Charging (Gold Hockey Book 10)

by Elise Faber

  He kissed her again.

  Lips and teeth and tongue. A lush, softly curved body against his.

  Tart and spicy with hints of roses, of sweet.

  Char.

  All Char.

  She wrapped her arms around him, jumped slightly to wrap her legs around his waist, and fuck, it would be so easy to unzip, to push home—

  Patience.

  A wrenching thought from the sliver of control still present in his brain. It scorched down his spine, burned through his arms, his fingertips, his thighs, his feet. His fingers clenched tighter, arms banding around her. His feet and thighs got into gear, moving them to the front door.

  Char broke away when they were there, tearing her mouth from his and turning in his hold in order to punch in the code she had on the keypad.

  The lock opened with a whir.

  He shoved through the door, slammed it behind them, locked it again.

  And . . .

  Then he paused.

  Her fingers wove into his hair, grabbed tight. “Don’t you dare ask if I’m sure, Logan Walker.” She nipped at his jaw. “I wanted you since the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

  He started walking toward the stairs, stopped. “You’ve wanted me for nine months?” he asked, angling his head so he could kiss her temple.

  “Nine years,” she said. “Since the moment you walked into that arena, I’ve wanted you. Maybe it’s been eight years since we’ve seen each other, eight years apart, but I will never ever forget the way my heart thumped when I first saw you.”

  “You were standing next to Luc,” he said, remembering how earnest she’d been. “You used to carry this giant messenger bag with notebooks, and you had a clipboard in your hand.” He nuzzled her throat. “No heels then.”

  “I didn’t mind being shorter then,” she admitted. “Not when I was still trying to find my place.”

  “Didn’t take you long.”

  She grinned. “No, it didn’t. And I quickly became addicted to heels.”

  “You mean foot massages,” he accused, remembering all the times she’d come to his hotel room or they’d snuck out in his old truck and he’d rubbed her feet. Hmm. Maybe there was something to his quote-unquote foot fetish, or at least when it came to Char’s feet.

  Her smile didn’t dim. In fact, it grew. “Accurate,” she said. “You do give excellent foot massages.”

  He started climbing the stairs. “Want one now?”

  “No.”

  He lifted a brow.

  “I’d much rather you massage other places.”

  He grinned this time. “Yeah?” he asked. “What places?”

  Narrowed eyes, another nip, this time on his chin. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”

  “Funny looking, maybe,” he quipped, making it to the top of the stairs and turning to the right. Her bedroom, as he’d discovered earlier that week when he’d tucked her into bed, was the second door on the right. The first was a small closet, and the only door on the left was a home office, one that he thought would be lovely and bright during the day, but also one that he didn’t think fit Char at all.

  Probably why she always worked in her kitchen.

  That was more like her.

  Warmth and beauty in the small details. Not grand and over the top. Not that she wasn’t outright gorgeous, couldn’t glam it up—like she’d done tonight—but rather that her beauty came from the strength inside her. It radiated through the way she carried herself, how she spoke, the expressions on her face.

  No one would ever look at her and not think she was completely capable.

  But he didn’t just see capable.

  He saw Char.

  Smart and beautiful, but also vulnerable and a little lonely. This was the woman who gasped in outrage on that fiancé show when one of the men was betrayed and laughed when the stars argued about the proper way to grocery shop. This was the woman who’d argued with him about paying the bill, had demanded to share equally or pull her own weight. This was the woman who’d shared the dinner he bought for her, regardless of his refusal. This was the woman who stayed at the arena and spoke with every single player or staff member after they’d lost that game. She’d stayed until consolations were made, until reassurances were given.

  This was the woman who’d looked at him with tears in her eyes when he’d broken her heart by leaving.

  This was the woman who’d turned that broken heart into something powerful.

  This was the woman he loved.

  “Where did you go?”

  Quiet words pulling him from his mind, soft fingers on his jaw, a warm gaze on his. Logan blinked, realized he’d paused a foot inside her bedroom.

  “I’m here,” he murmured, shoving the past down and striding over to the bed.

  Fingers in his hair again, clenching tight. “That’s not what I asked.”

  Stern words, a commanding tone, and fuck, maybe he was a sick asshole, but he liked that bossy tone, liked it a whole lot. Didn’t mean he was going to voice the bullshit in his brain though. “It’s nothing,” he said and bent to kiss her.

  She kissed him back, lips soft, tongue a sleek dart. But then she used her grip on his head to break the contact, to glare up at him. “Nice try,” she said. “Now, tell me.”

  He could either argue, or he could tell her the truth.

  And as much as he enjoyed riling her up, he also didn’t want to ruin the night with a fight, so he set her on the edge of the bed, sat next to her, then he met her stare and told her the heavy truth sitting on his mind and heart.

  “I have so many regrets.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Char

  Heavy words.

  Perhaps she should have been upset the moment had waned, that Logan wasn’t tearing her clothes off and attacking her, joining her in her quest for mutual orgasms.

  But he was hurting.

  And she didn’t like it when her people hurt.

  And . . . he’d made their time together thus far so much about her. Her needs, her desires. Her, her, her. Well, this would only work between them if it started being about him, too. Before, she’d made it only about him. Now, he threatened to do the same only for her.

