Charging (Gold Hockey Book 10)

by Elise Faber

  “That’s because I’m special.”

  “It’s because you’re something,” she muttered.

  He laughed. She laughed.

  And then because they had eight years of knowing each other under their belts, of that father/daughter, brother/sister, friend relationship, they didn’t need further discussion to move on to talking about something that wasn’t sappy bullshit.

  And because they both loved their jobs, they moved on to hockey.

  As if there were anything else.

  Twenty-Three

  Logan

  He’d gone slow.

  He’d had patience.

  And . . . now he had blue balls.

  But he’d followed his own advice, and now there was a woman standing on his doorstep for a change. A brown bakery bag in one hand, a bottle of liquor in the other.

  His lips curved, and he leaned back against the doorjamb. “What’s happening, Starlight?”

  She lifted her chin and brushed by him into his house.

  Grinning, he closed the door, turned to follow her, only to see that she had stopped all of three feet inside his place. He froze, and maybe he was succumbing to his inner pig, but damn, what a view that was.

  Her hair was swept up into a mass of curls. Her skin gleamed in the morning light, set off by the pale blue of her dress—a simple thing that tied at her nape, left the rest of her back exposed. His mouth watered, nearly as much as his fingers itched to touch, because the sweep of that dress, how it teased the tops of her thighs, thighs he wanted to be in between and, fuck, thighs he wanted to stroke, to kiss, to lick.

  “This is so cliché.”

  “Me wanting to go down on you?” he asked, slipping his arms around her waist from behind and pressing his front to her back.

  Her breathing hitched, hips canting to brush his—

  Yes, he was hard.

  Hence . . . blue balls.

  Char spun in his arms, lifting hers up and resting her hands on his shoulders. She had those fucking tall heels on again, red ones this time that matched her fire engine colored lipstick.

  And he wanted to kiss her.

  But she was there, and patience seemed to be working, and he needed to keep chugging along, to not fuck this up—

  “Logan!” she exclaimed.

  “What?” he asked, going for innocent.

  Not that it worked, because she glared up at him. “You can’t say things like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m trying very hard not to jump your bones.”

  He stilled, held her gaze. “Well, I’m trying very hard to be good,” he murmured. “And you talking about bones”—he drew her a little closer, trying to resist the urge to grind his cock against her—“isn’t helping my control.”

  Fingers on his jaw, a smirk on that sexy red-covered mouth. “Yeah?”

  “Vixen,” he muttered, turning her and cuddling her against his side, keeping that dangerous, tempting body near, while still attempting to maintain his control. Having her curves pressed to him wasn’t great for said control, but it was better than finding any excuse to rub his cock against her. Or better yet to lift up the hem of that dress and—

  “I thought I was your Starlight?” she asked.

  “Yes, to Starlight,” he said, leading her farther into the house. “You’ve been my guide over the years, my beacon to find my way back to you, to show you—”

  He broke off, voice definitely wet, even though he was a big, tough hockey player. Yes, he knew he’d ultimately done the right thing in letting her go, but it had hurt, and part of him worried that he would never find a way to make it up to her, to get her back, to have the opportunity to prove exactly how much she meant to him.

  “You’ve showed me, Log,” she murmured, then nudged him lightly. “Sure took your damned time doing it though.”

  “I had to wait,” he said. “You needed that time.”

  She had, even though it had been painful. Even though, for a time, he’d tried to find happiness without her, same as she seemed to be finding it without him. But no woman had ever come close, and it wasn’t fair to them to keep dragging something along that only resulted in hurt feelings and damaged hearts—theirs, not his.

  And that wasn’t his ego talking.

  Because his heart had been damaged long before.

  By knowing what he’d given up, what he was missing. He’d known it was special and important and way more than a youthful crush or first love.

  It was forever love.

  That he’d needed to send to slaughter.

  Dramatic much? Probably. But in many ways, that was the best description. He’d sliced away a part of each of them, hoping that one day the pieces might be able to come back together. Maybe not in the same fashion as they’d once been, but in something that had the potential to be more, to be . . . them.

  She inhaled. “Yeah, I think I needed that time too.” Brown eyes on his. “For the record, I really fucking hated it.”

  He grinned, the painful memories of those years apart slipping away. “For the record, I did, too.” Logan turned and drew her into the kitchen. “So, if you weren’t talking about your glorious puss—oof!” He broke off when she smacked him, and he found he didn’t have the strength to resist that glorious mouth any longer. Not when it was lush and red and so damned close.

  Not when her eyes flashed at him, but her lips tipped up at the edges.

  Not when a shuddering breath slipped from them.

  And so, he pressed his lips to hers.

  She nipped at his tongue when it slid into her mouth, but then she was kissing him back, her tongue tangling with his, her hands kneading at his shoulders. He slid his palm down, tugged her flush against him, cupping that ass he’d dreamed about for years, the same one he’d stroked himself to over and over that season, seeing her parade around in her heels and slacks.

  For the record, he knew she’d kick his ass if she caught wind of him thinking she’d been doing any parading.

  He also knew she’d been working her ass off.

