Face Off: Emile (Nashville Sound Book 1)

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “Non. I want you. Of course I do.” He spread that beautiful mouth into a smile that had an element that she had not seen before. She couldn’t identify that element exactly, but it was a look that any woman would be elated to have directed her way. Sex. Lust. Secrets. All of that. Then the smile faded and the light in his eyes dimmed. “I think you felt how much I want you.”

  Yes, and she wanted to feel again, would die if she didn’t get to.

  “But I cannot,” he rushed on. “You are hurt and vulnerable. I cannot take advantage.”

  His words lit and fueled something she hadn’t known she had.

  The cry that escaped her was part animal and part woman possessed. “Vulnerable! Listen here, Excellent Wolf, French Kiss, Goalie Man. I am not vulnerable. I am mad, but I am strong. And I know what it feels like to be taken advantage of, but this is not it! I am not weak. Or defenseless. Or afraid to say what I want. That’s who I’ve been too damn long, but no more! I’ve lost a lot, but I haven’t lost everything. I’m still me. No. I’m a better me. If you don’t want this, fine. Say so. But if you do, I’ll make my own decision, and I’ll have you right here and right now!”

  His lips parted. “I did not know,” he said quietly, “that you knew that I am an excellent wolf.”

  “You are excellent,” she whispered. “Very, very excellent.”

  He only looked at her wide-eyed for half a beat before he nodded.

  And finally, she knew the feeling of that mouth on hers, those thighs against hers, and her hands on that magnificent, muscled bottom.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “As long as you’re sure,” Emile said against her mouth. But he knew she was sure, and not just from her words. She really wanted this—wanted him—to try to be so bold, emphasis on try. It was endearing, but he’d been with plenty of assertive women, so he knew true bold when he saw it. But this was playacting. Amy thought if she played the role of an aggressive woman, she would be that woman. Yet somehow, this was much sexier than the smoothest, practiced woman who’d done this a thousand times.

  “Do I feel sure?” She rolled her hips against him, making him harder than he’d thought possible, harder than he’d ever been.

  “A good goalie is never surprised, but you have surprised me, chérie.” He teased her bottom lip with his tongue.

  She pulled away the barest bit and smiled. Smiled! She had not smiled in a week. So, so beautiful. He trailed his hand down her cheek.

  “Are you saying you are no longer a good goalie?”

  “Non. Or peut-être. We will find out tomorrow night.” He had asked Packi to have one of his old sweaters ready for him to pick up at morning skate tomorrow. Packi had said it was a bad idea to give her his sweater, but Packi didn’t know everything. “I am not thinking of my goaltending proficiency now.”

  “What are you thinking?” She ground her groin against him.

  Mon Dieu. “I am thinking that I have wanted you for days.”

  “Days? I’ve wanted you for about four minutes, and I don’t want to want to wait four more.” And she pulled back and put her hands inside his shorts, skin on skin.

  “Doux Jésus, je viendrai dans vos mains.” He was breathing like an out-of-shape senior citizen in a marathon.

  “What did you say? Speak English.”

  “Come. Let me take you to my bed.”

  “No. I want you right here and right now. You can take me against the refrigerator. Or I’ll sit on the counter.” She put her hands on the waistband of his shorts but stopped. Then a look of alarm came over her face. “Wait. Condom?”

  Baise. For the first time ever, ever since he’d had sex for the first time at fifteen years old, he would have forgotten a condom. That scared him, but it didn’t scare him off.

  “Oui. Of course.”

  “Then get it.” She blushed and looked surprised at her words.

  He smiled and bit his bottom lip. Maybe this assertiveness was an experiment. But he was happy to participate. What wasn’t to like about it? It’d gotten them to this place, after all. Besides, it was as exciting as hell, the demands mixed with blushes.

  “Maybe you will put it on for me. For us?” He reached into his pocket for his wallet, found the little packet, and handed it to her.

  She took the package, turned it over, and studied it intently—clearly looking for directions. Maybe she would write the steps down in her little book. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to let her do this until she had done that.

