by Kendall Ryan
“Mmm. That’s nice,” I say, grinding my hips against his touch in approval.
Before long, his hand wanders to the button of my jeans, and I’m all too eager for him to help me out of them. When he spies the lacy purple thong I have on underneath, his mouth falls slack, his breath an uneven shudder.
“Fuck, honey.”
His tongue sweeps over his lower lip as he drinks me in, greedy hands reaching for the scrap of lace clinging to my hips. But I have other plans. This man had the courage to share his broken past with me today, and I want to show him just how grateful I am. When I sink to my knees in front of him, a low, tortured sound rumbles deep in his throat.
“Jesus, Eden. Too good to me.”
He shoves off his jeans, and a small bubble of pride forms in my chest when I see he’s already half hard for me. A few gentle caresses from base to tip and he’s ready, his stormy eyes pleading with mine. But he doesn’t have to plead. I want him just as much as he wants me. When I slide him into my mouth, a shiver rolls from him through me, a shared moment of pure adrenaline as we connect.
“Good God, Eden.”
He gathers my hair in his fist, holding my blond waves at the nape of my neck as I take an inch of him, then another, until my lips are wrapped tight around him. He shudders, and I glide my lips up to his velvety tip, then down again, working him over with my tongue all the while. Then his breath hitches and he pulls back, his ash-colored eyes flickering with something close to primal.
“So good, sweetheart. But I need all of you.”
I can’t argue with that.
Weaving his fingers through mine, he pulls me back onto the couch and into a deep, hungry kiss. It’s not long till his mouth wanders down my neck, sucking and nipping at my collarbone and earning him a breathy moan in response. Soon, we’re shedding what’s left of our clothes, and I’m climbing over him, my knees pressed on either side of his thick thighs.
“Condom?” he asks.
I meet his eyes. “Do we need it? I’m on birth control, and . . .”
“Your call. I’m good if you are.”
His words are strained, barely above a whisper, and I kiss his mouth and shake my head. We don’t need anything else between us.
I’m wet for him already, but he dips a finger inside, testing my heat and groaning at what he finds.
“So perfect.”
A shaky moan pushes past my lips as he lifts me over him, positioning me just right. I plant my palms against his firm pecs, steadying myself the best that I can. But when he guides me down onto him, sinking all the way into me, steady is the last word I’d use to describe what I’m feeling.
Good God, this man fits inside me so perfectly, like his body was made to fit into mine, two interlocking puzzle pieces finally coming together. My heart beats an uneven rhythm as I ride him, grinding my hips against his until I feel a wild heat building between my legs.
“Holt,” I say on a gasp. “I’m close.”
His fingers sink into the small of my back, pressing me tight against the curve of his length. “Me too, baby,” he says softly. “Come for me.”
I kiss him then, and with one last tilt of his hips, pleasure rolls through me in hot, wild waves. He’s only moments behind me, releasing into me as he groans my name. It’s sweet and glorious on his lips.
Eden. Like the most perfect prayer.
26
* * *
HOLT
Things between Eden and me are effortless—like running downhill. It’s just easy.
Over the past few weeks, we’ve gone on dates, hung out together at her place and at mine. Cooked. Watched movies. Talked. I’ve rubbed her feet while she worked on her laptop. And we’ve had a lot of sex . . . definitely no complaints there.
But I’ve noticed something else. I’m starting to feel things I have no right to.
Eden isn’t my girlfriend. We aren’t dating. So, why do I have a whole bunch of ideas that seem way too domestic and couple-y for what we’re doing? Things like nights spent in bed, talking and cuddling and making love as many times as we can before my body gives out on me. Going to movies and walking on the beach.
The only time I listen to my loud, angry music anymore is when I’m working out, since I no longer need an angsty soundtrack to my life. On one hand, everything has changed, but on the other, nothing has, because we haven’t actually spoken about our relationship yet.
It’s something I intend to change, but I don’t want to spook Eden.
I know she’s only months off of a bad and very public breakup, and she’s given me no indication that she’s in the market for another serious relationship. She sleeps over at my place and lets me hold her. She cooks for me and texts me during the day, but that doesn’t mean she’s ready to be someone’s girlfriend again.
“Do you want to swing by the store on the way home?” Eden asks, interrupting my thoughts. “I’d like to get the ingredients for a recipe I saw online.”
Home. I love that she refers to wherever we’re staying together as home.
I nod. “Sure.”
We went for coffee this morning after sleeping in. Well, I got coffee. Eden got some fancy latte thing that I can’t even begin to pronounce. We’ve spent the last few weekends like this, doing mundane things together, but I’m happy, happier than I’ve ever been.
After the grocery store, she says she has library books to return, so we swing by there and are now back at her place. I unload the grocery bags while Eden locates the recipe on her phone.
“Does this look good to you?” she asks.
It’s something called shakshuka. I have no idea what that means. We picked up eggs, goat cheese, tomato sauce, and a crusty loaf of bread. At the time, I didn’t see how they could all be combined into one recipe together. To be honest, I still don’t.
“I’ll eat anything you make for me,” I say, pressing a kiss to her temple.
