Walker offered a glowing reference. No one was surprised when he made it back into the rotation later in January, beating two of his old assist records after just six games.
The job hadn’t been easy. Just like Walker had been at first, many of the men were resistant to the idea of being trained by a woman. In fact, only Henny and Roscoe welcomed her with open arms. Walker wanted to beat the rest of them into submission, but Eva refused his intervention. She wanted to do this on her own. And now, after working with Gallagher and the other assistant coaches to bring them to the playoffs, Eva was finally starting to feel like a real part of the team. She’d worked her ass off to prove herself, and to get to know each player on an individual basis—his strengths, his weaknesses, his favorite moves—and they were finally accepting her. Trusting her. Respecting her.
Now, the boys swallowed her up in a mosh pit of hugs and high-fives.
Walker kept his hand tight around hers the whole time, and soon she felt the tug as he pulled her out of the crowd and led her to an empty corner of the ice.
“I’m so proud of you,” she said, unable to keep the emotion from her voice. Six months ago, he was in so much pain, struggling just to complete his drills. Now he was leading the team through the finals, the Stanley Cup just one game away.
“It’s your fault I’m out here,” he said. “You know that, right?”
Eva nodded. “Yep, and you’re welcome.”
“Still so modest,” he teased. His smile faded, and he leaned in close, pressing his forehead to hers and closing his eyes. “Every good thing in my life happened on or because of this ice.” Walker tapped it with his skate. “My career. Roscoe and Henny and the other guys. Getting strong again. You and Gracie.”
Eva looped her arms around his neck, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.
He pulled away and met her gaze, his eyes full of so much love it almost hurt to look at him. He smiled again, but then the grin turned shy, nervous. Without warning he grabbed her hands and dropped down onto one knee, right there on the ice.
Eva gasped, her eyes blurring with tears.
“I want to spend the rest of my life waking up in your arms. Making love to you. Walking through Delaware Park with you and Gracie and that beast you call a dog.” Laughing, Walker squeezed her hands, pressing his mouth to each of her fingers, smothering them with soft, hot kisses. When he finally pulled away, a diamond-and-sapphire ring glittered on her hand, blue and white and silver like the Tempest. Like the ice. Like the snow in Eva’s snow globe dreams. “Evangeline Bradshaw,” he said, “will you marry me?”
Eva could hardly breathe.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes!” She dropped to her knees, hugging him so fiercely that they both tumbled backward onto the rink.
All around them the crowd cheered for the team’s win, but there on a perfect little patch of ice, Eva closed her eyes and kissed her fiancé, playoff beard and all, and deep in her heart she knew that all those cheers and whistles were for them.
Thank you so much for reading NAUGHTY OR ICE! If you love sexy, steamy Christmas stories as much as I do, read on for an excerpt of Snowed In with the Bad Boy!
SNOWED IN WITH THE BAD BOY
* * *
1
Fuck elves, man. Seriously.
Ronan Steel clicked off the television and chucked the remote across the couch, cursing himself for getting sucked into that bullshit. Another two hours of his life he’d never get back, and to top it off, now his beer was warm.
He tipped the bottle back anyway, pouring half of it down his throat, the rest dripping down his chin and onto his bare chest. It hardly registered. He was numb from the inside out, and the six-pack he’d polished off had done nothing to improve his mood. That’s what he got for grabbing the “Holiday Harvest” brew by mistake. Turns out Holiday Harvest was code for Marketing Scam. Suck out half the alcohol, give it a festive name, and jack up the price for all the suckers willing to pay double for anything with a cartoon reindeer stamped on the package.
Add it to the long list of things he hated about this time of year.
Far as Ronan was concerned, Christmas was played out. As a kid, he’d loved waking up with his little sister, racing her down the stairs to find their mom cooking up a big-ass breakfast, their meager tree lit up like Rockefeller Center. They never knew their dad and they didn’t have much, but he didn’t know any better back then—his mother had made sure of that.