  He took the packet and laid it on the counter. “Let’s unwrap something else first.”

  “What?”

  “You.” And he peeled off her sweater and stepped back to admire her. “Your breasts— charmant.” And they were—beyond lovely. Luscious, full, exquisite. He moved toward her, anxious to remove her bra, but thought better of it. Better to let her playact at being bold. “Ma chérie, you are so beautiful. Remove your bra for me so I can see more of your beauty.”

  She hesitated, but barely. He thought of asking her to touch herself, but thought better of that, too. There were limits to what Bold Amy would be able to do. But just the image of that shot a fresh lightning bolt of desire straight to his balls.

  When she reached behind to unhook her bra, he eagerly slipped his hand underneath the band. She shuddered, dropped her bra, and let her head roll back, clearly enjoying his touch. He gently lifted, stroked, and squeezed until she moaned. “So good.” Encouraged, he repeated the movements, but a bit rougher this time, and rolled her nipples between his finger and thumb. She slammed her pelvis harder against his and cried out.

  He would have tasted her nipples then, but she said, “My turn,” and peeled his shirt off. “I want to touch you.” She ran her hands up his arms, over his shoulders, and down his stomach. “You look so strong.”

  “Non. You are the strong one—so strong.” And it was true. That she could even walk around after such an ordeal was amazing.

  “We’re both still wearing shorts,” she said.

  “Then let’s not.” He reached to remove hers, but she was faster and pushed his off his hips and settled her hands on his penis, stroking the shaft and teasing the head, driving him insane.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said. Then she giggled. “And huge.”

  He laughed, too. “Now you.” He pushed her shorts and panties off at the same time. When he brought his hand between her legs, she gasped and her knees buckled. He caught her, bent his head to her breast, and took her nipple in his mouth. When he sucked, she moaned. “When I do that,” he said, “do you feel it here?” He stroked the mouth of her vagina and slowly brought his finger to massage her swollen little bud, all the while his mouth tasting her nipple, pulling urgently with his lips and tongue and biting lightly.

  She closed her legs tightly around his hand. “Please, please Emile. Don’t make me wait.”

  And suddenly, he couldn’t wait either. “Je veux être à intérieur de tu.”

  “English, Emile. Tell me what you said.”

  He squeezed between her legs and whispered against her ear. “I want to be inside you.”

  “Yes!” She backed against the refrigerator and spread her legs. “Here. Now!”

  He reached for the condom and peeled it on as he took a step backward, away from her, smiling and biting his lip. “I do not need a refrigerator, a wall, or a counter.” He held his arms out. “Come to me, chérie” He squatted a few inches. “Here, spread your legs and straddle my thighs.”

  She looked doubtful. “I’m not sure . . . ”

  “I am very, very sure.” With that he lifted her, sheathed himself inside her, and stood up, fully erect on his feet and fully erect and pounding inside her. She wrapped her legs tight around his waist, drawing him deeper. “Yes, that’s right, chérie.”

  “You’re huge,” she repeated. “And you feel so good.”

  “You’re not huge,” he said. “You’re tight . . . and wet. And you feel so good. I want you so much. Put your arms around
my neck. I’m going to make this good for you.”

  He cupped her bottom and moved her up and down against him and around him, making sure that her clitoris received equal attention with each motion. She cried out. “Oh, yes. Slow. Again. Hard.”

  He laughed against her ear. “Hard is right, ma chérie. No one has ever made me so hard.” He could have come then, but he fought it, fought it harder than he’d ever fought to keep any puck out of any goal he’d ever tended.

  It was only after she came and he let her rest a moment, then brought her back to full desire and made her come again, that he indulged in his own release.

  And what a release it was. He shuddered and cried out her name as he emptied inside her. But still, he didn’t let her go or put her down. He stood strong and erect until they both calmed. Then he carried her to the couch and lay down beside her.

  “I need a moment,” he said. “But I must have you again.”

