Caged (Gold Hockey Book 11)

by Elise Faber

  So, no.

  She shouldn’t be looking at his beard, let alone commenting on it.

  Or thinking how it might feel between her thighs.

  His hands had been resting on her shoulders again, the warmth seeping through her team jacket, making her nerves skip and fire with need, but her words had him lifting one, resting it against hers on his jaw and rubbing lightly.

  She heard the bristling sound—no, she actually felt it, and not just on her palm. The slight rasp skated over her middle, both dipping down and shooting up, her nipples hardening against the fabric of her bra, her legs quivering.

  “Not intentionally,” he said, voice husky, his gray eyes the color of clouds readying to drop buckets full of rain. “My trimmer broke, and I just got lazy with the upkeep.”

  “Oh,” she whispered after a moment, after realizing she was just standing there.

  Just staring at him.

  Plastered against his chest, her palm on his cheek.

  Ugh.

  She yanked out of his hold, pulse thrumming, moisture pooling, and hating herself for turning him down, even though she knew it had been the only thing she could do. “I-I should go.”

  He nodded, the movement making a flash of tattooed skin appear, just the swirling edge that crept up the left side of his neck. She’d seen that tattoo in the flesh before, when she’d gone into the locker room as he’d been coming out of the shower. Some nudity was a workplace hazard. The guys did their best, but after games they had to shower and change, and if she ventured in, she caught an occasional glimpse of butt or penis, no matter how quick and judicious they were with towels. And, at least when it came to Ethan, those glimpses were usually tucked into her fantasies and paired with her vibrator—because side note: hockey players had the best butts. For the others, they were met with her cheeks growing hot and Dani quickly looking away. Chests and arms, abs and back weren’t so bad. She’d almost become desensitized to them, considering the way some of the guys went around without their shirts.

  Not Ethan’s back though. Or his butt. Or his dick. Or his—

  Right. She was ridiculously attracted to all of his parts, from his mouth down to his strong calves. But back to his . . . well, his back. She’d actually felt her heart stop when she’d first seen it—okay, so maybe not stop, but it had certainly skipped a beat, hiccupped against her ribs.

  Because the tattoos covering his back were beautiful.

  Colorful swirls and lines coming together in something that was a cross between flames and floral that combined to form an Irezumi-inspired look. A term she only knew because she’d gone looking after she’d seen them, had researched for hours online until she’d discovered what they looked like.

  She wanted to trace them with her tongue, her fingers, her lips.

  Had imagined doing that more times than she could count.

  “Yeah,” he said, and it took her more than a few moments to realize that he’d said it in response to her telling him she should go.

  Which meant that instead of continuing to stare at him like a freak, getting lost in those storm-cloud eyes, she should go.

  Nodding, her embarrassment at a critical level now, she spun away.

  And felt him walk beside her, his long stride eating up her much shorter one. She wasn’t a small woman by any means, nearly five-ten and a solid size twelve, but he was so big that she felt tiny in comparison.

  “What are you doing now?” he asked.

  Dani missed a step, nearly faceplanted on the concrete floor.

  Ethan, bless him, didn’t acknowledge the klutziness, other than to steady her again with one of those big hands—which really just made it even harder to focus on her steps and to not just melt into a puddle on the floor.

  “Dani?” he said after a few more moments.

  His hand was still wrapped around her bicep, and she found that it was hard to concentrate on anything except the contact.

  And that was the only reason she could come up with later for why the conversation went as it did.

  “Yeah?” she asked.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Um?” She nibbled on her bottom lip. “You mean aside from driving home?”

  The ghost of a smile. “After you get home,” he said. His thumb was on the inside of her arm, tracing lightly up and down, a coil of heat tightening in her abdomen.

  Her mouth open and closed. Open and closed.

  And then for some really freaking stupid reason, she blurted, “Bath, wine, cold pizza, and bingeing Bridgerton for about the fiftieth time on Netflix.”

  Silence.

