a chuckle.
“You have no idea,” she says with a shake of her head. “My mom is . . . I don’t even know how to best describe her.”
Knowing now that Mark’s ex-wife is Gwen’s mother, it all makes sense. Mark’s choice words about his ex-wife tended to stay in the colored, four-lettered variety. From what I gathered, The Former Mrs. James was (and is) a little temperamental.
And that’s putting it lightly.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” I tell Gwen as we move into my kitchen. I flick the lights on and nod my head toward the counter, so she can put the pie down. “Not if you don’t want to, I mean.”
Gwen sets the pie on the counter and then lingers there, hands on the rounded lip as her shoulders draw up by her ears. “Do you have someone in your life that you don’t particularly like but you still can’t help yourself—you want to make them proud?”
Knowing it’ll make her grin, I hold up my hands, spreading them wide. “You may not have noticed, honey, but my coach isn’t the most likeable fellow.”
“Hall?” She turns around and presses her butt to the counter so she can meet my gaze. “He’s a total sweetheart. I’ve never had an issue with him.”
“To you, maybe.” It’s not exactly P.C., but I go for the truth anyway. “Anyone with a dick is usually on his shit list.”
She brings her thumb to her mouth and nibbles on the pad. My own dick rises to the occasion, wanting to be included in the conversation. Go down, man. Not your turn.
“Anyway,” I mutter, moving past her to open the cabinets. I pull down two plates, grab utensils, and set them on the marble kitchen island that’s more like its own separate continent, it’s so big. Whoever owned this house before me either had a Napoleonic complex or was a mammoth—there’s no in between. “Tell me what happened with your mom. Then I’ll make you feel better with pie and wine.”
“And kisses?”
I whip around at her sassily issued question. With her arms bent just so, and her hands perched on the counter behind her, her breasts are thrust forward. Her dress is demure, with a conservative neckline and a slim line that cuts off at her knees. But the look in her blue eyes is anything but demure and it takes every inch of my self-control not to toss the pie to the floor and hike her up onto the counter. The things I’d do to her…
My eyes screw shut as I struggle to even out my breathing. “We’ll get there, trust me.”
“Tonight?”
Opening my eyes, I find myself with my hands on her hips and pressing my hard-on against her belly. She’s inches shorter than me, even in her heels, and she tips her head back to brush her lips to the underside of my jaw.
At the sensation of her lips coasting over my skin, I almost say fuck it and take what I want. Pull up her dress. Pop her up on the counter. Strip off her underwear and pump into her slick heat.
It’d be easy to do that.
But we started on this path because I wanted to be sure she was in this for the right reasons—listening to her talk about her mom, showing that I care about more than what’s between her legs . . . that matters to me.
My control snaps when she loops an arm around me, her palm resting on my back.
I nip her to put her in place—a gentle bite to her earlobe that pulls a yip from her mouth and has her dragging her nails down my back. “Be good,” I whisper as I move my mouth lower, to the sensitive spot where her neck and shoulder meet, “or I’ll be forced to up the stakes.”
Her head lolls to the side. “Sure, whatever—oh!”
I tug down her dress, just enough to press a kiss to her collarbone. “Whatever, what?” Another kiss, this one just above the swell of her breast. “I’ve waited a long time for this, honey, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make the moment exactly how I’ve envisioned it all these years.”
Her fingers dance around to my front to hang onto me by the belt loops of my jeans. “Are there rose petals involved?” she asks in a sly voice.
“No.” My voice isn’t sly—it’s an honest-to-God rumble that sounds deep even to my own ears. “No rose petals.”
“Candles?”
“I think I’ve got a lighter somewhere.”
“No rose petals,” she mutters, her fingers sinking into my hair, “no candles. What in the world have you been thinking of all these years?”
Hell, it’s going to sound stupid. I ignore the rapid tempo of my heart and pull back, letting her dress go so that can I cup her face. Pulling a deep breath into my lungs, I go for broke. “We’re going to pretend this is the best idea you’ve ever heard.”
She turns her face just far enough so she can press a kiss to my palm. “I’m good at pretending—for a price.”
She wouldn’t be Gwen James if she didn’t challenge me every step of the way.
And I wouldn’t be me—the NHL’s best power forward—if I didn’t take risks every day in my career.
“Deal accepted,” I tell her.
She blinks up at me. “You don’t even know what the price is.”
I shrug. “Considering the topic of conversation, I figure I’m going to like it no matter what.”
“I could suggest bondage,” she says, throwing it out there like she’s brought something scandalous into the conversation. “Tie you up or whatever.”
Laughter floods my chest, and I move my hand to the nape of her neck. My thumb brushes the shell of her ear and I don’t miss the way she shivers and her lids flutter shut. Which makes it the perfect time to admit: “Honey, I’m not scared of a little bondage. So long as I’m tied up to the bed and you’re riding my face, I’ve got no complaints.”