  When he began to fondle her breasts, she didn’t hesitate. She began to caress him, bringing him back to life. She seemed no longer like someone pretending to be bold, but rather like a woman who was going to take what she wanted.

  And he was happy to give it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Amy’s first thought upon waking the next morning was I hope he doesn’t have a girlfriend.

  Not because she wanted him. Hell no. If she ever wanted another man, it wasn’t going to be any time soon. Still, no matter how good the sex had been—and it had been mindboggling, life-changing good—she would not have wanted to be a party to Emile cheating on someone.

  Then why didn’t you ask? a little voice inside her demanded.

  Actually, there were reasons—good and bad—she hadn’t asked. Though it was a given that a rich, excellent wolf, goaltender with a mouth and body like Emile’s would have lots of women, Amy had never seen evidence of any since she’d been living in his condo. If there was a particular woman, she would have been around before now. That wasn’t necessarily true of the harem he no doubt had. That was the good reason she hadn’t asked. As for the bad: she hadn’t been thinking—or really caring—about anything except getting him inside her to wipe away the pain and bad memories.

  But it’d turned out to be so much more than that. Never had she known, or even imagined, such pleasure. She’d wanted him, wanted him badly. The memory of him standing firm and powerful, sliding her against him and setting both of their worlds on fire, made her nipples prickle. Even now, she wanted him, although her good sense told her it shouldn’t happen again. But she also knew if she’d gone to his bed to sleep there, like he’d wanted, she’d be reaching for him right now. Instead she reached between her legs and quickly soothed the ache that the thought of Emile had evoked.

  Three times they’d had sex—once in the kitchen, another time on the couch, and the third (last) time on the floor, where he’d demonstrated that he was not only strong, but oh, so flexible, too. Something about goalie butterfly style. He’d been like Gumby with an erection, playing World Champion Twister—except she’d been the board and he’d bent in ways that no man without wires for bones ought to have been able to. His mouth here, a hand there, and who knew a knee could be so useful for that.

  Afterward, he’d reached for her hand. “Come, chérie. Let’s go to bed.”

  But she’d declined—had reminded him he had a game the next night and he needed to rest. And, by the way, she had been reading up on what a hockey player needed to do to get ready for game day. Shouldn’t he eat? She hadn’t shopped for ingredients for the fresh marinara she’d meant to make, but she could get creative. So in the end, after she’d grilled some chicken and dressed some pasta with olive oil, garlic, and cheese, it seemed best to take herself off to bed while he ate—alone.

  She looked at the clock. Time to get up and make the three-egg omelette with cheese, whole grain bagel with peanut butter, fruit, and yogurt.

  Just as she finished slicing the strawberries and banana together, Emile appeared dressed in workout clothes, his hair damp from the shower. He looked at her for a long moment, and she got the feeling he was considering kissing her.

  That was no good. Well, not that exactly. It would be good, but it would come to no good.

  “I have your breakfast.” She removed the omelette from the warming drawer and set it on the bar with the bagel, fruit, and yogurt.

  “What is all this?” He looked at his food on the bar and gave her a sweet smile. “You made this for me? You must like me.”

  “I’m a good personal assistant. I looked up on the Internet what you should eat for breakfast on game day. What would you like to drink?”

  “Water. Always water and only water on game day. I’ll get it.” He turned and took a step toward the refrigerator, but she got there first.

  “No, let me.” No good would come from him bending over. “You sit and eat.” Yes, much better that he should sit on his butt, not display it for her viewing pleasure. She set two bottles of water in front of him. “What time would you like your pre-game meal?”

  “Will you eat with me?”

  She hesitated. They had been eating together, and there was no reason to change. It was best to pretend it had never happened.

  “If you like.”

  “Oui.” He nodded. “After morning skate, there are meetings. I will be back about noon. Then I nap for two hours. Then to the rink by three.”

  She nodded and slid onto the barstool beside him. “I’ll have it ready. Your blue suit is fresh from the cleaners, and I ironed your shirt.”