But seventeen years ago, his mother and sister died in a wreck, and with nowhere else to turn, Ronan had thrown himself into the darkest, most shadowy corners of the U.S. military, volunteering for missions so dangerous, so horrendous, the CIA told everyone else they didn’t exist. He didn’t exist.
Since then, most of Ronan’s happy memories had turned into ghosts, haunting his every step. And at some point without his permission, while he’d faced off with assassins half his age and drank his own piss in the desert just to stay alive, Christmas had become nothing more than an industry designed to make you feel like you didn’t have enough—presents, money, food, friends, family, love. All of it.
It pissed him off.
Of course, if Santa ever stuffed his fat ass down Ronan’s chimney again, Ronan wouldn’t think twice about making a few requests. The first? Give him a soft, warm place to bury his dick—preferably a woman who knew how to be handled. A feisty redhead, just a pinch of nice inside a naughty-as-hell package.
Perfection.
He’d take his time with a woman like that, running his tongue along every curve of her flesh, savoring the taste. Or maybe he’d tease her first, making her beg for release as he fisted her hair and slammed into her from behind, his balls smacking against that round, ripe ass as she arched her back and screamed his name…
Ronan closed his eyes, teeth grazing his lower lip. Fuck, yeah. Just like that…
It was a familiar fantasy—redheads were his absolute kryptonite—and Ronan’s cock was already standing at attention. He unbuttoned his jeans and shoved a hand inside, gripping himself hard, wondering if he should drag his imaginary girlfriend into the shower to take care of business. But after a minute of serving up the usual play-by-play, his imagination stalled out. The redhead faded from his mind, and when Ronan opened his eyes, reality came crashing into his lap.
Nothing had changed, and nothing ever would. He was a fucking cartoon nightmare, a used-up soldier sitting around with his dick in one hand and a bottle in the other, hiding out from the world that had chewed his ass up and spit him out hard.
He was utterly alone. Alone in his head. Alone in his pain. Alone in his beautiful but secluded cabin on the eastern outskirts of Rocky Mountain National Park, eight thousand feet above sea level and a million miles away from anything that had ever mattered.
And that’s how he’d die.
Fuck it.
Not bothering to zip up his pants, Ronan got up from the couch and dragged his ass into the kitchen, rooting around for a highball glass and a bottle he’d been saving for twelve years.
It had no label, and the glass was so dark and dusty it looked like an antique. Ronan pried off the homemade wax seal with his pocket knife and yanked out the cork, letting the stuff take its first breath of American air.
He’d received it as a Christmas gift during his first mission in El Salvador from a wiry, coked-out arms dealer named Kiko, and for some shit-ass reason that escaped him now, he’d promised himself he wouldn’t open it until—and unless—he survived. The mission, the month, the year, the mission after that, the orders, the threats, the bribes, every fucking day until all that shit was behind him and he finally had a place to call home.
Ronan had carried that bottle for more than a decade, smuggling it from one armpit of the world to another, in and out of every kind of hellhole imaginable until it finally ended up here, the end of the line.
He was six months retired now, thirty-four fucking years old, had more dirty money than he’d be able to spend in a dozen lifeti
mes, and most days he still wasn’t sure he’d survived. Hell, most days he still wasn’t sure he even wanted to.
But tonight, for right now, he was still breathing.
Had to count for something.
He poured himself a double, and raised the glass in front of him, eyeing the amber liquid in the light. Looked like good shit, despite its age and questionable origins. “Feliz Navidad, Kiko.”
The whiskey burned all the way down, lighting a fire in his belly that quickly spread to his limbs. He poured another shot, grabbed the glass and the bottle, and resumed his well-worn place on the couch.
The snow was piling up like a bitch outside, banking against the first-floor windows and wrapping his evergreens in thick, white blankets. Had to be about twenty below out there, and the howl of the wind was so lonely it made Ronan’s chest ache. But fuck that; he was warm inside, the timber-framed log home blocking out all the cold, fire roaring in the stone fireplace beside him, fridge and pantry stocked from a recent supply run to Loveland, no one around for miles.