  His feet slid to a stop, sliding her to a stop.

  Lightning in those stormy eyes, that thumb pausing, pressing a little tighter. His lips parted and he was close, closer than she’d realized, his hot breath brushing over the skin on her forehead, her cheek . . . her mouth.

  Oh God.

  Was he going to kiss her?

  She wanted that. She didn’t want that. No, she needed his lips on hers.

  A door slammed in the distance and she jumped, skittering back, his hand slipping free. Her heart squeezed, and she could feel her pulse thrumming through her veins, thudding against the delicate skin at the base of her throat.

  “What’s Bridgerton?” he asked softly, starting to walk again.

  She gaped up at him, frozen in place.

  He turned back, lightly snagged her arm again, tugging her forward, and he laughed quietly—a rough chuckle sliding through the air, teasing her skin like velvet and lace running over the surface. That husky laugh joined the imagery of his beard to mentally rub against her thighs.

  “What’s Bridgerton?” he asked again.

  “A show,” she managed to get out.

  “What kind of show?”

  The best kind of show—strong heroines, gorgeous, tortured heroes, pretty dresses, gossip, and drama . . . and there was that duke. Yum. Because that duke was just . . . her cheeks went hot. “Um . . .”

  He bent, nearly running into her for the third time that evening, then his face softened, his eyes danced. “Ah.”

  She swallowed. “Ah, what?”

  Ethan straightened, but not before she saw the smile on his lips. “It’s a sexy show.”

  Her lips parted, words stoppered up in the back of her throat.

  Yes, it was a sexy show, an unapologetic romance that was wonderful to get lost in because was it too much for a woman to want a man to burn for her? No.

  But also, probably, at least when it came to her.

  Sighing, shoving down that sad thought, she knew she’d take her fictional duke any day of the week.

  Ethan bent, his mouth very close to her ear. “Want to have a watch party?”

  Her throat seized, and she found herself coughing, choking on her own spit. Ah. That was another reason she didn’t have her fictional duke. Duchesses didn’t go around choking on their own saliva.

  Ethan’s hand slipped from her arm, sliding up her shoulder, drifting to her back, the warm expanse of it running up and down her spine.

  “I take it,” he said when she’d finally stopped coughing, “that’s a no?”

  “Uh-huh,” she wheezed, turning right at the intersection in the hall and breathing a little easier when she saw the exit to the arena was just ahead. Just a few more steps and she could make her escape from this conversation in which she kept embarrassing herself, get back to her condo, and to her bath, cold pizza, and bottle of wine.

  Lucky for her, she didn’t have to be on the team’s diet plan.

  She could self-medicate and ply herself with all the carbs she wanted.

  So take that, sexy hockey players with the amazing bodies. She might not have a six-pack—ha!—but at least she could eat her delicious crust topped with cheese and sauce and all sorts of other yumminess.

  “Dani?”

  She jumped, her brain having been locked on the leftovers of her Hawaiian pizza that was currently sitting on the top shel
f of her fridge. She could almost taste it—the creamy cheese, the sweet of the pineapple, the saltiness of the ham—and . . . that was not pertinent to this conversation.

  “Yeah?” she said.

  “Are you scared of me?”

  The grizzly bear of a man was touching her, walking close to her, his scent surrounding her, his body towering over hers by a good six inches. He was stronger and outweighed her, and he was certainly way more gorgeous than her—and that wasn’t on a hate-herself-vein. That was just pure irrefutable fact. Ethan’s cheekbones were sharp, his eyes unique and intoxicating, his lips kissable, and his body . . . well, that was also kissable.

  Very, very kissable.

  He made her want to do things that weren’t smart.

  Very, very not smart.

  So yeah, he scared her. He fucking terrified her.

  A finger brushing along the tip of her nose.

  “Yeah,” he whispered. “You’re scared of me.”

  “I—”

  But what could she do? Argue and deny it? She wasn’t a good liar, and she had the feeling that Ethan would see through her anyway.

