by Kate Meader
Her breath hitched. Tell me. Tell me everything.
Encouraged by her silent plea, he went on. “You’ve got this freckle high on your inner thigh, this sweet little beauty that tasted so good. Your skin’s the softest I’ve ever touched, but especially that gorgeous ass of yours. It was like touching an overripe peach. And the memory of being wrapped in you—your pussy hugging my cock, your body consuming mine—has kept me up, twisting and turning in the bed that never knew it needed you to feel right. That sigh you made when I licked you through—Jordan, I don’t think any sound could top it. Not the slide of a skate, not the blare of the goal buzzer, not the cheer of the crowd. It’s the sound I want to hear all night, every night.”
Okay. That was probably the hottest thing she’d ever heard.
Something struck her strange. “Aren’t you left-handed?”
“Only on the ice. One of my early coaches recommended switching, kind of like the Rafa Nadal effect.”
And now all she could think of was his right hand doing things. To himself. To her. And then his left hand joining in because skills. Maybe hunky Spanish tennis player Rafa Nadal might be involved because dammit she deserved it …
“Sounds like I was right. You are quite chatty when it comes to sex.”
His mouth twitched. “When it comes to sex with you. There’s a difference.”
She was beginning to see there was, just as she was beginning to see that this was a problem. Something about their charged conversations tapped into hidden recesses of their brains where they started to reveal things they hadn’t told other people. This was wonderful when you were a reporter looking for the inside track but not so great when you were a woman looking to guard her heart.
“I’m sorry for wanting another taste,” he said. “I’m not really built for casual.” He shook his head, like that was the hardest thing in the world for him to admit.
Levi opening his heart opened something inside of her.
“Anyway, I got you a little something.” He gestured to a shopping bag at his feet, which she’d not noticed before. “Dante said you like macarons. There’s a Vietnamese bakery on Broadway that does great ones.”
He turned to leave which prompted her panicked chirp. “Levi. I—I lied.”
He whipped around. “About what?”
This story. How I feel. Everything.
“I have been thinking of you.”
He shook his head. “You do not need to massage my ego here. It’s okay for you to have put what happened behind you. I’m a big boy and am perfectly capable of working through my stuff by myself.”
“No.”
His brows slammed together. “No?”
She stepped toward him, each step feeling like a mile. “Work through it … with me.”
“Jordan, I get that you’re about the nicest and most cheerful fucking person in the world but that’s no reason to think you owe me a—”
“Hot, slow fuck.”
His hand went to her jaw, clamped tight and pulled her in toward his mouth. But no kiss. “Woman, you are killing me.”
“Let’s die together.”
She anchored her hands to his hips and on tip-toes met the mouth that didn’t seem to be kissing her fast enough, slow enough, just enough. His groan vibrated through her body, setting off sparks and little fires that would turn into full-scale conflagrations any moment. Their tongues tangled while their mouths slanted first one way, then another, looking to explore and find the perfect mating.
“I’m not fantasizing about anyone else when I’m with you,” she said when he let her up for air. “And when I’m not with you, you’re the face I see when I touch myself.”
“Tell me you want this.”
“I want this. I want you, Levi.”
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them to reveal midnight dark depths. “One hot, slow fuck coming up.”
Oh God … well, that is what she’d said! And Levi, she was finding, was quite a literal person. He recalled everything, dismissed nothing, considered all the things she’d said and figured out a way to use it against her. The man was relentless.
He turned her toward the hallway wall, pushing her flush while grinding against her ass. The white-hot heat of him branded her.
“You feel so good,” she whispered. “So, so good.”
He rolled her pants down to her thighs, baring her ass. Falling to his knees, he yanked the pants down to her ankles, and she obliged by stepping out of them.
They were still in the hallway outside her apartment. “Levi, maybe we should—”
He slipped a finger between her legs and dragged it through her soft, wet, sensitive flesh. Yeah, maybe we should. With a gentle tug, he placed her foot on his shoulder, which gave him all the access he needed. “Hold on, baby.”
Surely, he wasn’t going to … “Levi, what—oh, God!”
His mouth connected with her pussy, his tongue spearing, licking, owning, earning a climb-on-the-coaster, drop-off-the-cliff orgasm that made every extremity ignite with pleasure.
Then he pulled her to the floor and started all over again.
17
Jordan couldn’t believe that she’d had two top-of-the-line orgasms in the middle of the afternoon. Hockey players get things done!
Realizing that (more) sex in her building’s corridor might be considered a tad too extra for her neighbors, they had finally retreated to her sofa for a post-coital canoodle and macaron feast. Well, Levi limited himself to one bite because the zero-body fat physique didn’t happen by itself. She’d dragged her clothes back on; he wore jeans and nothing else. Neither of them had spoken much in the last fifteen minutes.
“How’d you find out where I live?”
“Dante told me after he mentioned you’re a fiend for these macaron things.” His breath ruffled the hair at her temple. “Sorry about before. I know you’re in a tough position with your job and I was kind of cranky about being left on the wrong side of that equation.”
