by Maria Luis
Chapter Nineteen
ZOE
I’d like to say that Andre and I are classy people when we leave the rink after the event. That we wave politely to people, and say our good-byes like normal humans.
Yeah, that’s not what happens.
We hightail it to our cars, only pausing when Andre grunts, “We’ll take mine. I’ll bring you back tomorrow.”
In surprise, I glance at him. “I’m spending the night?”
His laugh is low and husky and so many kinds of sexy. “I don’t plan to let you leave the bed.”
“The whole time?” I ask. “Don’t you think we might want some food at some point?”
“Fine. Food, but that’s it. Rule has been made.” He swats my butt, and, for effect, I give a good little squeak. Andre rewards me with pushing me back against his car, his big body concealing mine from any spectators.
“I need to kiss you,” he growls, his hands coming to rest below my breasts. “I’ve needed to kiss you for a goddamn year.”
If he realizes what he’s said, he doesn’t give more information. And I’m too caught up in him, the him that’s pinning me to a car, the him that is dragging his lips up my neck, to worry that he may have meant something else.
His lips finally claim mine, soft and coaxing. The opposite of that first, fiery kiss in a darkened bar hallway after a few rounds of drinks a year ago. That kiss was steamy and panty-dropping in its harshness. This kiss is heart-wrenching, like Andre is determined to pour every ounce of unnamed emotion into the kiss.
“God, I’ve missed this,” he utters against my lips, sipping at the bottom one until I give in, opening, inviting, warming to the feel of his familiar muscular body under my hands. “I’ve missed you.”
I tear away from his lips to crack, “You certainly haven’t acted like it. You said this was a bad idea.”
“It is a bad idea.” His hand snakes up to my breast, squeezing the sensitive flesh over the fabric of my shirt. “It’s a bad idea,” he repeats, “and you should stop me right now.”
“No.”
He chuckles at my sass. “Get in the car, Zo.”
At his demand, I hook my fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and tug him close. “You like to boss me around.”
His lips lift. “It’s part of my charm.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
His palm collides with the side of my butt again. “Car, Zo. I have a surprise for you.”
“Another surprise?” I ask, because quite abruptly, I’m thrown back in time.
Andre always loved surprising me. Never gifts, that wasn’t our style. But tickets to the movies to see the latest blockbuster. A trip to a new local restaurant he discovered and wanted to try out. A puppy that he wanted desperately to foster, until I reminded him of his crazy schedule.
Funny how I didn’t realize how much I craved this aspect of our friendship until it was gone.
“Don’t hold out on me now, Beaumont.” I twist a little so I can see him fully. “I’m ready.”
He chokes out a laugh that sounds like he’s dying. “Are you?” he murmurs.
Am I? Silly question. “Oh, yeah.”
He slips me a side-eye glance. “Prove it.”
I pause, realization sinking in when he starts to laugh. “You’ve got such a dirty mind, Beaumont.”
“Because that’s a surprise?” He laughs even harder, so hard that I’m not sure he can even drive.
With his legion of women, I suspect I shouldn’t be shocked whatsoever. But I know he’s bluffing. Him wanting me to check if I’m “ready” is nothing but a joke to him. Which means that I obviously just have to prove him wrong.
Jeans encase my legs, and I do a dramatic flipping open of the brass button to catch his attention.
And, do I.
Andre blinks, then blinks again, then his hands clutch the wheel like his life depends on holding it. “What are you doing, Zoe?”
“Seeing if I’m ‘ready,’” I murmur sweetly, edging the zipper down to the base. “Isn’t that what you said to do?”
His Adam’s apple dodges south. “I . . . Hell, Zo, we’re driving.”
As if to prove his point, he pulls up to a stop sign.
One Mississippi . . .
I shove the waistband of my jeans to my upper hips.
Two Mississippi . . .
My fingers slip beneath the silk of my panties.
“Zoe. Please.”
Three Mississippi . . .