18
Gwen
Pop!
There goes an image of me grinding on Marshall’s face, and let me tell you, it’s what fantasies are made of.
The man of the hour just throws back his head and laughs at what I assume is my oh-yes expression. I don’t know how he manages to have such tan skin all year around, especially since it’s just days before Christmas. Mild winter or not, I’m the equivalent of a milk carton and he’s just . . . masculine perfection. His tattooed arms bind me to him, and his broad chest grazes mine. I’ve never met a man with a chest as powerful and as hard as Marshall’s, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he works out even more than what the Blades require of him.
“Have you, um . . .” I wave my hand in his general direction, not even knowing how to finish off that sentence. “I guess what I’m trying to say is . . .” Once again, the words don’t come and I’m left floundering like a besotted idiot.
Marshall’s gray eyes warm as he glances down at me. “You’d be my first, Gwenny, and I’d be more than willing to let you pop my bondage cherry.”
Pop his . . .
Cheeks flushing, I roll my eyes and give a push to his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Nah,” he says, letting me go. From the way he eyes me as I sashay out of his embrace, I’d venture to say every foot I pu
t between us is one that he regrets. “You can be too serious at times,” he adds, “and I’m making it my responsibility to lighten you up. Aren’t you glad you got with a younger man?”
It’s a sore spot and he knows it. But, strangely enough, it’s been days since I’ve thought about our difference in age. Back in college, the gap seemed insurmountable.
Standing here with him now, I can’t help but take in my surroundings. It goes without saying that Marshall has made something for himself. For a man who grew up in the system, he has more opportunities at his fingertips than I ever will. Call me crazy, but that makes me happy—he deserves every bit of good that comes his way.
As for his house, the Tudor-style home is massive. The wood-paneling details throughout the entryway and kitchen are beautiful and not so heavy-handed that it looks like something out of the seventies. And I won’t lie—from the moment I stepped into the house, my jaw did a little drop at the sight of all the stonework. The kitchen is completely new with big appliances and an even bigger kitchen island.
I guess it makes sense because Marshall is no small man—not in height and definitely not in the downstairs department.
I flush at the memory of his erection pressed against me. I’d been half a second away from dropping to my knees, peeling open his jeans, and worshipping his cock in the best way possible.
Taking a turn around the kitchen, I flash him a smile and then drop onto one of the stools at the island. “I’m beginning to like this younger thing. It means that you should have more stamina for certain activities.”
“Should?” he repeats, and I can’t help but laugh at his defensive tone. “Stamina isn’t something you’ll ever have to worry about with me.”
“Do I have to worry about you stealing all of the pie?”
He glances down to where he’s hugging the dessert to his chest like contraband. “Have I mentioned that I enjoy pie?” He looks up at me through thick lashes, and his mouth turns up in a half-smile. “Grab the plates, honey. We’re going to watch a movie.”
“Are we?”
“Yup. It’s all part of my kissing plans.” He cuts me a dark look that I don’t believe for a hot-second. “Don’t make fun of me, but back in college I used to think about taking you to the movies all the time. We’d sit up in the back row—”
“Only naughty things happen in the back row.” I follow behind him with our plates and utensils while he grabs the wine from a fancy cooler next to the refrigerator. We take a hallway leading out of the kitchen, away from the front of the house. “I don’t think I’ve partaken in that sort of thing since high school.”
“Exactly.” With his elbow, he flicks on a light at the end of the hallway, and I’m halfway not surprised that he owns an in-house movie theater. There are three rows of black leather La-Z--Boys, and I count nine seats total. Classic red walls complete the space, as well as the largest TV I’ve ever seen outside of an actual theater.
He gestures for me to take my seat in the back row—naturally—and I do so with a soft laugh. Marshall has clearly thought this whole thing out. Who am I to ruin his fantasy?
I take the back-left seat. “Tell me the rest of your fantasy, and don’t leave out a thing.”
“I never leave out the details,” he rumbles. “I’m not that sort of guy.” Bringing the pie and the wine to a wooden sideboard to our left, he snags the plates and utensils and doles out two slices. “I hope you’re okay with drinking straight from the bottle?” Gray eyes twinkle at me in challenge. “It’s part of the fantasy.”
“We can be heathens together.”
His grin is slow and panty-meltingly sexy. If I weren’t so determined to follow his fantasy to a T, I’d strip off my underwear and throw them across the room.
Get the show on early and all that.
Patience has never been a virtue of mine.
Marshall returns with our pie and the wine bottle, then makes a quick detour to shut off the lights. When he settles in beside me, the space feels immediately smaller. His left leg presses into mine, and our elbows do a little dance as we stake our claim.
His elbow to the back of the arm rest—mine to the front.
It’s like a tango a couple only makes once in their life, and I hide a smile by digging into my blueberry pie.
