by Elise Faber
More than six months.
More than six long months without a cock inside her, and if she were being truthful, if the alcohol buzzing around her brain was revealing the reality she hadn’t wanted to admit before things had ended—that sex between her and Caleb hadn’t exactly been soul-shattering.
She’d loved her husband.
Loved him desperately until he’d broken her trust, broken her heart.
But her marriage hadn’t been all she’d hoped it could be.
That was the understatement of the year.
She snorted and nuzzled close to Luc, to the man who wouldn’t break her, to the man who’d always kept her safe, who’d been her friend and sounding board and support system when the rug had been pulled out from beneath her feet.
Their hips brushed again, and she stiffened at the feel of that erection against her.
Not in fear or disgust, as he probably suspected, given how quickly he angled their hips away from one another. But because . . . she wanted him.
He bent, spoke directly into her ear, the heated words making her shiver and press closer. “I’m a man,” he said, his husky chuckle skating down her spine. “It comes with the territory when a beautiful woman is dancing so close.”
He’d said something similar once before, and it hadn’t sat well with her then, just as it didn’t sit well with her now.
She didn’t want it to come with the territory.
She wanted it to come . . . for her. To come in her. To—
His mouth was still at her ear. “We should go get another drink.”
“In a minute,” she said, turning her head to speak into his ear, breath catching when the movement brought their lips past one another, so close to that intimate line they had never crossed.
Heart pounding, mind spinning, she let her head fall to his chest, enjoying the feel of him against her, of that warmth and strength . . . of his—her hips tilted toward his—cock, hard and jutting against her abdomen. God, he was so sexy and wonderful and—her arms tightened around him.
“Lex—” he began, his breath warm against her hair.
“Just a little longer,” she said above the din, her head tilting back, her eyes meeting his.
The pulsing lights flickered across the green of his irises, reminding her of a Christmas tree, of the joy of winter, the first snow of the year, floating down and coating her skin, her hair.
His lips parted, his head dipped, and then his mouth was at her ear again. “Okay, honey.”
Relief coursing through her, mingling with desire, with the booze, with . . . Luc, and this night, this celebration. With forgetting everything that came before and focusing on what could be.
What she wanted.
It finally crystalized in her mind.
What. She. Wanted.
Holy shit.
Whom she wanted.
She jerked in Luc’s hold, gaze lifting and returning to his, searching the green depths for some sign that his erection was about her and not just that it was the result of some intimate dancing and male biology. But . . . there wasn’t much there that she could discern, not with the dimness of the dance floor, the flashing lights.
And if it was just biology? What then?
Did it matter?
Would it ruin things?
She knew that Luc wouldn’t change, wouldn’t despise her, no matter what they did together. Still, she knew to the depths of her Cosmo-addled brain—no, to her vodka-cran-addled brain—but the point was that even the alcoholic buzz in her mind understood the risk was too great to risk imploding her friendship.
This attraction was vodka related.
This attraction was six-months-pent-up related.
This attraction meant that she needed more alcohol, and she needed to find someone else to fuck.
Because it wouldn’t be Luc—even if he wanted her back, even if her attraction wasn’t the result of alcohol, and his hard cock the result of dancing close. Even if she were willing to risk her friendship.
The slow song ended, shifting into something more fast-paced, the thrumming music vibrating through her, making her need and want and—
“More drinks,” she said, forcing herself out of his arms, turning for the bar.
Luc didn’t argue, just sheltered her with his body as they moved through the gyrating bodies, as they moved over to the steel and granite counter, behind which the mirrored wall held shelf after shelf of alcohol.
The bartender knew them by now, smiling as she set a glass down in front of her, as Luc pulled out some money to tip her, even though he didn’t get a drink for himself, even though he’d long since stopped drinking. Even though she’d long ago stopped arguing with him over buying her drinks.
She picked it up, handling it in the careful way she moved when she was drunk. Easy, slow movements, pretending that she was far less tipsy than she let on.
Through pure dint, she managed to raise it to her mouth, to take a long, heady sip without spilling it over her dress. And fuck, it was glorious and tart, with just enough booze that she could taste the bitter bite of vodka.
Warmth slid through her, loosened her limbs, softened the draw to the man behind her.
It allowed her to look around, to focus on the other men.
To study them, to hope and pray for some sort of pull, some semblance of attraction.
No one compared. Nothing burned inside her.
Not like Luc.
Well, she’d just ignore that, would just find someone close enough who maybe didn’t make her burn, but who could at least spark something, could pull off the Band-Aid of sleeping with someone who wasn’t Caleb.
She set the empty glass on the bar top, straightened, and eyed the closest man.
Attractive, nice smile, a confident gaze that met hers then drifted down. Tendrils of desire slid through her. She could do this. It would be fine, and—
An arm slid around her waist, tugged her back against a firm chest. “No,” Luc said. “You’re not here for this.”