Home base.
The tips of my fingers dance along my clit, at the exact same moment Andre bites out a curse that’d give a sailor a heart attack.
“Andre,” I whisper, playing up the moment. It’s all too much fun to see the color infuse his cheeks.
A car honking behind us has Andre swerving as he bangs a right and hits the gas. “Don’t you dare fucking come,” he growls. “Not without me. Not without my tongue on your clit or my cock inside you.”
His words spike my desire, and I give in, rubbing the center of my pleasure in tight little circles. A moan works its way up my throat. It’s been months since I’ve allowed myself even this much pleasure, and I can’t control it. My wetness causes my finger to slip, and even that little change in angle does it for me.
I come openly, as Andre takes to the backstreets like a maniac. The only time he slows is at the next red light. Unexpectedly, he snags my wrist, pops my fingers into his mouth, and tastes me. It’s as hot as it sounds, trust me.
Then he mutters, “You’re going to owe me for that,” and I’m done for. Done.
Chapter Twenty
ZOE
We barely make it through his front door before Andre is on me.
His kiss tastes like heaven when he flicks his tongue against my upper lip.
His kiss tastes like hell when he explores my mouth, driving me to insanity, making me beg.
He’s paying me back for my climax in the car.
Little does he know that there aren’t any complaints coming from me.
I shouldn’t want Andre. It goes against everything I believe in—he abandoned me when I needed him most. He told me that we wouldn’t have sex, and yet here we are.
But I do want him. Because on the other half of that coin is the Andre I know exists under the hardness. The Andre who pulls out chairs for me, that puts my safety above everyone else’s. The Andre who cares about my stupid sprained ankle, and stands up for me when I need him.
The man is as complicated as a jigsaw puzzle, and I so hope to be the one to solve him.
No, no there is no solving.
That sort of thinking landed me in this mess.
I just need to enjoy the moment. Enjoy sex with Andre Beaumont for what it is. Uncomplicated, feel-good pleasure.
Needing to feel him, I urge his T-shirt up and over his head. Visually, I eat him up. Tangibly, my palms trace the hard lines of his chest. I pause over his flat nipples. “The piercings would have looked good on you.”
His laughter reverberates through his body. “Yeah, maybe. Except that my nipples turned green for days, and I swear to God I thought I was becoming the Joker.”
I giggle. “Sexy.”
“Yeah, I thought so.”
And then we’re right back at it again. His arm hooks around my waist, drawing me up against him, so that my feet dangle off the floor.
“Where are you taking me?”
“My evil lair.”
“The sin bin?” I quip in reply. “I don’t deserve a stint in the penalty box.”
“Zo,” Andre says with a shake of his head, his fingers digging into my backside, “for that stunt you pulled in the car, you deserve to sit out the entire game.” He kicks open a door with his foot, and my eyes adjust to the dim bedroom. He drops me on the bed, and I bounce with a laugh. “Luckily for you, however, I’m not interested in doing this next bit alone.”
Large hands go to my jeans, stripping them off and throwing them to the
floor. He does the same with my blouse, my shoes, my bra, my panties. Until I’m blessedly naked and he’s . . . shirtless. That’s it.
I nudge his hips with mine, biting back a moan at the feel of his cock through the soft material of his pants. “Get naked,” I tell him. “Join the club.”
“Oh, I plan to join the club.”
“Which one is that?”
His brows lift. “The party going on between your—”
I clap a hand over his mouth. “Don’t say it.”
I can feel his lips moving into a smile against my palm, but the words are so jumbled, they’re intelligible. Then—oh, my God—he flicks his tongue against my palm, and I yank back as if burnt.
“Dirty trick,” I mutter.
“No, dirty man.”
And then his fingers go there, between my legs, and he’s right—there is a party between my legs.