Eden smiles and gets to work, preheating the oven and instructing me on how to crumble the goat cheese while she works on the tomato sauce. She tells me about the origin of the dish as we cook. It’s North African, contains poached eggs in a spicy tomato sauce, and can be eaten for brunch or dinner.
By the time she slides the cast iron skillet into the hot oven, I’m no longer skeptical. It’s starting to smell damn good in here.
While we were cooking, her phone rang a few times, but she ignored it, seeming annoyed. But when it vibrates against the counter again, I can’t help but be curious. I don’t want to be insecure, just want to be sure she’s okay.
“Any particular reason you’re ignoring your calls today?” I glance over at her.
She takes a deep breath. “It’s Alex. And I have nothing to say to him.”
I can’t help but wonder if he calls her often. Maybe they’re still in touch. Hell, maybe they’re well on their way to becoming best friends again, but I know I can trust Eden, so I do, putting it out of my mind.
When the food is ready, it looks amazing, bubbling sauce with soft-cooked eggs that we eat with generous hunks of crusty bread.
I’m no longer thinking about her ex at all when we settle onto the couch together after our brunch. I pull Eden close, and she lets out a soft sigh.
“What should we do today?” she asks.
“I have an idea . . .” I press a kiss to the side of her neck, and she chuckles at my lame seduction attempt.
“Oh, do you now?”
“Yes.”
I lift Eden from her spot beside me and settle her onto my lap. Her knees are on either side of my hips, causing her warm center to rest right over my quickly hardening manhood.
Her eyes sink closed and she kisses me slowly, as if she wants to savor this moment between us. I’m on the exact same page. I love being here with her like this, where we don’t have to hide away or pretend we’re not involved.
Eden shifts her hips, eliciting a harsh pant from my lips. I work my hands under her shirt and lift it over her head. I’ve just fi
lled my hands with the soft weight of her breasts when there’s a brief knock at the front door.
Her worried gaze snaps to mine. I’m about to ask her if she’s expecting someone when the door suddenly opens.
“Eden? You home?” Alex’s voice cuts through the pounding sound of my heart.
Eden tumbles from my lap, clutching her shirt to her chest as Alex rounds the corner and comes into view. He stops suddenly, pausing in the entryway as he takes us in—both of us flushed and standing beside the couch, Eden in her bra and frantically trying to cover herself.
“Alex?” She almost shouts the word. “What are you doing here?”
He raises both hands, then his eyebrows jump in surprise. “Holt?”
“You’d better start talking, Braun.” Frustration laces my voice, and I take a couple of steps closer to him.
“Security buzzed me in. Maybe they thought Eden and I still . . .”
His words bounce around in my head. It doesn’t explain why he’s here, but imagining a scenario in which the building security thought Alex was still on the list of people Eden would invite into her condo isn’t something I want to think about too hard. I’ll have that problem corrected as soon as possible, and see to it that the person responsible is terminated for negligence.
Eden ducks behind me and quickly slips on her shirt, then faces Alex. “What are you doing here?”
Alex doesn’t answer. His features twist into a scowl, and his hands tighten into fists at his sides. “So, you two are hooking up now?”
His voice is rough, as though he’s swallowed glass. Or maybe it’s just the realization that Eden and I are an item that’s a bitter pill to swallow.
“That’s none of your concern,” Eden says, straightening her posture, and I place one hand on her shoulder.
Alex scoffs. “This guy? Really, Eden?”
“Be careful, Braun,” I warn.
Something about the way Alex is looking at her sets my skin on fire. His eyes are filled with pain and regret, and something else I can’t quite put my finger on.
He shakes his head, looking down for a moment. “I always thought there was something between you two, convinced myself I was imagining it. Because, hello, Eden Wynn and Holt Rossi? Nowhere on planet Earth does that make sense. But fuck, what do I know?”
His words sting like only the truth can.
“Leave, Alex,” Eden says, her voice shaky.
I take another step closer. “Braun, I’m warning you. Listen to her or you’re going to regret this.”
“Fuck you, Rossi. Fuck both of you.”
Alex practically hurls his words at us, but when he takes a step closer to Eden, that’s when I lose it. I throw the first punch and have him down on the floor and restrained before he can react.
He struggles against my hold. “Let me go, asshole,” he hisses, thrashing against my firm grip. “I wasn’t going to touch her. I was going to hand her this.”
I look down at his hand. He’s holding a gold watch.
“Let him go, Holt,” Eden says, sounding drained and exhausted already from this fifteen-second exchange.
I release him, and Alex is on his feet before I can barely take two steps back.
Alex extends his hand holding the watch toward Eden. “It was an anniversary gift,” he says, probably for my benefit. “Take it.”
Eden looks uncertain, more confused than I’ve seen her. Then she shakes her head. “Just keep it, Alex.”
“I don’t want the watch,” he says, daring to take another step toward Eden. “I know it was your grandfather’s. Take it.”
Finally, she does. Alex blows out a long sigh and then heads for the door.
What an asshole. If it were so important for him to return that watch, he could have brought it to practice any day of the week.
The door closes, and then we’re alone.