  “Amy, you do not have to do these things.”

  “I do. This is what you hired me for—to make your life easier.”

  “Ah, yeah,” he said like he’d just remembered that. “Thank you then. You do make things easier.”

  “I read you should take a snack to the rink.”

  “True. A small snack.” He smiled around the spoon in his mouth. When he removed it there was a bit of vanilla yogurt on his mouth. It was hard not to look at it. “You have been reading a lot.”

  “It comes with being organized. I read that an apple and a peanut butter and jelly or honey sandwich on whole wheat—”

  His smile froze, and his eyes went dark and dead. “Non. No sandwich. No peanut butter and jelly. Ever.”

  What on earth? Was he allergic? She glanced at the bagel. It had peanut butter, and he’d already eaten more than half. She got the feeling she’d said something very, very wrong.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know . . . ”

  His face relaxed, and he shook his head. “Non.” He put his hand on her arm. “Nothing to be sorry for. You researched the best things for game day. You made me this beautiful breakfast. I am grateful. For my snack I like a Clif Bar and a protein shake.” He smiled. “But the apple? A good idea, and I thank you for it.”

  What was that about? Or maybe it hadn’t meant anything. Maybe it was just game day weirdness.

  • • •

  There were a half dozen guys milling around when Emile entered the locker room. Baise-moi, merde, and all the rest of it. He had hoped the other early arrivers would be late. He’d overslept by a half hour. Not since he’d played juniors, when his billet mom sometimes had to literally shake him awake, had he slept so hard. He should have set an alarm, but that was something he had never had to do in his adult life. He simply told himself the night before when he needed to wake, and it happened. But had he told himself last night? Maybe not. He’d been distracted—and tired.

  “Hey, F. K.,” Mikhail Orlov called from across the room. “You’d better not mess up our mojo by not being the first one here. We are not losing our first game of the season.”

  “No such thing as mojo.” He stepped up to his stall and began to undress. “And we are not losing. You just put that puck in the right net and let me worry about my net.”

  Packi appeared at his elbow. “Here’s your breakfast.” He handed Emile two protein cereal bars, a can of peaches, and a bottle of
water.

  “Merci.” Emile laid the items on the shelf and reached for his compression pants. “I ate breakfast already.” How could he not have? Amy had read up on what was a good game day breakfast and made it so nice with matching dishes and a placemat that he didn’t know he had.

  “Yeah?” Packi leaned on the stall next to Emile’s. “It’s not like you to mix it up on game day.”

  “It’s no big deal what I eat. Or when I eat.” Except for that pregame snack peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He’d not meant to react so strongly, but Amy had taken him by surprise—again. Only unlike last night, today’s surprise hadn’t been pleasant. “Packi, my friend, did you get the sweater for me?”

  “Hanging between your practice jersey and game jersey.”

  Emile moved his black sweater aside. Yes. Two identical purple game sweaters, except he’d be wearing a new one tonight, and Amy would have the one that had been worn. It would be huge on her, but that was the idea. She’d have an authentic sweater with his name and number to wear to the game tonight.

  “Again, thank you, Packi. Did you arrange things with the ticket office?”

  “Not yet. But I will, if you still want me to. I hope you’ve changed your mind about that.”

  “Why should I change my mind?”

  “It’s not where she should sit, and you know it. That section is for wives, girlfriends, and family. She is none of those things. You’ve known her one week.”

  “There are no rules about it, so why shouldn’t she sit there? She has had a very bad week. It’s a comfortable place to sit, with a good view and nice food and drinks provided.”

  “It’s tradition and you know it.”

  “I rate tradition and superstition the same. Good sense is best.”

  “And you think this is good sense? It’s not as if the rest of Bridgestone Arena is a hellhole with tree stumps for seats. I would not waste my time telling you all this again except for the good of the young lady. The wives and girlfriends don’t like outsiders. You know how they reacted when Voleck let Krystal sit with them. They will never accept her, even though she’s married to him now.”