Dax

by Sawyer Bennett

  I should have figured I’d be in trouble hanging around with Willow. It was the wine that ultimately led me to purchase the damn dress. In the safety of the dressing room, it hadn’t seemed that revealing. But as I take in the looks of the hungry hockey players checking out the new women who have entered their lair, I feel incredibly underdressed.

  I also feel like a fraud. I don’t do sexy well.

  “Come on,” Willow says with excitement as she takes me by the hand. “Let’s get a drink.”

  We make it no more than two steps toward the bar before a large, hulking hockey player plants himself in front of us.

  “Ladies,” he says in a smooth, honeyed voice. “Welcome to the fun.”

  Growing up in a hockey family, I have learned to know the players. It didn’t take me long at all to pretty much memorize the entire Arizona Vengeance team just from some simple roster research before the game the other night.

  Before us stands Trace LaForge, a third-line rookie defenseman. He’s more my age than Willow’s, but he looks between the two of us without a care as to such things.

  I can tell by the sparkle in his eye and the leering smile on his face he thinks we’re part of his entertainment tonight. And I don’t mean that in an offended or prudish way. I’m a sister of a hockey player, so I’m well aware of what happens at these parties as I listened in on conversations between Lance and his teammates when I was younger. I don’t begrudge it.

  But I’m not on the menu tonight, and he’s gazing at me like I’m the main course. He clearly has no idea Willow is a family member, or he would get that look right off his face before Dax takes it off.

  “LaForge…” The deep, slightly cultured voice comes from behind me, and I turn to find an incredibly handsome man standing there. He’s tall with raven-black hair and even darker eyes. He’s dressed in an impeccably cut suit that’s obviously designer, although I have no clue about the label. I can tell just by his bearing he is big money. “They’re asking for you to go to the maître d’ stand. Something about your credit card being declined.”

  Trace’s eyes bug out of his head, and he mumbles in apology as he brushes past us.

  I glance at Willow, who is openly checking the man out in an overly appreciative away. When I turn to the man who just scared off the young rookie, he’s regarding Willow with the same open appraisal. I swear I can feel the sizzling vibe between them as they eyeball each other.

  The man drags his attention off Willow to shoot me a warm, genial smile, then sticks his hand out. “Dominik Carlson. I own the Arizona Vengeance.”

  Holy shit. He not only owns the Vengeance, but he also owns a professional basketball team in Los Angeles. This guy is more than just wealthy, and I fear my hand is sweating profusely as I place it in his.

  “I’m Regan Miles,” I murmur.

  Mr. Carlson gives me a gracious incline of his head before regarding Willow.

  The expression on his face turns almost predatory as he sticks his hand out to her. She places her fingertips gently against his palm. He naturally curls his hand around hers, pulling her knuckles up to his lips where he brushes a kiss there.

  It’s old-fashioned and romantic, although I don’t think either of those describe his intentions. “And you are?”

  Willow boldly holds Mr. Carlson’s gaze, the corners of her lips tipping upward before she gives him a dazzling smile in return. “Willow.”

  It’s not lost on me that she doesn’t give her last name, which would likely out her as Dax’s sister. It’s clear she’d rather not be identified.

  Mr. Carlson knows she’s being evasive, too. I can see it on his face, and I expect him to challenge her for more information, but he releases her hand instead.

  “I’d love to buy you ladies a drink,” he merely says.

  “That would be lovely,” Willow replies huskily. “How about we find a table?”

  “Perfect.” His voice is rumbling, his eyes gleaming. “What would you both like?”

  We both ask for wine, then Willow has my hand in hers again. She tugs on me as she winds her way through the crowd to find a table. I keep my eyes on the ground, following behind her and hoping we can just avoid Dax. I assume he’s here. He told us before he left he’d be really late tonight and for us not to wait up.

  Admittedly, I was slightly bothered by that, and I’m not sure why. He owes me no allegiance, and he’s free to do what he wants.