  And that couldn’t work.

  Long term, they couldn’t forget completely about themselves and focus solely on the other person. Both were important, of course, but equally as important was understanding that they were two separate people with two separate hearts and minds and, frankly, with two different sets of needs.

  They had to both be equally present.

  She might have been grappling with being left out of the decision, with knowing that she would have certainly made a decision she regretted if Logan hadn’t intervened. But though Log had said he hadn’t regretted his decision, he had to be grappling with being the one who’d hurt her, of spending the last years knowing she thought the worst of him and not being in a position to change her mind.

  Old pain. Baggage.

  And beneath that, love and affection.

  Because even when she’d hated Logan, she’d loved him.

  So many other relationships, so many men, so many disappointing, unfulfilling boyfriends. Because of her and the walls she’d erected between herself and the world, more than anything they’d done.

  Char knew it had been the same for him.

  Never quite being able to fill that empty space inside, always searching for something but not being able to pinpoint what was missing.

  Except . . . he’d known what he’d been missing.

  Because they’d been great together. Real in a sea of what could be filled with fake hangers-on. True love in a world of first, fallible love.

  They’d gone eight years without it.

  “Come here,” she whispered.

  “Char,” he began, thrusting a hand through his hair, eyes pained. “I didn’t want to do this, to ruin our night. I made the call. I was the one who decided to end things.”

  “It wa
s the right call,” she said, feeling that deep in her soul. “You know that.”

  A nod. “But . . .” He trailed off, fingers yanking at his hair again.

  “What, baby?” she pressed. “But what?”

  “I don’t want to drop this at your feet.”

  She took his hand. “Then whose feet will you drop it at?”

  He stilled.

  She put her hand over his heart, cuddled up to his side. “If we’re going to be together, then you have to bring it to me. I have to feel needed in that way, have to know you can talk to me about anything, that you’ll turn to me when you have problems.”

  His eyes flicked to hers, held for a long moment. Then he exhaled and said, “I know I made the right call, but I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself for hurting you.”

  Her heart squeezed, her nails dug lightly into his chest. “You have to.”

  A jaw clenching tight, and pain in those emerald eyes. “Why?”

  “Because I have.”

  The truth hit her with the strength of a bullet penetrating skin, quick and piercing, taking breath, followed by a trail of burning agony. She had forgiven him, but neither of them had finished mourning what they had lost.

  And perhaps, neither of them had completely forgiven themselves.

  His breath caught, his jaw relaxing, his eyes widening. “Starlight—”

  She clambered into his lap, cupped both of his cheeks in her palms. He needed to understand this.

  “I forgive you,” she said fiercely. “I forgive you.”

  “Sweetheart.” It was a single rough word, one that was paired with his arms wrapping tightly around her, with him burying his face against her curls, with him holding her close for a long, long time.

  Eventually, he leaned back, and his emerald eyes collided with hers again. “I love you,” he murmured, making her heart thud hard in her chest. “I’m sorry I hurt you, so sorry—”

  “Enough,” she whispered, hands dropping to his shoulders. “Just enough.”

  A shuddering breath, his arms still around her, still holding her close. “I never stopped, you know? Never stopped loving you.”

  Her lungs stretched on an inhale, as she held the air deep inside before slowly releasing it. She wanted to give him the words back, her feelings so bright and heady and big, but she also knew that she wasn’t quite there yet. Yes, she’d forgiven him. Yes, she was ready to move on. But, no, she wasn’t quite ready to admit aloud all that was in her heart.

  “I know, baby,” she said.

  His face warmed, and she relaxed, realizing that he wasn’t expecting the words just because he’d said them.

  Of course, he wouldn’t expect that.

  Logan wouldn’t ever demand from her in that way. He’d push her to fulfill her dreams, demand she take care of herself—or let him take care of her, anyway. But he wouldn’t ever put pressure on her to bare her heart before she was ready. He might be impulsive and hard-headed and pushy, but he had shown her he would tread lightly and treat kindly.

  Which was why, when he just held her, hand shifting to slide up and down her back, she murmured, “Come here.”

  Amusement danced across his face, his eyes going to the centimeters that separated them. “I am here.”

  “Well, come closer,” she grumbled, pressing a kiss to his mouth.

  The moment their lips touched, he exploded into a fury of motion.

  One hand wove into her hair, his other gripped her hip, tugging her flush against him. He nipped at her bottom lip then slid his tongue inside her mouth, stroking along hers, demanding she meet his intensity. She did. No hesitation . . . and approximately ten seconds later found her back on the mattress, all of Logan’s hard, hot gloriousness perched over her.

  She reached for the hem of his shirt, wanting—no, needing to get her hands on him, needing the steely planes of him beneath her palms.

  “Skin,” she gasped when he nipped at her jaw, nibbled at her earlobe, laved his tongue down her throat. “I need—” He leaned back, calloused fingers tracing the pattern of the thin straps crisscrossing her breasts. She’d loved how the dress made her feel earlier, how sexy she’d felt with the silk caressing her skin, the strips of fabric hiding but also emphasizing her cleavage. In all honesty, she’d imagined Logan doing exactly what he was doing at that moment.