Eden sets the watch on the counter and spins to face me. Worry lines her features, and I cross the room to take her in my arms, to reassure her. But instead, she’s the one checking on me, delicately taking my hand to inspect it.
It’s in this moment that our story comes full circle . . . me with busted knuckles, her tending to them just like all those years ago in college. The significance of this moment isn’t lost on Eden. I can see the emotion in her eyes.
“I’m fine,” I say, pressing my lips to her temple. I pull her close, and she rests her head on my chest.
“It’s crazy how one night can change your whole life,” she murmurs.
I squeeze my eyes closed—hard—and fight off an unexpected rush of emotion. “I felt so much for you back then.”
She lifts up on her toes and presses her mouth to the stubble along my jaw. When I meet her eyes, I sense there’s some unspoken thought on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she just whispers, “I made the wrong choice.”
We’re interrupted when her phone rings again.
It better not be Alex. I heave in a deep breath while Eden grabs the phone and checks the caller ID.
“It’s Les,” she says before answering it.
She puts the phone to her ear, and even I can hear the frantic tone in his voice.
“Eden?” I ask when her face falls.
She swallows hard and tells Les to give her a second. When she looks at me, it’s without any of the tenderness from a moment before.
“We have a problem.”
27
* * *
EDEN
Holt was at my place yesterday when Les called with the news. I ushered him out with the excuse that a work thing needed my attention.
Poor Holt, he believed me. He hadn’t yet heard the news, didn’t realize that everything between us had just imploded. I promised to call him later, but even as I said the words, I doubted they were true. Somewhere deep inside, I worried things were over between us—for good this time.
It’s a funny thing to watch your worst nightmares come true. And by funny, I mean shocking and horrible.
When I woke up this morning to an onslaught of panicked notifications on my phone, all of which contained links to news and blog articles featuring my name, I knew that I hadn’t dreamed it. And yesterday, sending Holt away had only been the tip of the iceberg. I was in for one of the worst days of my life.
All it took was one little picture. A shot of me and Holt at Lucian’s son’s birthday party.
Holt’s back is to the camera, one arm wrapped around my waist, his hand lingering on the curve of my ass. Meanwhile, my face is clearly photographed, and it’s turned up toward Holt’s with a smile on my lips, looking at him like he hung the damn moon.
Out of context, it would be a pretty sweet photo. But plastered on the front page of every hockey gossip blog, it makes my stomach churn and sweat bead on my forehead.
Well. Fuck me, I guess.
The media has spun themselves into a frenzy, speculating that I’m involved with someone on the team—just like they all predicted in the beginning. No one wanted to take a young female owner seriously. After my breakup with Alex, it was suggested that I’d soon move on to another player.
My heart slams against my ribs as I scroll through the notifications on my phone, each headline worse than the last.
Titans Owner Gets Cozy with Unnamed New Beau
Wynn Scores a Goal with Titans Employee, Fans See Red
Beat It, Braun: New Titans Owner Spotted Getting Flirty with Favorite New Hire
The comments section of every article is a full-blown dumpster fire of fans typing in all caps, insisting that I’m even more of a joke than they first thought.
My heart bottoms out to my stomach, which proceeds to sink to my toes. I did the one thing that all the tabloids and gossipy hockey blogs predicted. I fell for someone involved with the team. And now all the fans see is the flirty, unfocused owner they feared I would be, and they want me out. Stat. I can almost feel my career crumbling into dust.
I throw my phone to the end of the bed, plunging my face into my pillow
and releasing a scream that turns into a sob.
Fuck my whole life.
I manage to pull myself out of bed and trudge to the kitchen to switch on the coffeepot. I’m going to need a whole lot of caffeine to keep me from crawling back into bed, hiding under the covers, and never showing my face in public ever again.
I can’t believe this is really happening. One of the absolute worst-case scenarios, and it’s happening to me in real time.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and every nerve in my body jumps with anxiety. What now, a write-up in the freaking New York Times?
When it buzzes again, I work up the courage to look. It’s not another text or news notification, though. It’s an incoming call from Holt.
My stomach lurches, and after a few seconds of consideration, I make the difficult decision to press the IGNORE button.
Yes, this mess affects him, but it affects me more. I’m the one whose face is in the picture, and I’m the one with a career and a family reputation on the line. I need space to process this shitstorm, and as much as I’d like to cry into Holt’s shoulder, I’m not sure I deserve to. I’m the one who let my guard down. I knew what the media was capable of, and yet I still went out with him in public.
A knock sounds at my door, and I groan, flopping onto my couch. “Go away.”
Holt was right, it turns out. I need to have a talk with building security about who’s allowed to come up to my door.
“I could go away, but then I’d have to dump out this disgusting oat-milk latte, and that’s a total waste of five bucks.”
I perk up a little, both at the familiar voice and the mention of an oat-milk latte. It’s Gretchen, thank God. That’s one shoulder I can cry on all I want without the gossip sites having much to say about it.
I force myself up from the couch and let her in, trying to ignore the pitying look in her eyes as she hands me the largest coffee cup I’ve ever seen in my life.
