Full Contact

by ANDIE J. CHRISTOPHER

  Anders spent all day staring at the Cup. He’d even showered with it, but he still didn’t have an answer. The only thing that was constantly in his thoughts was Dahlia. That fact alone kept him from seeking her out during the day.

  And she hadn’t forgotten about him, either. She’d sent him food, beef stew, with a note that said, “Please enjoy this replenishing meal, on me. Your recuperation has surely proven to be exhausting.” The stew had been amazing, but nothing about him was tired, especially his desire to see her again.

  Finally, to stop himself from going to the bar and refusing to leave until she let him inside her again, he went to sit on the rocks overlooking the bay. The water crashing against the shore, the spray in his face was more clarifying than his time with the Cup. Did that mean that he should give up hockey?

  He’d always wanted to travel, but he’d mostly seen the inside of hotels and crappy hotel restaurants for away games. And, ever since the Deadspin story, he hadn’t ventured outside his room on road trips. But where would he go?

  His mind wandered to what it would be like if he retired and went to Paris with Dahlia. She’d work all the time, and he’d be idle? That idea didn’t appeal to him either. And, no matter how much hockey had taken away from him, it had given him a purpose for most of his life. Something at his core made him resistant to giving that up.

  The sun started to descend into the far side of the lake, and the sky revealed streaks of purple light that reminded him of Dahlia’s hair. The smell of the pine trees lining the boardwalk reminded him of the way she’d smelled at the Temperance. Ironic that he would always think anything but temperate thoughts about that place.

  Fuck, he was acting like a lovesick idiot.

  He stood up to go in, noting that his knee felt a lot better after having done nothing that day.

  When he saw a tired, rumpled-looking Dahlia walking toward him on the boardwalk with two beers, he felt even better.

  “What are you doing? Let me guess, staring into the abyss like a crusty sea captain?”

  Though she thought giving him a rasher of shit was foreplay—maybe because of it—he beckoned her closer.

  “I’m a lot less crusty after last night.” She looked him up and down when she got on the rock, and there was something so proprietary about her stare, that he got half-hard. He might not be her boyfriend—yet—but she looked at him like she owned him. Probably the same way he was looking at her.

  “Is that your way of saying that taking time out of the game hasn’t made me lose my edge?”

  “Sometimes a break is good. Let everything heal.” She gave him a bottle opener and one beer.

  She laughed. “I’d planned to retire permanently.”

  He handed her the open beer, and took the one she still held. “A great like you needs to have a comeback, even if you’re just doing a victory lap.”

  “Would that be what going back to hockey would be for you?” She took a sip.

  He looked away from her and back out into the deep and endless water. “No. I really haven’t met my potential yet. I don’t know if I ever will now.”

  He took a long drink that did nothing to quench the dry throat that thinking about the game had done nothing to quell.

  “Then, you have to go back.”

  He was about to deny it, tell her he was still thinking about it, when the truth of her words struck him. Because she was right. He hadn’t been able to decide because both choices would cut some possibilities off. If he went back and couldn’t play like he had before the injury, he’d know that he was never meant to be great. If he didn’t go back, put the work in, he would always wonder.

  “You’re right.” In his mind, knowing was better than not knowing, even if it meant he and Dahlia were nothing more than a vacation fling. The idea of saying goodbye to her made his throat close. “Have you ever been to New Orleans?”

  Eight

  Anders’s question made Dahlia’s beer turn to syrup in her throat. She’d wanted him to ask her to come to him in New Orleans. But now, she couldn’t say yes.

  Fucking Edwin Motz had shown up at the restaurant, and asked to give his compliments to the chef. She’d walked out, ready to tell him to stick his “compliments” up his ass, when he handed her a check for $150,000.

  Instead of ripping it up in front of him, she’d stared at it so long he’d walked away before she could toss the pieces in his face. So, she had a check in her pocket, one that would make Anders take his question back. Hell, if he knew she’d accepted that money, he’d have good reason to toss her in the lake.

  “Anders, I—” She should tell him now if she was going to tell him at all.

  “I’ll fly you down.” That offer made things worse. He still thought she was short on cash. If he only knew. “Not that I would be paying you or anything.” His sheepish smile made her want to kiss him. “I just—I want to see you.”

  “I want to see you again, too.” It seemed as though she was determined to fuck up anything good that came into her life despite the best intentions. Did she actually think that Anders would never find out she took the money? If she found a way to give it back to Edwin, Anders would still find out that the bounty had been paid. His teammates would give him shit about it. And the press—if they got word, they’d probably come to the resort or flood the social media accounts with filth and garbage from trolls.

  “I have to—”

  “I understand if you don’t want to come down there. My life is a circus.” He ran a hand over his hair, and then dropped that arm around her shoulders. It lit her up and weighted her down at the same time.

  “I want to come, but I have responsibilities here.” She wasn’t going to take the money, and she was going to say goodbye to him. One of the reasons she hadn’t given the check back immediately is because she was surprised at her angry reaction. She’d felt suddenly protective of Anders. He was a big man who could take care of his damn self, but she still wanted to make sure that his feelings didn’t get hurt.

  Before meeting him, before he touched her, if he were anyone else, she might have fucked him, taken the money, and run off to Paris. In his shoes, that’s exactly what she would have expected anyone else to do to her.