  What she hadn’t anticipated was how incredible those little teases of sensation would be.

  She wanted the dress out of the way.

  She wanted his hands on her.

  She wanted skin.

  He sat back, tugging her up into a seated position. “Skin,” he growled, grabbing her hands, which had somehow found their way into his hair, and bringing them to the top button on his dress shirt. “Yes.”

  Not needing to be told twice, she began working on those tiny discs, slipping one after another through their holes, parting the fabric and revealing golden skin as he kissed his way over her jaw, back behind her ear. His fingers caressed her throat, slipped down to cup one breast through the silk of her dress.

  “Mmm,” she moaned, her desire ramping to a fever pitch, making her move.

  She jerked forward, pressed her mouth to his chest. Fuck, he tasted good. Salty and spicy and driving her to keep tasting him, to continue tracing the hard planes with her tongue, her lips.

  A groan that had her thighs attempting to clench together, moisture pooling, but the powerful slack-covered legs between her own prevented the movement.

  Logan didn’t miss it, however.

  He nudged her back, slid his palms down her sides, and gripped the purple silk hem with his fingers. Seeing her dress crumpled in those big hands, so close to where she was desperate for him to touch, sent a wave of heat over her. Head to toe cloaked in desire, nerve endings on fire, fingertips tingling, pussy aching. She wanted her dress off, started to reach for the zipper under her arm, ready to yank it down.

  Warm hands covering hers.

  “I’ve got it.”

  She froze, breath shuddering out when he dipped a finger beneath the fabric, grasped the tag and began to tug it down.

  It moved . . . all of four inches.

  And she was kicking herself six ways to Sunday.

  Because this wasn’t one of those easy-on, easy-off dresses.

  This was a twist and contort and curse and wiggle dress.

  Which Logan seemed to process, at least in some small manner, when his eyes flicked from the open zipper up and down her body.

  Then he shrugged, slipped a hand in the opening.

  “Oh fuck,” she whispered when that rough hand cupped her breast. Arching back, her hips canting up.

  “Oh fuck,” he groaned, “you’re not wearing a bra.”

  She managed to peel open her lids long enough to see his eyes burning into her, a liquid emerald she could feel down to the marrow of her bones. Then he brushed his thumb over her nipple, and she lost the battle, tossing her head back, arching against him as he rolled that sensitive bud between his fingers, sending piercing bolts of pleasure through her.

  He managed to coax and tease her other breast, her other nipple, but slid his hand out when a low tearing sound filled the air.

  “Shit, sorry.”

  Her eyes slid open, and she shook her head. “It’s fine.” Yes, that was a rasp, her voice so husky with pleasure that she hardly recognized it.

  He tugged up at the hem, only succeeded in getting it stuck just above her hips. “How do you get this torture device off?”

  “With a fair amount of cursing.”

  A sharp grin. A quick movement that launched him off her. Another that had her on her feet, wavering from the sudden elevation change. “What—?”

  He tugged at the hem again, bunching the dress beneath her arms, just above her breasts.

  “Up,” he ordered.

  She lifted her arms. He tugged it up and over her head.

  But the fabric stalled at her elbows when he groaned, bent his head to suck a nip
ple deep, and Char’s legs threatened to buckle under the waves of pleasure. “I—” Warm hands on her breasts, massaging the flesh, his mouth switching sides.

  This time she did wobble, her knees bending, her body collapsing against his.

  He clutched her close, whipping off the dress, tossing it who-knew-where. The next instant she was on the bed, and he was sliding down until he was kneeling between her legs, using those big hands to spread her thighs wide.

  A deep inhale, a groan. “Fuck, I’ve missed this. Missed you.”

  Hot breath on her skin, his tongue tracing higher and higher, and then . . . his mouth was on her.

  Fuck. She’d missed this.

  The way he devoured her like she was his last meal and he was going to make damn sure it counted. How his strong tongue pressed firmly and deliberately, always knowing the exact spot that made her moan. How—

  “Holy hell,” she gasped when he pulled out a trick with his tongue she didn’t remember him knowing before.

  He glanced up at her and grinned. “Should I write and thank the editors of the Cosmo blog?” he asked lightly before a curl of jealousy could spiral up and ruin the moment.

  She shouldn’t be jealous, not when they’d both dated plenty of other people.

  But she wanted all his sex secrets and tricks to be about her, to be learned with her. Ridiculous. She knew it. She understood that. So, she was just going to accept the burst of jealousy and move on—

  A sharp nip to her thigh.

  “Stop thinking,” he grumbled.

  And then he did the tongue thing again.

  And then she forgot about being jealous, forgot about absolutely everything except for Logan’s mouth and tongue and fingers and the desire swirling within her.

  It tightened.

  Had her spine stiffening, moans pouring from her lips.

  Heat billowed outward, incinerating her from the inside out.

  Her fingers clenched on the sheets.

  He pressed the flat of his tongue to her clit, slipped a finger inside, and reached a hand up to cup her breast, pinching her nipple.

  One stroke. Two. And . . . she exploded.