  It makes me wonder why in the hell I’ve got my head bowed in avoidance of him. I owe him nothing as well.

  Just as I tip my head up, Willow comes to a crashing halt, causing me to run into her back. I freeze when I see Dax in front of her, imposingly blocking her path with his arms crossed over his chest. Bishop Scott stands just off to his left, watching with interest.

  I know Bishop as he played with the Vipers—my brother’s former team—although I can’t say I know him well. Dax told me Bishop is his closest friend on the team, and Bishop and my brother were tight. His eyes cut briefly to me, and he gives me a warm smile.

  I don’t smile back, instead bringing my gaze to Dax as I move to Willow’s side. He’s glaring at his sister, and she’s just grinning at him. She knew he’d be pissed we crashed, and I think part of her is relishing this.

  “What in the hell are you doing here?” he asks. He doesn’t even spare me a glance.

  Willow rolls her eyes at her brother. “That’s a stupid question, Dax. I’m here to party.”

  “No, you’re not,” he replies with a solid shake of his head. He then points his finger to the door and says, “You both need to leave.”

  Still… he doesn’t spare me any attention at all.

  “I think not,” Willow replies cheekily. “Besides… your nice owner, Mr. Carlson, is buying us some drinks. It would be bad form to skip out on that and all.”

  “Willow,” he growls, leaning into her. “I swear to God—”

  “Is there a problem here?” Dominik Carlson asks as he comes to stand on the other side of Willow. He has a bland, expectant expression on his face, but I can tell he knows he just stepped into something tense and on the verge of blowing.

  If I’d expected Dax to bow to the owner in any way, I was sorely mistaken. Dax merely slides his gaze to his head boss and replies, “I believe you’ve met my sister. And I was just explaining to Willow that this is a private party and she cannot be here.”

  Mr. Carlson is surprised by that news. His eyebrows jet upward, and he tilts his head at Willow with a chiding expression on his face.

  But he only spares her a moment before turning back to Dax. “Oh, come on. I think you can make an exception. And I was just going to take your sister and Miss Miles over to a table where we can enjoy a drink. I promise to protect them from any debauchery that’s been rumored to take place at these events.”

  I can see Dax gritting his teeth, a muscle jumping at the base of his jaw. Lips pressed flat, all he can do is give a curt nod to Mr. Carlson in agreement of this plan, although I think he’d like to punch the guy out.

  Willow slips her hand into the crook of Dominik Carlson’s arm, giving a cutesy air kiss to her brother that pretty much translates into “kiss my ass,” before they start walking away. I spin to follow, getting one foot planted, then I’m brought to a halt.

  Grasping me by the upper arm, Dax mutters, “Oh no you don’t. We need to talk.”

  He spins me away from Bishop, then marches right out of the bar area into what is now an empty restaurant. Dax keeps heading deeper into the restaurant until the sounds of the party recede.

  When he releases me, he glances around wildly, scrubbing his hand through his hair. He looks far more upset with me than he did with Willow, and I don’t understand why. Surely he knows his sister is the ring leader here.

  Finally, his eyes travel down my body, up again, then back down before snapping to me. He motions at my dress with his hand. “Just what the hell is that, Regan?”

  I glance at my dress, get met with a
whole lot of cleavage because of the cut, and then raise my head. My voice is almost nonexistent when I weakly offer, “A dress.”

  “Really?” he replies with utter sarcasm. “Because it looks like a few scraps of material thrown on your body. Did you really think that was appropriate to wear?”

  And then it hits me.

  He’s judging me. Immediately, I’m over the concerned brother act. I certainly hadn’t put up with that from Lance when he was alive, and I sure as shit wasn’t going to put up with it from Dax.

  I step into him, go on my tiptoes, and poke him in the chest with my index finger. “What I choose to wear—or not to wear as seems to be the case—is none of your fucking business, Dax Monahan.”

  “It most certainly is my business,” he yells.

  Actually bends his head down and yells right in my face. And then his hand is on my arm again. “I’m taking you home.”