What did he have to bitch about, really?
Considering that the pinnacle of last year’s yuletide festivities had involved storming a tulip warehouse in Holland and gunning down a bunch of ecstasy dealers at the behest of the CIA, this year’s Christmas Eve was already a stellar improvement, and the night was still young.
It was Ronan’s first Christmas alone, and that’s just how he liked it now. No dick-measuring, black ops mercenaries. No backdoor deals. No gunfire. No creeping through the shadows in seventy-five pounds of tactical gear, trying to decipher who was the good guy, who was the monster, what the fuck side he was supposed to be on. Just Ronan and his girl, Bella, the only living soul he still gave a fuck about.
“Bella! Come here, girl.”
The eighty-pound, black-and-tan German Shepherd tumbled down the stairs, tail wagging, tongue flapping as she leapt up next to him on the couch and shoved her snout straight into his armpit.
Ronan set his whiskey on the end table and scratched behind her ears, nuzzling her face. “What kind of trouble are you getting into up there?”
She growled, then sighed, dropping her head onto his thigh.
Code word: guilty as fuck.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Ronan said. “Stay out of my closet.”
She’d already chewed through his favorite hiking boots, half dozen pair of socks, and an unopened box of condoms, the latter resulting in a trip to the vet and a procedure the dog would likely never forget.
But no matter how much trouble she caused, Ronan still loved the bitch. He’d found her soon after he bought this place last summer, tortured and emaciated, left for dead in the woods out back. She’d been that close to becoming dinner for a mountain lion, but Ronan heard the commotion and chased the beast off. He carried the dog back inside, nursed her back to health, got her checked out in town. She had no tags, no license, no chip, which was probably a good thing. If Ronan ever found the motherfuckers who’d done that to her, he’d make damn sure the neighborhood mountain lion had plenty to eat then.
People were real assholes. Best to stay the fuck away from them.
If only Ronan could get away from himself.
Until he figured out that little fucking secret to a happy life, he’d do the next best thing: drink himself into a stupor and pass out.
He clicked the television back on and scrolled through the satellite channels. A few more sips of that whiskey, and even the Hallmark channel was starting to look good. They were showing another bullshit it’s-a-God-damn-Christmas-miracle, ain’t-our-family-grand kind of movies, but the chick playing the mom was hot as hell.
“Hello, MILF,” he said, turning up the volume and kicking back on the sofa. He let out a huge belch, and Bella jerked up her head and barked at him, taking off upstairs again.
Eh, no accounting for taste.
Ronan didn’t know what the fuck was in Kiko’s magic booze, but by his third pour, his entire body was buzzing and relaxed, his head swimming pleasantly as the movie droned on before his eyes. The mom was getting hotter by the minute—possibly an effect of the booze, but by then, Ronan was all outta fucks to give.
Feeling primed up again, he slid his hand down the front of his pants and palmed his cock. This time, the bastard jumped to life in an instant, hot, stiff, and ready to rock.
That’s fucking more like it, asshole.
Ronan muted the TV, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back, calling up another image of his fantasy girl. This time, he had her flat on her back for some sixty-nine action, his tongue spearing her pussy as he fucked her hot, wet mouth.
His cock was smooth as silk and hard as ice, and as he stroked himself, he imagined her lush, pink lips sliding up and down his shaft. She wanted it bad, her legs trembling as he claimed that pussy with his mouth. And this girl… fuck, she was naughty. She couldn’t get enough of him, bucking against his face, her thighs wet and glistening as she begged him to fuck her harder and harder…
His balls tightened, the pressure building at the base of his cock. He was getting close, and he didn’t give a fuck what kind of mess he was in for. He needed this release, was fucking desperate for it. Yes. He rocked his hips, bearing down hard as he stroked his shaft, picturing those glossy pink lips sucking his aching cock, taking him in deeper… deeper... deeper…
Fuck, yeah. Right there. Right fucking—
CRASH!