He plays me like he was born to pleasure me and me alone. As his mouth works mine with agonizingly slow thoroughness, his fingers send the lower half of my body into something I don’t recognize. A tail spin. His thumb finds the hood of my clit, and I cry out. His middle finger circles my entrance, and without further prompting, thrusts inside, thrusting up to hit me just in the right spot. The keening moan I release doesn’t even sound like it belongs to me.
He doesn’t stop.
Not there.
He quickens the pace, adds another finger. Curls just right. Oh. My God. Oh. My God.
“No,” he grunts, “not yet.”
And then he pulls away. Out of their own accord, my fingers head south to the apex of my thighs. I need what he was about to give me like I’ve never needed anything else in my life.
He rolls a condom down his cock, then bats my hand away.
“I told you, Zo, you’re mine.”
His.
God, I wish that I was. I wish that I was with every fiber of my being.
With a hand to my hip, Andre guides me onto my side and then slips behind me. His lips land on the back of my neck. His hand urges my leg back and over his hip, which exposes the bottom half of my body.
I’m not given a chance to feel any embarrassment.
Andre dances his fingers over the most sensitive part of me again, and then I feel the round head of his cock line up at my entrance. Surprise hits me that this is how he plans to take me for the first time in so many months.
With my leg tossed over his, his hand clasped to my breast, his breathing rustling the hair on my neck, the position is . . . Sensual. Romantic. Things—emotions—I didn’t expect from anyone, much less Andre.
He enters me in a single, smooth thrust.
I cry out from the intensity of the position, and his hand moves from my collarbone to the base of my throat. “God, you feel so good. So fucking tight.”
He does, too.
Good, I mean. Huge, too.
I can’t find the words, but my nails sink into his forearm, holding him to me. Forever, I want to say, I miss you. “Don’t stop,” I whisper, “please, don’t stop.”
His chuckle ruffles my hair. His hips pick up the pace. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to, Zo. Never.”
He doesn’t stop, just as promised. His fingers tweak my nipple, rolling the sensitive nub between his thumb and middle finger, before traversing the lines of my body until they stop where I need him most. Just the slightest amount of pressure, the fast pistoning of his hips, and he makes me orgasm long enough that I still feel the tremors long after his have subsided.
“Andre?” I whisper against the inner part of his arm.
His cock twitches inside of me at the sound of his name. “Yes?”
Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.
I gather my courage. “For one night, can you pretend that there is no one else?”
Andre’s hand tightens on my hip. “Yes, Zo. I can definitely do that.”
He slips me onto my back, black eyes burning brightly, and then gently kisses me on the lips. “I can definitely do that.”
Chapter Twenty-One
ANDRE
Six Days Left…
“Tacos.”
That’s all Zoe says when I give her a call after morning skate the day following the youth hockey camp. “Is there more to that statement or is this one of those times where I’m supposed to work it out for myself?”
Zoe’s girlish laughter, so at odds with her tenacious personality, comes through the receiver. “I’m craving tacos, that’s all. And since it’s Taco Tuesday . . . I don’t know, I thought maybe that—”
“I’d take you out for tacos?”
“I mean, you certainly don’t have to.” I can practically see her eyes slamming shut with embarrassment. “I’m such an idiot. You’re probably calling to talk about what’s next in the lineup for you, and here I am talking about tacos.”
God, she’s cute when she gets all worked up. I clear my throat as I toss my gear into my truck and then climb into the driver’s seat. “Actually, I was calling because I wanted to see you.”
Silence.
Great.
I drop my head against the seat. “You there, Zo?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. I just . . . I’dlovetoseeyoutoo.” The last bit is rushed, but I hear the words loud and clear, and damn it, I feel my mouth curl up into what’s no doubt a cheesy grin.
“So, tacos?” I ask, still grinning like a fool. “I’m down for that.”
“Really?” she chirps in my ear with full-enthusiasm. “Oh, that’s great! There’s this little place by my new apartment, and I haven’t had the chance to try it out yet . . . ”
We plan to meet at the Mexican restaurant in thirty, not that it’ll take me nearly that long to get there, before disconnecting. Putting my car into drive, I head out of the rink and into downtown Boston. To my right, the city’s recognizable skyline reaches toward the sky and reflects against the Charles River.