  It was just his inner pig that enjoyed pretending she was strutting around, the same one that imagined bending her over her desk and—

  His fingers brushed bare skin.

  Fuck. He hadn’t realized he’d been lifting her skirt, hadn’t even realized he’d lifted her up onto the counter and stepped between her legs.

  Patience.

  He pulled back.

  Hot brown eyes on him, swollen mouth, smeared lipstick, rapid breaths mixing.

  “You haven’t forgotten how to kiss,” she teased, stroking a hand down his T-shirt, making him wish he was wearing a suit of armor, only so he wouldn’t be tempted to keep sliding her dress up, to keep touching.

  “What were you talking about?” he asked, voice like gravel.

  “What?” She pushed her hair out of her face then reached over and rubbed at his mouth, her thumb coming away stained red. “That lipstick is ridiculously expensive.”

  Logan nipped at her thumb. “Then don’t wear it,” he said. “Because I really enjoy kissing it off your mouth.”

  She huffed.

  “I promise I’ll buy you a new tube once I finish kissing off the first one.”

  One brow lifted. “You don’t know how expensive it is.”

  “If it means kissing you?” A shrug. “I don’t care.”

  Her lips tipped up, making him want to kiss her all over again, but he resisted because . . . patience.

  Fuck, that was going to become his new favorite four-letter word.

  Or eight-letter, rather.

  Regardless, he got back to the point at hand, which was having a civil conversation with this woman that didn’t end with their clothes in a pile on the floor or his mouth on her pussy.

  Why? his inner pouty man moaned. You’d make it good.

  He would. That was irrefutable.

  But he needed to make everything else good, too.

  Which is why he f
ocused and asked, “When you walked in, you said this was so cliché. What’s cliché?”

  Her eyes danced, and she waved a hand around his kitchen. “Isn’t it obvious?” she asked. “This bachelor pad on steroids. It’s the most cliché thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  He stared at the kitchen. It was a little spartan, he supposed, but he’d already established his lack of cooking ability. The family room was across the hall, and he had a nice leather couch, a big TV, even some throw pillows his mom had made him buy the last time his parents had been in town.

  That had sparked a fight in the middle of Target—his dad saying his mom needed to butt out of Logan’s life, and his mom declaring she was “just trying to make sure our son is comfortable. Shouldn’t I make sure he’s comfortable?”

  In the end, Logan had bought eight freaking pillows—which had cost him three hundred dollars (three hundred!)—but his mom had been happy, and then after he’d shoved the pillows in the trunk of his SUV, he’d driven them to a local brewery, thus making his dad happy.

  Oh, so fun.

  His parents were the best.

  But aside from the throw pillows, the space was organized, clean, and a pretty decent combination of dark wood, black leather, and stainless steel.

  Oh.

  Now he got what she meant.

  Char dressed nice, did her hair and makeup, but she wasn’t what he’d consider high maintenance or a girly-girl. She did what she needed to look professional, and outside of work, she dressed in a way that made her happy.

  Her home was like that.

  Just as clean and organized as his.

  But it bridged the gap between professional and happy, between stark and warm.

  She had trinkets on her shelves, brightly patterned kitchen towels draped by the sink, pictures on the walls, throw pillows and blankets on her couch. She had all the things, that when put together, made an actual home.

  His place was just that.

  A place to sleep. A place to watch TV. A place to eat.

  There wasn’t warmth or happiness or joy.

  Joy? For fuck’s sake.

  He knew he was gone for Char, had been gone for her for years, knew he’d played the sacrificing hero, but fuck, he was also a man.

  One who’d played his hand and lived by it.

  One who’d seen his opening and made his move.

  So what if he didn’t have trinkets on his shelves?

  And this was a conversation he probably didn’t need to be having with himself in this moment, not with the woman he loved at his place, a bag of treats—please dear Lord let it be treats in that bag—in her hand, a sexy dress on her body, and her lipstick smeared across his face.

  Frankly, he was finding himself hard-pressed to give a fuck about trinkets or bachelor pads on steroids.

  “I’ll have you know,” he said, “that I have throw pillows. A bachelor pad doesn’t have throw pillows.”

  She snorted. “Is that the rule? Throw pillows mean that you’ve got a real home?”

  “I’m a real boy,” he joked, a la Pinocchio.

  Char giggled, and it made him feel about a hundred feet tall. “Here, you goof,” she said, thrusting the bag at him. “I’ve brought your favorite Cheat Day snack.”

  “But I don’t do Cheat Days anymore.”

  “The season’s over.” A beatific smile. “I think you can take a few Cheat Days.”

  All of his earlier promises and rules about sticking with the diet plan for the foreseeable future flew out the window. Because come hell or high water, he’d find a way back to the plan if it meant that Char would show up with that pretty smile and pride in her eyes. He’d just . . . tie himself to the bike to work off the extra calories.

  There. Plan sorted.

  He shrugged. “Depends.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “On what?”

  “On what’s in the bag.”

  Her face fell. “Oh.”

  Stepping closer, he cupped her cheek. Not smart for his control, but the urge to get close to her, to comfort, was impossible to ignore. “What did I say?”

  Instead of answering, she handed him the bag. “Apple cinnamon muffin.”