“I need a cock,” she moaned, hips tilting back, her ass finding his cock. Wishing that things could be different, that maybe they were more than friends. “It’s been so fucking long, Luc. I need—”
“Drunk tonight,” he said, hissing when her ass thrust back. “Fucking another.”
“But—”
“No, Lexi.” He dragged her back to the dance floor, far away from the man with the nice smile, the one who might have tempted her to do something she might later regret. Her body was flush to his, his cock was still hard, and she had enough alcohol in her system, was enamored enough with his body against hers that she didn’t give a fuck about the man by the bar any longer.
Not when she had Luc.
“Baby,” she whispered.
There was no way that he could have heard her, not over the noise bumping out of the speakers. But either he had superhuman hearing or he just sensed that she’d spoken, because he kept one arm around her, used his other hand to cup her cheek.
“Dance, Lex,” he said, and she read his lips more than she heard the slight rasp of his voice. “Just dance.”
Green eyes.
Happy memories.
Luc.
Luc.
She moved closer, and . . . she danced.
Chapter Eighteen
Luc
Torture.
Absolute torture to have her curvy, soft body pressed to his. No. Writhing against him, driving him mad, fueling his desire until it burned through his veins. He’d given up on trying to tamp down his cock, knowing he’d have to be gay or made of stone in order to not be affected by Lexi.
God, she looked so happy plastered against him.
Her eyes closed, head thrown back as she moved to the music, her hair a silken sheet over the arm he had clamped around her waist.
She was beautiful and free . . . and his.
He knew he’d do anything to make her his.
So it was torture to have her against him, e
specially after her gaze had been on the other man at the bar, when she’d said she needed a cock.
Fuck.
Had he ever heard anything so sexy?
No.
And he’d wanted to give her his. So fucking bad.
But she was drunk.
So he’d contented himself with dancing, with holding her, with—the man from the bar moved too close—that being within thirty feet of them—and Luc pulled Lexi closer, glaring over her head at the motherfucker, making it clear what would happen if he moved another inch forward. The other man paled, stepped back, and disappeared into the crowd.
Lexi just wrapped her arms around his waist, rested her head on his chest, and kept dancing.
Torture. Absolute torture.
Yet, he knew that he wouldn’t stop dancing. Wouldn’t stop holding her.
Until she was done.
Because it was also the best fucking night of his life.
Okay, so he’d had to revise his earlier statement.
Because Lexi wasn’t anywhere near being done.
But she was done.
She was riding that line between drunk and sloppy, and even though she’d hauled him over to the bar for another drink, he’d shaken his head at the bartender, who’d nodded her understanding and had made Lex her vodka cran with just cran. Lexi was too far gone to notice, which was why he closed their tab and tipped generously before getting hauled back onto the dance floor, intending to make her request of staying here until they were kicked out a reality.
But it was her stumble that did it.
She caught the edge of her heel, her ankle started to go over.
He shifted, dragged her against him, steadying her even as he turned for the exit and began bustling her toward it.
“Where are we going?” she asked, a slight slur in her question.
“Home,” he said.
“But—”
“Home,” he snapped, causing her eyes to fly up to his.
“But,” she began again.
He gripped her chin, kept her gaze on his. “Home, sweetheart,” he said. “End of discussion.”
Her lips moved, forming the words “End of discussion.” Sparks of fury in her golden-brown eyes, turning them molten, and he knew her well enough to understand that her temper was one second away from rupture.
Which was why he found himself bending close, his fingers weaving into her hair, his mouth finding her ear. “End,” he breathed. “Of. Discussion.”
Her breath shuddered on his neck, her hands gripped his shoulders.
He nipped her earlobe, and she moaned, loud or near enough that he heard it over the music and turned his head, instinctively seeking out the sound, wanting to hear it again, wanting to make her moan again. Temptation lingered in the flush of her cheeks, in the plumpness of her lips, in the dilation of her pupils. And God, her mouth was right there. So close and alluring and . . . smelling of alcohol.
Of all those vodka crans.
Luc straightened, banded his arm around her waist again, and led her to the exit.
Thankfully, his car wasn’t far, and he poured her into it with the warning, “You have to puke, you let me know. I’ll pull over.”
Maybe he was an asshole, but he didn’t want to clean up vomit from his car.
“Lex?” he pressed when she just closed her eyes and rested her head back against the seat.
“No puking on the leather,” she murmured, quieter now that they’d left the bar. “I got it.”
He stroked a finger down her cheek. “I’ll get you home.”
And he did. He rounded the car, got into the driver’s seat, and started up the engine. Then he drove her home.
Drove her to his home.
It only took twenty minutes, the traffic at this time of night virtually nonexistent, and pretty soon he was pulling into the garage, shutting it behind him.
Lex hadn’t made a peep from the moment he’d closed her door, and he’d thought she was asleep, but when he’d parked and opened her side of the car, her eyelids slid smoothly back.
“I didn’t puke,” she proclaimed proudly.