  I jerk my arm out of his grip. “You most certainly are not.”

  “You are begging for the palm of my hand, Regan.”

  “What in the hell is going on here?” Willow’s voice cuts over our spat, and Dax and I jump apart from each other. She’s standing there with her hands on her hips, glaring daggers at her brother.

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. When I glance at Dax, he’s scowling at his sister.

  Willow’s eyes are soft when they land on me. “Are you okay?”

  The air comes rushing out of my lungs as I rush to assure her. “Yes. I’m fine. We were just—”

  Willow spins on her brother, eyes narrowing and as cold as ice. “Why were you yelling at her? Manhandling her? And threatening to spank her? Have you fucking lost your mind, Dax?”

  I almost feel sorry for the man, because Willow seems like she’s about ready to throw down. My mind races, figuring out how I can diffuse this situation, but Dax beats me to the punch, although so not in the way I would have handled it.

  “She’s my wife,” he tells her smugly. “I think I have every right to do those things.”

  Of course, Dax isn’t a Neanderthal. He’s an incredibly progressive man, and he wouldn’t think marriage conveys that type of power to anyone. He is, however, a smartass who’s trying to set his sister back on her feet as well as knock me down slightly since he’s getting ready to be attacked.

  I brace, knowing he’s doing the same.

  “Wife?” Willow wheezes as her hand goes to her chest. She wildly swivels her gaze between Dax and me. Back and forth. Back and forth. “Somebody better explain.”

  Dax knows the best way to piss his sister off is to clam up, so he just casually runs his hands down the front of his dress pants and rocks on his feet with a smug smile. He’s not saying another word.

  Asshole.

  I rush toward Willow, then take her hands in mine. “It’s nothing really. In name only until I can afford health insurance on my own. Lance was pretty debt ridden when he died, so Dax is helping me out financially.”

  I hate throwing Lance under the bus like that, but I don’t want to put too much emphasis on the health insurance aspect of it. I’m just not ready to get into that with her, although she deserves an explanation.

  Willow’s expression morphs into a mixture of empathy and slight confusion. I take advantage and press on, turning her slightly away from Dax and lowering my voice. “Listen… why don’t you go back in and have some drinks with Dominik Carlson? He’s totally into you. I’m going to grab an Uber home. We’ll sit down and talk about all this tomorrow. I promise.”

  “I don’t want to go back in without you,” she replies, but I know that’s not true. She knows it, too.

  I point toward the bar area. “Go. Have fun tonight.”

  Willow stares at me for a long, thoughtful moment before leaning in and giving me a hard hug. She whispers in my ear, “I know damn well there’s more to the story, but tomorrow… you and I are going out to breakfast and you’re telling me everything.”

  “Promise,” I murmur, squeezing her back.

  After I pull out of her embrace, I head for the exit doors, not wasting a moment’s attention on Dax. He can kiss my nearly bare ass.

  But then his hand is on my arm again, this time more gently. Jolting, I twist to look up at him.

  “I’ll take you home,” he growls as he pulls the door open.

  “I can get home fine on my own,” I snap. “I’m not a child.”

  “Fuck if I haven’t figured that out with you in that dress,” he mutters, tightening his grip slightly. “But I’m taking you home. I was about ready to leave anyway.”

  “Fine,” I grit out, snatching my arm away.

  He gnashes his teeth in frustration, but merely holds the door for me. I get a mocking bow as he motions me through. “After you.”

  My chin rising high, I brush past him and march out into the evening, definitely feeling cool air on my ass.

  I also feel his eyes there, too, and it gives me a small measure of satisfaction.

  CHAPTER 16

  Dax

  The ride home from the rookie party is silent, which is fine by me. Gives me plenty of time to think.

  Like why in the hell had I gone berserk over seeing Regan dressed that way? I’ve dated plenty of women who have worn outfits just as sexy and never once batted an eye. Yeah, even got a kick out of other men ogling the half-naked woman on my arm. It’s a source of pride.