  “Here,” he said, in such a gentle way that she immediately felt her spine bristle.

  Shy, not fragile.

  Quiet, not stupid.

  Taciturn, not a bitch.

  And what was the point in going down that road again, either in her mind or in this conversation? He wouldn’t understand. No one ever did, and it wasn’t like she was willing to blab her sad sob story out there.

  Or that she had a worse sad sob story than anyone else.

  She’d been quiet, not one of the cool, outgoing, beautiful or funny kids. So, she’d gotten her turn as fodder for bullies. It had sucked, but it had sucked for plenty of other kids at her school, and none of them had become this nearly silent, closed down mess of a human that she was.

  She was hiding from her life.

  Because it was easier and safer and . . . safer. That. If she hid, she wasn’t vulnerable and could just continue living in her happy little bubble. Could continue to get lost in her numerous video feeds, her computers, her fanciful duke, her cold pizza, and just leave it at that.

  “Dani?”

  Tone still careful, but marginally so, and the spikes on her spine settled down as she blinked. She realized that Ethan was holding the door for her, and she was just standing there like a freaking traffic pole, staring off into space while he was waiting for her to go out.

  Ugh.

  Why did he have to be nice?

  She wanted to be annoyed but couldn’t deny that the chivalrous gesture was a nice one.

  Yes, she could open her own doors.

  Yes, it was nice when someone—no matter where they fell on the scale of gender—held one open for her.

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  She walked out. He trailed her, the door clanging closed behind him, and silence fell as they strode across the parking lot. Her car—a small electric sedan that went approximately fifty miles per hour at top speed—was parked on the far end, well away from the players’ vehicles, but he still just sauntered along next to her.

  “So, what kind of pizza are you eating cold?”

  “Why are you here?” she whispered.

  Silence.

  Tense, painful silence.

  It was a sentiment that she’d intended on keeping in her head. It was a sentiment that was probably unforgivably rude, given he’d been nothing but nice and they worked together.

  Except for the fact that he asked you out! her inner schoolgirl said. You don’t want to make him mad and then he’ll turn on you, he’ll turn everyone on you.

  But this wasn’t high school.

  She didn’t have to deal with asshole teenagers.

  The team was a family, and even if it was just a family she existed on at the barest fringes—because she wasn’t capable of more than that—she was still a part of that family.

  They hadn’t turned on her.

  Yet, her inner cynic said.

  He fell quiet at her question. “Do you want me to leave?” he asked, after a moment.

  Her car was just a few feet away, and she wouldn’t even have to take out her keys. She could just yank at the handle, start her up, and then GTFO.

  But the careful way he spoke to her made something inside Dani snap.

  People always, always treated her like she was weak, like a sharp word might make her cower. So yes, she may be shy and quiet in equal measures, but she wasn’t fragile. She wasn’t breakable.

  That had been proven over and over.

  So that careful, don’t-startle-the-frightened-beast-in-front-of-him tone made her lose her shit.

  As in lose her shit.

  She whirled on him, her backpack jumping off her spine and dropping like a pair of ineffective wings. But she hardly noticed the heavy contents. She was too busy being pissed.

  “I am not a piece of china to be treated with care,” she snapped, poking her finger into his chest. “I am not delicate or fragile or breakable.” Each adjective was paired with a poke to his chest—that yummy chest, and the fact that she noticed its yumminess in any form or fashion even while pissed made her even more furious. “I’m quiet.” She shook her head. “Yes, sometimes I’m really fucking awkward and shy, but I’m not some crystal vase you have to worry about shattering, and furthermore—”

  He captured her finger, held it in that big warm hand. “First,” he said, his voice silken. “Yes, you deserve to be treated with care.” Thunderclouds in his eyes. “You’re a good human being, so you always deserve to be treated with care.”

  Her breath caught.