I’ve been here for a year and yet I don’t think I’ve paid any attention to my surroundings.
Not until Zoe came back, not until I spent my days looking over my shoulder just to see if she might be walking toward me.
I smooth my hand over the steering wheel, thinking back on last night. On the hottest sex I’ve ever had.
Friends with benefits.
I snort out loud because that right there is the stupidest idea I’ve ever had. I don’t want to be “just friends” with Zoe Mackenzie. And maybe I’m going about this the wrong way, because it’s been an incredibly long time since I’ve dated long-term, but I want more with Zoe. More than sex, more than friends.
I want it all—and, for a man who’s more comfortable hiding behind the icy façade, I’ve got no idea how to tell Zoe this. Hell, I’m pretty sure I just boxed myself into the twenty-first-century version of the “friend zone.”
By the time I pull up in front of La Cantina, the little Mexican joint Zoe’s itching to try out, I’ve made a new mission, a new plan.
It’s time to woo Zoe Mackenzie.
Does anyone still “woo”?
Fuck it, doesn’t matter. It’s happening.
I crank open my car door after I pull into a parking spot. From the outside, the restaurant isn’t anything fancy, certainly nothing like Vittoria. But it’s quaint and brightly colored, and I’m not complaining—at a place like this, there’s a smaller chance of running into hockey-crazed fans. More family-friendly and less drunken puck bunnies.
More time for me and Zoe to be alone.
More time for you to open up about Hannah.
My lungs squeeze. Yeah, not yet. Zoe and me, our relationship needs to be a lot tighter before I talk about my ex, about . . .
“Andre!”
At the sound of Zoe’s voice, I glance up and immediately feel the oxygen leave my body. She’s wearing a trench coat and a pair of fuck-me heels, and sue me, but I’m a guy and my first thought isn’t, she must be cold, but rather, is she wearing anything under that?
Like I said, sue me.
She’s nervous. I grin. Let the wooing begin. “C’mere, Zo.”
Her dark eyes drop to my open arms. “You just want a hug?”
No. “Sure.”
Tentatively, she slips her hands around my back. I don’t let her move away. Instead, I cup the back of her head, mussing up her hair. “I lied.”
Her cheeks bloom with color, and I like to think it has less to do with the cold weather and more to do with me. “Yeah?” she whispers, her fingers pressing into my back.
“Mhmm.” My lips find her forehead. Her skin is smooth, hot. I drop my mouth to her ear, and murmur, “I want to kiss you.”
“Yeah?” This time, she sounds breathless. “I’m down.”
Her response makes me laugh. Classic Zoe. “That’s good.” I nip at her earlobe, then grin smugly when she leaps in my arms. “You’ve got three seconds to change your mind. Three . . . two—”
She doesn’t give me the chance to finish. Her hands clasp the back of my head, and then she’s dragging my mouth down to hers, nipping at my lower lip, and slipping her tongue into my mouth. Taking control of the kiss. Taking control of me.
Holy hell, it’s hot.
I give in, letting her have her way. Maybe this wooing thing is all about letting the woman take what she wants—and if what Zoe wants is me, then I’m all for giving it to her.
Our tongues tangle, warring. The kiss isn’t soft and it certainly isn’t romantic, but that’s what this wooing needs to be, and so I slow her down, smoothing my hand over her cheek, cupping her chin. Her arm wraps around my back, unwilling to let me go, and then I’m right back in it again.
Tasting the waters.
Drowning.
Willingly choking on seawater—isn’t that what she’d told me that first day at Golden Lights Media?
It’s only at the sound of ambulance sirens that I pull back. I stare down at her, noting her pouty, red lips and her flushed cheeks. “Damn, honey,” I growl, “I’m not even thinking about tacos anymore.”