She circled his nipple with her finger and traced over his tattoo. “There is that. But I’m more concerned with the idea you’d assume I’m thinking about someone else while I was indulging in a little me time.”
“Okay. You specifically said that.”
“Hello! Deflecting over here. I didn’t want to give you a big head or make myself vulnerable. Did you really think I …” She paused, awareness creeping up on her. “Is this about Josh?”
His brow crimped. “He is what connects us. Whenever you run into me, that has to be foremost in your mind. We know each other because of him.”
“Before. That’s how we were connected before. Don’t you think enough things bind us together now to not have Josh be the current glue? Our jobs. Where we live. Pizza.”
“Pizza?”
“I have delivered pizza to you with mine own pizza-providing hands. That has to count for something.”
“The foundation of every relationship.” His voice sounded rusty. “You want more of this?”
This. As appropriate a label as any. “A woman has needs. Only no one can know.”
“Just the standard terms and conditions—use, abuse, don’t text me in the morning?”
“Is it such a terrible offer?”
He stared at her, as if willing her to fall for him when she was already halfway there. Finally, he dropped a soft kiss between her eyebrows. “Love that little divot.”
And it seemed that was all he had to say on the subject of their new no-strings agreement.
She snuggled into him, preferring to get the topic off them and back onto him anyway. “Care to tell me why you don’t want anyone to know about your volunteer stint?”
“I just prefer to keep that under the radar. Less complicated.”
From the man who became more complex with each encounter. “It’s time you started giving me some good stuff. This pillow talk has to eventually graduate into beefy gossip.” She winced at how that sounded, like she was using him for what he could d
o for her career.
Before she could rephrase, he murmured, “One question.”
She could get her phone to record but she didn’t want to break the connection. “Why did you go into the army? You had this shot at a life most people would dream of, this talent you could use to become adored and wealthy. Most people wouldn’t think twice about that.”
He paused so long that for a moment she thought he hadn’t heard her. Finally he exhaled a deep breath.
“When I got to college and saw how athletes were treated, I couldn’t believe how lucky I was. I could do anything I wanted, have any woman I wanted, could get by on C’s in classes as long as I produced on the ice. And I knew it was only going to intensify in the pros. More adulation, more money. I saw first-hand how that affected people. The players, the coaches, the fans, the groupies. I wasn’t ready to change who I was. I wasn’t even sure I knew who I was yet. My upbringing had been fairly unorthodox.”
“In what way?”
“My dad drank hard, played hard, fought hard. He wasn’t around much, so I learned to stand on my own two skates from a fairly young age. Because it didn’t seem like a regular way to grow up, I wasn’t sure I was … complete?” He shook his head, searching for the right way to frame it, perhaps. “Wasn’t sure I deserved to be successful.”
Impostor syndrome again, which astonished her coming from a man with such amazing gifts. “Even with all that talent?”
“I loved hockey. Loved working with a team. Loved people telling me I was amazing, and then I realized that maybe I could get to love it a little too much. One day, I was no one. The next, a hockey superstar. It could skew my life a particular way, mold me into the wrong person. Twenty-year-olds are still kids, really.”
Sheer wonder caught in her throat. “But the fact you even thought about those things means you were mature enough not to let your mind be swayed. Yet you still gave it all up to enlist?” She drew back to look at him. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Because I didn’t want to get rich quick and become an asshole?”
“According to you, you’ve always been one. Sounds like money and fame wouldn’t have changed a damn thing!”
He squeezed her tight and added a butt pinch for good measure. “That mouth of yours.”
“Just repeating what someone told me. This guy said you were an asshole through and through and I’m inclined to believe him. Very reliable source.”
His laugh, such a rare sound, sent her heart into a funny flip.
“You think I’m a reliable source now?”
“I think that when you open your mouth I can usually trust most of what comes out of it.” She applied a light kiss to that trustworthy mouth, letting him know she was teasing.
“Look, I don’t regret my time in the service. It made me a man. It shaped me in ways I wouldn’t have learned on the ice. I had a great team, met some amazing people. In fact, if I hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have met Cookie. Or you.”
It always came back to Josh, their link.
“We might have met—me as a reporter, you as a player—under these or different circumstances.”
“Maybe.” He sounded doubtful. Clearly it still bothered him that he was lusting after his best friend’s widow.
She’d made peace with it a long time ago because such was life: a never-ending series of bargains with your hormones, heart, and conscience.
* * *
Jordan had to give it to the Rebels organization: they knew how to rock it when it came to executive suite washrooms. Aveda soap and lotions, one-use hand towels, quality mints! Not bad, not bad at all.
Levi’s revelations about his upbringing had thrown her and had her rethinking the thrust, so to speak, of the profile. Living his life according to a certain code was no different than possessing values that guide you, like religion or recycling. Growing up as he did, no one would have questioned him taking the easy(-er) route of fame and glory instead of service and mortar attacks.
Yet, Levi thought he would have been twisted the wrong way if he turned pro at such a young age. The bright lights and unlimited offers to polish his stick would have set him on the wrong path.