  His stomach rumbled, the diet plan all but forgotten now. “From Molly’s?”

  A smirk. “As if I’d get it from anywhere else?” She nudged him back and unfolded the top of the bag, pulled out a muffin.

  Spice and sweet filled the air, and his stomach rumbled again.

  Char laughed. “Okay, clearly, you’re withering away.” She broke off a piece of the top and held it up to his lips. “Eat this.”

  “You first,” he said. “I’m sure you’re hung—”

  She shoved it into his mouth.

  He glared, but it wasn’t like he was going to spit out the deliciousness, not with the bite melting on his tongue, cinnamon and apples filling his taste buds. But he was going to share.

  Snagging the muffin, he broke off a piece then put it up to her lips, trying not to moan when her tongue brushed his finger as she ate the bite.

  “Again,” she said after chewing for several moments, “you need to work on your bite size, sir. I am a tiny woman with a tiny mouth. I need appropriate-sized bites.”

  “I notice you didn’t say tiny bites.”

  “I’m not an idiot,” she said, grabbing his wrist and nibbling at the muffin. “This is from Molly’s.”

  He took a bite, and yeah, he supposed when he compared it to what Char had eaten, one might term it a behemoth. But he was six-four, two hundred and sixteen pounds. He had a big body that needed a lot of fuel.

  Behemoth bites were a given.

  Didn’t mean he couldn’t share.

  He raised the muffin up to Char’s mouth, and they spent the next few minutes devouring the treat, along with two others—one more apple cinnamon and a blueberry—before they spoke again.

  “Did you eat an appropriate amount of muffin?” he asked after they’d finished and he’d shoved the wrappers back into the bag.

  “Yup.”

  “Good.”

  She brushed at his chin, met his eyes when he looked at her in question. “Crumb,” she said by way of explanation.

  “You thirsty?” he asked, not wanting to step away from her but knowing that the longer he stood between her thighs, the less likely he was to practice his patience plan. “I’ve got water and orange juice. I can make some coffee or—”

  “Just a glass of water would be great.”

  He stepped back, and she shifted as though she’d slide from the counter, but the move dislodged one of those sexy fucking heels—death traps though they were—and it hit the tile floor with a clatter.

  Not thinking, he bent and scooped it up.

  Then straightened and nearly bit his tongue.

  Because of where he was.

  Where he was.

  Bare legs, a glimpse of naked thigh. The scent of her lotion in his nose, rose and something tropical wafting up, trailing over him, and musk. She wanted him, and he could smell it.

  Fucking hell.

  He slipped on her heel, straightened farther, not burying his face where he was desperate to, not lifting her skirt and sliding his fingers through damp heat—

  “You could,” she murmured. “You could just lift up my skirt and—”

  His cock went rock-hard.

  His eyes flew to hers . . . and saw that, yes, there was desire there, but it was tempered by the shadows of the past, dimmed by pain.

  So, yeah, he could, but also, no, he couldn’t.

  Not if he wanted Char to feel like the most important woman in the universe to him. Not if he wanted to be able to look himself in the mirror and not feel like the worst scumbag on the planet.

  He could, however, press his mouth to hers, he could kiss her and hold her tight and put everything he was feeling into that simple embrace.

  Then he could step back and help her off the counter.

  He could take her hand.

 
He could ask, “Are those heels for walking?”

  And he could feel a hundred feet tall when she rolled her eyes and snorted, even as her body drifted close, and she said, “Yes, Log. They’re made for walking.”

  Twenty-Four

  Char

  “You know, when you asked if these shoes were for walking,” she said, glancing out at the forested trail in front of them, “this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

  He’d helped her down from the counter in his kitchen, brushing the fronts of their bodies in one languorous slide, making every nerve in her being prickle and fire and fill with desire.

  She’d offered up spending a lazy day bingeing on Great British Bake-Off, selling it as him learning how to cook something by proxy.

  But he’d seen through her.

  Or at least, he’d read that while she’d shown up, while she’d come to terms with a lot of what had happened between them, there was still a part of her that was nervous.

  She wanted him and was terrified of what would happen if they went for it.

  Physically and emotionally.

  She loved kissing him, loved touching and how he held her. She loved joking and talking and laughing with him—as they’d done for much of the drive up into the mountains south of San Francisco, twining their way toward Santa Cruz, but turning off before they made it into the sleepy beach town, instead climbing up and up until they’d made their way into Big Basin.

  Logan threw his SUV into park and reached into the back seat. He came up with a box that was almost the same size as the one he’d presented her in her office a few days before and plunked it into her lap.

  Then he reached back again and came up with a sweatshirt.

  “Open it, ” he said when she didn’t immediately tear the lid off.

  “I’m not a puppet,” she muttered. “Give a woman a second to process a man who doesn’t take appropriate-sized bites and who keeps dropping packages in her lap.”

  He dropped the sweatshirt on top of the box. “How about sweatshirts and boxes?”

  A huff. “Really?”

  “Really.” But he pushed the sweatshirt out of the way and took the lid off for her. “I’d intended on giving these to you in the not-so-distant future, but now seems apropos.”