  “Second, I like you shy,” he said. “I like you quiet. I like you however the fuck you want to be. So what if you’re not crossing verbal swords in the locker room with Max? You’re smart as hell, you’re funny, even if that sense of humor isn’t as loud as other people’s.”

  More breath-catching, more words stuck in the back of her throat. More—

  “Third.” His voice was velvet again, brushing along her exposed skin and making her shiver. “Third,” he said, “is the most important one.”

  “Why?” she whispered, when he didn’t expound on that final reason.

  His fingers slipped from hers, shifted up to encircle her wrist, brushing along the sensitive skin on the inside of it and tracing more of those delicate patterns that threatened to melt her into a puddle of goo. Well . . . of that and curiosity.

  “It’s the most important because . . .”

  She leaned forward slightly, anxious to hear the answer.

  “Another time.”

  He dropped her hand, and she was despising the loss of that warmth when he stepped around her, opened her car door. Was gaping at his response when he bent—giving her a glorious view of his slacks tightening over that fine ass—to set her backpack in the passenger’s seat.

  He straightened, brushed the backs of his knuckles over her cheek.

  Then he nudged her toward her car. “Goodnight, Dani,” he murmured.

  She blinked, lips parting, but . . . he was gone.

  And she was left wondering—and cursing her curiosity—about reason number three.

  Chapter Four

  Ethan

  He’d slept like shit the night before.

  Mostly because he’d been dreaming about Dani naked in her bathtub, a glass of wine in one hand, a slice of pizza in the other . . . and also, he’d dreamed about Dani naked.

  Glorious and naked and naked.

  Which explained the reason for his cock threatening to crack in half that morning.

  He had a great imagination.

  Some might even say it was stellar.

  Because he could picture every curve, imagine how soft her skin would feel when he kissed his way across it. He’d bet it would be even softer than that on the inside of her wrist, and that had felt like silk beneath his rough-ass fingers.

  However, none of his imaginings we
re helping his control.

  Or making his morning wood go away.

  Groaning as he got out of bed and ignoring the jut of his erection against the fabric of his boxer briefs, he shuffled into the bathroom and turned on the shower, then set about brushing and flossing and getting ready for the day.

  It was pretty early by hockey standards—with last night’s match start time of seven-thirty, three-plus hours of game play, press, cooldown and stretching routines, and then a shower, it meant that he hadn’t left the arena until after midnight. Then he’d come home, reviewed the video, had his beer, and watched the first three episodes of that Bridgerton show. He could see why Dani liked it, had felt the urge to keep watching, even after his post-game adrenaline high had begun to fade.

  But he had shit to do today, so eventually he’d forced himself to turn off the TV, pried the remote out of his hand, and had gone to bed.

  Where he’d slept like shit.

  Because he’d been imagining stripping Dani out of one of those prissy dresses from the show and kissing every inch of her glorious body.

  After setting his toothbrush on the counter with a sigh, his erection seeming to have no desire to go away, he stripped off his underwear and stepped into the shower. Shampoo, soap, warm water on sore muscles.

  A cock that ached for the beautiful, shy woman he’d dreamed about for years now.

  It was fucking frustrating.

  Not because she’d turned him down when he’d asked her out.

  But rather, it was fucking painful that he’d purposely been ignoring his attraction all this time, and then for a few days while he’d worked up the courage to ask her, for a few moments as he’d seen her come out of her office, for one conversation when he’d thought that maybe . . . just maybe they might be able to have something that wasn’t only work-related.

  But that wasn’t to be.

  “Enough,” he muttered. He just needed to ignore his dick, get on with his day, and do his best to forget about one Dani Eastbrooke. Laughter bubbled in his chest, only it wasn’t because the situation was funny. Quite the opposite, actually. His laughter was a product of incredulity because he’d spent two years thinking about her, dreaming of her, and to think that he could just ignore the attraction that had been brewing and growing for all that time, especially now that he’d gotten a glimpse of that fire beneath the cool shield she kept in place between herself and the rest of the world, was ludicrous.