Something clattered to the floor in the bedroom, and the damn dog shot back down the stairs like a bat out of hell, yanking Ronan right out of his fantasy at the worst fucking time.
Strikeout.
“God damn it, Bella.” He whipped his head around to see what the big deal was. She was in the kitchen, yelping and barking, her tail wagging as she pawed the glass.
Someone had to be out there.
Jesus fuck.
Ronan stood from the couch, then grabbed his hoodie and shoved his arms through.
He joined Bella in the kitchen, peering out the front windows, but he couldn’t see shit through the blowing snow. He clicked on the closed-circuit TV mounted under the cabinets and checked out the security cameras. The screen was a frosty white blur, but one image came through crystal clear.
A car.
Jammed into a snowbank at the end of his driveway.
Sideways.
2
’Twas the night before Christmas, and no matter how hard Georgie Taylor tried, things were not going according to plan.
She kicked open her car door, shoving it hard against the snowbank she’d just plowed into. The rental car was dead, and she was pretty sure she’d hit something—a fairly large boulder type-of-something—on the downward slide that had landed her here.
There was no way she’d make it to Christmas dinner now.
Still. It could’ve been worse.
She was still alive. Stranded with no vehicle and no cell service in the middle of a Colorado blizzard, but alive.
Go me, beating the odds once again!
Georgie reached behind her scarf and fished out the locket she wore around her neck, giving it a grateful kiss. It was a familiar gesture; she’d flatlined and come back enough times that they’d written her up in medical journals, and doctors were still making vague predictions about her expiration date, just as they’d been doing every year since her birth.
But just like she’d been doing for those last twenty-five years, Georgie kept right on proving them wrong.
Then again, the night was young, and she wasn’t out of the woods yet. Literally. Snow-covered pine trees and deep, dark forests, far as the eye could see.
Georgie shook her head, clearing her thoughts before they turned morbid. “Get your little elf ass out of the car and assess the situation.”
There was just enough room to wedge herself through the opening without ruining her elf costume, and when she was finally free of the two-ton death trap, she nearly cried with relief. As it turned out, she wasn’t in a ditch
at the bottom of a forested ravine as she’d feared, but in a driveway. At the very top was a cozy-looking, two-story log cabin nestled in the trees, smoke rising from the chimney, the whole place lit up inside.
A postcard-perfect shot, and it looked like someone was home. Score on all fronts. All she had to do was make her way up there, knock on the door, and turn on the charm. With a bit of Christmas luck and the magic of the elves, maybe they’d offer her a nice mug of hot cocoa and some fresh-baked cookies while she waited for a tow truck, and she’d be delivered to her parents’ vacation rental in time to surprise them before her dad gobbled up the last of the sweet potatoes.
Leaving everything else behind, Georgie hauled herself over the hood, then dropped down onto the driveway, knee-high with soft, powdery snow. She wasn’t wearing much—the plan was to arrive dressed as Santa’s little helper, all part of the big surprise—and the bitter wind tore into her flesh. The cold air made her lungs burn, and she was pretty sure her feet were turning blue as she fought to stomp a path up the unplowed driveway.
No wonder everyone around here has snowshoes.
When she finally reached the front porch, she could barely breathe. At least the porch was partially enclosed, blocking out the wind.
Georgie raised her fist, but before she could pound on the door, it swung inward, revealing… a mirage. It had to be a mirage. Georgie wasn’t sure if mirages were limited to the desert, but there was no other explanation for the vision standing before her.
The guy was in his early thirties, with wavy black hair that stuck up everywhere, and a strong, defined jaw covered with the perfect amount of I-don’t-give-a-damn scruff. He’d opened the door in bare feet, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung jeans all undone, a thin hoodie, and a scowl that sent shivers down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold. Just like his pants, the hoodie was unzipped, revealing a serious set of abs, the faint edges of tattoos peeking out along both sides.
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