He snorted, helped her from the car, guiding her up the two stairs that led into the kitchen and then up to the second story, up to where she always stayed when she was here.
His room.
He set her on the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of her to untie the leather laces crisscrossing up her legs so he could take off her heels. His fingers felt too big and clumsy as he fought with the knot, as he slowly unwound them from around her calves. Her skin was like silk, and his cock was even harder than it had been in the bar—desire a constant thrum against his insides as he knelt between her thighs, his hands on her body. Pushing it aside, knowing he couldn’t do anything about it, not right then, he slid her heels off her feet, lining them up carefully next to the nightstand.
Her toes curled, pointing and flexing, and he found his hands on her again, found himself massaging the soles of her feet, knowing they must ache after the night in those stilettos.
She moaned, her thighs drifting apart, giving him a glimpse of bare skin, of black lace that clung to—
Fuck.
Releasing her, heart pounding, he stood, tugged back the covers. “Here,” he murmured, lifting the blanket, indicating that she should crawl beneath them. “Get in,” he said when she didn’t immediately move.
“Uh-uh,” she said, head flapping as she shook it.
“Lexi,” he warned.
She reached for him. “Come here.”
“You need to sleep, honey.”
Her arms came around his waist, her mouth too close to his dick for the well-being of his self-control. “I want you,” she murmured, nuzzling at his stomach.
He deserved a fucking gold medal.
“Lexi,” he said again, grabbing at her wrists, starting to undo them from around him. She relaxed, arms falling away, and he let his guard down, thinking that she had released him because she was going to get under the covers.
Instead, she moved extremely fast for a drunk woman, reaching for the button of his jeans, flicking it open, and getting both hands down his pants.
He groaned, hips jerking when her cool, soft hands gripped his cock.
It felt . . . well, it felt like everything.
Which was why he deserved another gold medal, or whatever was better than a gold medal. Another Cup, he supposed, his name etched in giant letters on the side, much bigger than it had been engraved when the Breakers had won it six years before. Either way, he somehow managed to summon his self-control, the strength to tug her hands off him, to step back and nudge her onto the mattress, to tug up the covers, to cover the temptation of her body.
Her bottom lip slid out into a pout.
“Sleep,” he ordered, buttoning his jeans.
“I can’t sleep in my dress,” she said, throwing the covers back and reaching for a zipper hidden under her arm, tugging it down, and before he could summon a protest, slipping her arm free, spreading the fabric wide.
Black lace.
Creamy skin.
Breasts and the gentle curve of her stomach and—
He spun away, stalked through the bathroom to his closet, and fucking hell, why had the hockey gods decided to torture him? He snagged a T-shirt from his drawer, moved back into the bedroom, ignoring the pulsing desire, ignoring his cock telling him to get into bed, to help her get naked, to kiss every inch—
The curse burst out of him, the shirt in his hand dropped silently to the carpet because . . .
Breasts.
Breasts that would overflow his hands, rosy nipples that were hardened in the cool air of the room, tight, little furls that begged for his mouth. Her bra was clenched in her hand, her head on his pillow, shining hair spread out behind her like a fucking siren calling him to her, desperate to throw himself on the rocks if only he’d get one chance to prostrate himself at her feet.
The black lace of her underwear barely covered her
pussy, and her thighs were spread wide enough to give him a glimpse of glistening pink folds.
Sweet fucking Christ.
Slamming his eyes closed, he crouched, blindly feeling for the cotton, shoring himself for the sight of the woman on his bed.
When he’d summoned the slightest bit of his control, he opened his eyes, grasped the shirt and stood, crossing over to her, tugging the material over her head. She stirred, bleary gaze meeting his as he threaded her arms through.
“Luc,” she murmured.
“Hush, baby.”
It was an almost painful thing to cover her body and also a relief, pulling the material over her curves before tucking the blankets over her.
“Luc,” she said again, burrowing into the comforter, her eyes closed.
“What?” he asked softly, smoothing back her hair.
A yawn that stretched her lush lips wide. “Why do you always have me sleep in your bed?”
His hand faltered before he continued his stroking, continued the gentle, soothing touches, soothing her into oblivion. He continued touching her, studying Lexi’s face as her lips parted, her breathing slow and steady, and he didn’t answer until he thought that she was fully asleep. “Because I like you there.”
Her eyes slitted open, telling him he hadn’t waited long enough, that she was awake, at least slightly.
“I like it here, too,” she murmured.
And then her eyes slid closed again, sleep taking her fully under.
Luc stood and went to sleep in the guest room.
For the record, he hated it there.
Chapter Nineteen
Lexi
Her head pounded.
Her throat felt like the Sahara.
Those were the only two sensations she could summon when she managed to yank her eyelids open.
She instantly knew that she was in Luc’s bed, his spicy smell surrounding her like a yummy, masculine cloud. The blankets were tucked up and around her, safe and secure and cozy.
Always in his bed.
Never with him.