For a night that started out in nightmare status…this is everything I needed to feel better, to feel right. With Marshall, I belong, and I wish it hadn’t taken me years to realize that.
“What do you want to watch?”
His palm falls to my thigh with the question, and right then, that’s when I realize why he wanted our first kiss to be like this.
It’s a throwback to our youth when first kisses were secreted in the back of a theater. When you waited, in hope, for your date to make the first move. An arm around your shoulders. A hand to the thigh. A kiss that starts light and easy before you’re hauled onto a masculine lap and grinding down like the soundtrack to the movie is something straight from a nightclub.
I cover Marshall’s hand with mine, and it’s so much less than what I want to do in this moment. Squeezing his fingers, I hope he gets the message loud and clear: I can’t wait to take this step with you.
With his pewter gaze on me, he flips his hand over, palm up, so that we’re holding hands.
Swoon.
Seriously, I’m feeling a little lightheaded right now.
“Movie, Gwen?” he prompts, a little knowing smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve got Netflix.”
Is he asking me a question right now? I look down at our entwined fingers. Yup, my heart is beating a mile a minute and all I know is that I want this moment to last forever. I don’t think I’ve ever—not ever—anticipated a man’s kiss like I do Marshall’s.
Considering the fact that I’ve already seen him naked, too . . . I feel like that says a lot.
“Um, honestly I can go with whatever.”
“Horror?” He thumbs the controller in his opposite hand and turns the TV on. The instant lighting casts his handsome face in a glow, highlighting his strong jawline and his perfectly sloped nose. With a squeeze of my hand, he adds, “I like the idea of you wanting to jump into my lap.”
Before I have the chance to process the words, I say, “I don’t think you’ll need a movie to guarantee that.”
Again he laughs, the sound rich and throaty, and again I feel swept away on a fantasy that didn’t belong to me though it’s now one I cling to with both hands. Or with one hand—the other is gripping my fork and half stabbing my pie.
“Sounds good to me.”
Marshall selects a movie, and, as the opening soundtrack kicks in, I do myself a favor and focus on the pie. Better than staring at him like a crazy lady.
The film opens with a woman screaming—she’s blonde, always the first ones to go in movies like these—and being chased by a guy with a chainsaw.
Classic.
I dig into my pie with gusto, chowing down as fast as I can go.
Marshall leans over to whisper, “You swallowin’ over there?”
If his intention was to make me think about getting on my knees before him, then he did his job well. I choke on the pie and he shoves the wine bottle at me with the order to “drink.”
I don’t think it has the same effect as drinking water in times like these, but I pull down the wine anyway. “I’m good. All set.” I set the bottle at my feet and finish off the pie, and then put that to the side, as well.
Step One, done.
After all, I need my hands empty if I want to snuggle up against Marshall, right? And I can’t do that if I’m nursing my pie all night.
I turn slightly, just far enough that my crossed legs brush his and my breasts are now shamelessly rubbing up against his arm.
Marshall makes a coughing sound.
“You okay?”
“Yup,” he grunts.
And then he flips the script on me.
19
Hunt
Gwen has no idea
how much she’s playing with fire right now.
Without giving her warning, I set my pie on the seat next to me and then tug her legs over mine so that she’s curled up against me. The hem of her perfectly respectable dress rides up, exposing lush skin from her knees to just below her pussy.
And then I clamp my hands down on her thighs where I begin to knead her muscles.
I keep my eyes on the shitty movie the whole time, unwilling to give away how much she’s affecting me right now.
Because she is.
My cock is pounding at my zipper, demanding to put on a performance, and that’s a surprise all on its own because my head is pounding so loudly I’m surprised I’ve got enough blood to gravitate to two different hemispheres in my body.
“I think we skipped the awkward, do-you-hold-me stage,” Gwen squeaks. Her moan when I rub a particular knot in her leg proves that she doesn’t give a shit how many stages we skip.
She wants this.
I want this.
It’s only a matter of time before we give in.
“We’re playing the adult version.” I slip my hand up high on her leg, teasing her with the possibility of making contact with ground zero, before I trail back down to her knee. At her little growl of displeasure, I laugh. “Don’t tell me you don’t got any patience, Gwenny.” I press my head to the back of the seat and look her way. “What’s the fun if there’s not a little anticipation?”
If she wants to stab me with my fork, she’s going to have to crawl across my lap—and she won’t hear a complaint from me.
With a little huff, she turns back to the TV and pretends to ignore me.
I could never ignore her.
For the next twenty minutes, I set out to make Gwen pant.
Yes, pant. It’s all part of the fantasy—the one where she realizes I’m the one for her, the one where she’ll do anything just to have the chance to strip off my clothes and crash her mouth down onto mine.
After years of working for her, I still want her to come to me—in the best way possible.