Every conversation revealed another version she could profile, each more fascinating than the last. Yet it’d result in another draft she’d have to trash because God forbid anyone see the great guy underneath.
In the stall, she adjusted her skirt just as her phone buzzed. She slipped it out of her Kate Spade (so pretty!) and her heart jumped in recognition: Levi.
Bad news, Ms. Sunshine.
Oh, no! She waited for him to fill her in on the gossip ahead of tonight’s home game against New York, her pulse rate climbing with every second passed. Was he injured? Scratched?
Dot dot dot. Nothing. Then more dots, and … Still nothing. She was going to kill him.
What?!!!
Finally, he responded: Just heard they’ve run out of mini-macarons. They can’t keep up with the press box demand. Customer of one.
She giggled. Skirt’s getting too tight, anyway.
IDK. That ass feels perfect in my hands. I’ll bring over a box for you later.
Her heart squeezed. She was going to journalism hell, but at least she’d be well-fed and fucked.
Don’t you have a warm-up to get to?
On my way.
She sent a couple of hockey stick emojis, thought about adding hearts, and opted for flames instead. Just about to slide her phone back into her purse, she stilled at the sound of voices in the restroom.
“You mean you’re lining up a three-way trade? Does Dante know?”
Trade talk? Stealthily, Jordan stepped back and God forgive her, lifted her Keds-shod foot quietly to the toilet seat. Then the other. Because that voice belonged to Isobel Chase—Olympic medalist, hockey phenom, middle sister, and co-owner of the Rebels.
“He knows it’s an option,” the other voice said. Harper fucking Chase. “He fell in love with a player, Iz—a player on the team he manages. He can’t seriously think that if an opportunity came up for me to trade Cade for someone more effective that we wouldn’t take it.”
“But that means you’ll lose Dante! He’s not going to stick around if Cade’s in LA or New York.”
Were they seriously talking about trading Cade Burnett, Dante Moretti’s partner?
“You don’t think I’ve thought about that?” Harper said impatiently.
“Would you get rid of Vadim as quick?”
When Harper didn’t answer fast enough, Isobel was all over it. “Oh my God, you would! Your own brother-in-law. You know I’d go with him.”
“Of course you would. Look, these guys are family, but they’re also very valuable assets.”
“That you’re happy to move around the chess board.”
“Because it’s my job, but let’s be realistic: Vadim’s knee isn’t going to last more than a year or two. I know he loves hockey, but dammit, he’s rich enough to retire and start seeding you.”
“Eww! Seeding me? That’s gross! And I’m happy being the favorite aunt, thanks. But I see your point about his knee. The rehab’s getting longer every time.”
“It is. And as much as I love him, as much as I love them all, we’re running a business here. I have to start thinking of the next generation. Who’s going to lead.”
“Still think Hunt’s your man?”
Harper hummed. “I do. His stats have improved in the last few games. A goal, three assists, killing it in all his face-offs, and he just seems happier out there, don’t you think?”
“You’re not wrong.”
“But I need to see him taking a firmer hand with the younger players. I’d hoped his military background would bring the leadership skills we’re lacking.”
They were grooming Levi to be captain? He had definitely come on by leaps and bounds. With each shift, he was a half-second quicker, all sleek muscle and taut sinew as he glided around the rink. Realizing that she had her phone in her hand, Jordan pressed th
e record button while maintaining the perfect hunker-squat above the toilet seat.
No one in journalism school had told her she’d need this kind of flexibility.
“Someone has to make the tough decisions,” Harper was saying. “That first year out with you, me, and Violet was lightning in a bottle. We need to recreate that magic and it might take a mix up of these proportions to make it happen.”
There was a pause before Isobel spoke again. “You okay? You seem on edge.”
“No more than usual before a game.”
“I know what’s going on here,” Isobel said. “You saw Stroger out there and it’s thrown you. You think you have to be the hard ass business woman who’d sell her own grandmother to prove you won’t wither in the face of that dickwad?”
Stroger? Jordan racked her brain, assembling the pertinent facts. He had a brief run with the Rebels about ten years back. Then there was that throw down between Billy and Harper's now husband, Remy DuPre, a few years ago during Remy’s first season with the Rebels. Stroger got his nose broken and Remy got a two-game suspension. Add to that Harper’s OTT reaction at the sight of that dick pic on Jordan’s phone …
More evidence that Harper and Billy had been in a relationship once?
“I heard he’s engaged or close to it,” Harper said. “I saw her out there heading into the visitors’ box. I just …” She broke off.
“What?” Isobel’s voice was soft, concerned. “Hope she’s okay?”
Harper sighed. “I know it only happened once and maybe he never hit another woman after me but I sometimes wonder if we should have done more than threaten his career.”
Jordan tensed. Surely not.
Isobel was still talking. “You’re not responsible for Billy Stroger’s behavior or for any of the women he saw after you.”
“But I don’t know what he’s done or who he’s hurt. If I’d come clean, even after Remy pounded on him, then I’d know I did the right thing.”