  But with Regan in that dress—that has ridden up incredibly high on her legs as she sits in the front passenger seat of my car—I’d been filled with the certainty I didn’t want any other man to see her in it. It felt like it should be for my eyes only, and it was a treasure I would never share. As it stands, I feel the insane need to beat the fuck out of Trace LaForge for eyeballing her when she first walked in. His eyes were glued to her tits, and—

  I tighten my hands on the steering wheel, feeling like it could snap under the force of my fury.

  All because Regan bared her gorgeous body to the world, and I was jealous of anyone else getting the gift of seeing her in all her glory.

  And for that matter, why am I taking her home? I could have just as easily waited outside with her until an Uber arrived. It would have been the gentlemanly thing to do, then I could have returned to the party, gotten drunk on expensive scotch, and fucked any number of beautiful women there.

  Except I didn’t want to do that.

  I only want to be in this car with Regan—to take her home where I can lock her safely away for my pleasure only.

  No.

  No. No. No.

  Not for my pleasure. She can’t be that to me.

  Something great is worth the risk, my man.

  That’s what Bishop had said. He’d pushed me to take a chance with her.

  I know one thing for sure, though. My cock is on board with that. It’s been half hard since I first saw her in that dress, and it hasn’t calmed down yet.

  Fuck.

  I pull into my driveway, coming to a stop just inches from the garage door. Regan’s car is safely closed inside. I barely have the car turned off before Regan bolts. She trots up the porch steps, her keys already in hand to unlock my front door. My eyes are glued to her shapely ass as it sways. Is it my imagination, or can I actually see the rounded swells of said shapely ass peeking out from under her hem?

  Goddamn her for wearing that and goddamn my cock, which is now thickening even more.

  My strides lengthen so I can catch up with her, and I’m at her back just as she’s stepping over my threshold. She ignores my chiming alarm, for which I take a few seconds to punch in the disarm code. It lets her get all the way across the living room and to the staircase that leads up to her bedroom.

  “I’m going to bed,” she mutters, raising her leg to take the first step.

  “Wait,” I call.

  She stops, one high-heeled foot perched on the step. Regan turns, eyebrows raised in question.

  I have no clue what to say. She has my insides so jumbled up tha
t rational conversation seems improbable. Besides, what can I possibly say to her? I can’t tell her the truth—that I want her desperately. That it would be selfish as hell to take her, but I might be willing to risk it all for just a fucking taste of her again.

  Yeah… can’t really come out and say that.

  But maybe I can provoke the situation. Make it where words aren’t necessary.

  Best way to do that is to pick a fight.

  The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. “I think we need to talk about that dress you’re wearing. What in the hell were you thinking coming out to a team party—my team’s party—with so much of your body on display for all to see?”

  My intent is to anger, not shame, because her body is so fucking beautiful. I mean, why wouldn’t she be proud to show it off? It seems I hit the mark because her eyes flash with unholy fury as she comes charging at me.

  I hold my ground, but she stops inches from me and hisses, “You are not my brother, Dax. You are not my husband, despite what a fucking piece of paper says. You have no right to tell me what to wear. In fact, if I want to dress like this every night… I will. If I want to spread my legs for a different man every night… I will. You have no say in anything I do so keep your fucking opinions to yourself.”

  I pretty much lost my shit the minute she’d suggested she could spread her legs for any man she wanted to. It was at that moment I envisioned myself committing murder to any faceless, nameless man who would ever even think about touching Regan.

  I take a step into her, and she immediately retreats. I match her movement, moving in closer, but she only continues backpedaling. We do this for several strides until I have her against the wall beside my entertainment unit.

  I dip my head, locking my eyes onto hers. My voice is calm, rational, but there is no mistaking the strength of the declaration I’m about to make. “Let me make this clear, Regan. No man gets to see what is rightfully mine. And no man is fucking you while I’m fucking you. Understood?”