  But Anders was different. Being around him had opened her up to feeling empathy and compassion again. He made her feel all the things she’d stuffed down to survive high school. She didn’t feel like the mean, automaton-like professional chef she’d been in Minneapolis anymore. She’d started questioning her actions. Why had she run off with her tail between her legs when Dylan had fucked her over? Why hadn’t she stayed to fight for her business, her livelihood?

  Because it hadn’t meant that much to her in the first place. The restaurant was a venture between her and someone else. It wasn’t hers.

  Anders must have taken the stricken look on her face to mean that she wanted their relationship to be a summer fling. “Forget that I asked.”

  Dahlia still didn’t have words to describe how she felt about him, so she kissed him. And it wasn’t a goodbye kiss—it was filled with possibility, joy, and need.

  She grasped at his muscled shoulders, which bristled with tension for a moment. She wondered whether his offer to visit him was genuine or whether it was empty—just an indicator that Anders wasn’t the kind of man to pump and dump the girl he finally gave it up to.

  Before she could pull back and ruin the best last kiss she’d ever had, he wrapped his arms around her and took the kiss further.

  Out there on the rocky shore, where everything was isolated and romantic in the impending night, she gave him the kind of kiss she would have given him if they could have a relationship. She let herself indulge in him.

  She’d never had a man taste so good to her. His skin was damp with spray from the lake, not briny like the ocean, but clean.

  He shifted their bodies to she straddled him. She moaned into his mouth as she felt his erection against her lower belly, through her clothes. He broke the kiss,
and she sucked in air as he licked down the side of her neck, nibbling here and there. When he dragged her t-shirt over her shoulder and worried the skin stretched over her collarbone with the front of his teeth, she knew she needed to stop this.

  She couldn’t have sex with him now. It was bad enough that she had a folded-up check in her pocket that made her kind of a whore. If she let this go to its natural conclusion, then she wouldn’t be a very good one. What was that saying about them paying sex workers to leave?

  But Anders stopped things for her. “Are you not into this?”

  She opened her mouth, not sure what to say. Although she could end this right now by saying that she wasn’t into making out with the best looking, best smelling, best feeling man who’d ever looked her way, that would be one more bald-faced lie on top of the secret burning at the back of her throat and in her jeans pocket.

  “I am.” She looked around, thankful that they hadn’t attracted an audience. She wanted more of him so badly that it burned her from the inside out. “We should take this somewhere more private.”

  He framed her face with his hands in that possessive way she never thought she’d like. “I’m not ashamed.”

  She couldn’t look away from him, but that didn’t stop her from trying to hide some of the sheer tenderness that threatened to swell its way through her skin. “I don’t want my mom to see us.”

  His mouth curled into a smile. “Valid point.” He stood up, dusted the back of his jeans, and reached his hand out to her. “Come on.”

  As they walked back to his room, Dahlia was quiet at Anders’s side. It wasn’t an easy sort of silence. It was the kind of not-talking that said more than words usually did. And it made him anxious.

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  She stopped short and shook her head until strands of her hair stuck to her mouth. He turned and pulled a bit of hair behind her ear. A kind of proprietary energy welled up in him every time she was near. He had to have more of her.

  And talking to her up on the boulder brought him more clarity than months moping around alone, going through the motions of PT, and doubting himself.

  “Then why are you so quiet?” He missed her busting his balls, but she’d kissed him like she was dying—or like he was dying—and then wouldn’t talk to him. “I don’t want to mess things up for you here, but we don’t have enough time together.”

  “How much would be enough?” The vulnerability in her voice made him feel about ten feet tall.

  He didn’t dare give her the real answer, that he wasn’t sure that there would ever be enough of the two of them. He said, “I think we should experiment and see.” He grabbed her hand and touched his forehead to hers. “Come to me in New Orleans.”

  A fine tremble went through her. “Yes.”

  The silence during the remaining short walk to his room wasn’t filled with tension. It was ripe with the knowledge that he’d have her again, that he wouldn’t have to gorge himself on her for one last night. Still, he planned to use their last night together to convince her that giving him a chance was the right decision.

  He didn’t know if he had what it took to be a great boyfriend, but he would try. If she could stick with him during the season—especially this one—then maybe he could give her everything during the off-season. By this time next year, maybe they’d be in Paris together. He’d rent a place and find a spot to train while she cooked. He’d be in their little rented apartment waiting for her every night. He’d wake up with her curled next to him every morning, and he’d make her give him those breathy moans and sighs he’d never known he’d needed every morning.

  When the door snicked closed, he pressed her up against it, burrowing his hands under her t-shirt, near-desperate to get his hands against her skin.

  She hissed and arched her body into his. He set about laying her open with his kiss, gentling her fears with his touch. He knew that it was risky for her to trust again after the guys she’d opened up to had thrown all her gorgeous vulnerability back in her face. But he would give her no reason to lose faith in him, like he knew he was right to place his trust in her.

  She traced the muscles of his shoulders with her strong yet delicately shaped fingers, as if she needed to assure herself that he was strong enough to hold her. Her touch sent an electric charge through his skin that found its way straight to his cock. Having Dahlia had turned on a faucet of lust inside him that flooded everything in him.

  He turned her for the couch and rethought his decision. When they broke for air, he motioned towards the loft bedroom. “What I’m going to do to you, I’m not going to do in front of the Cup.”

  She laughed, sort of raspy, coughing thing that shouldn’t have turned him on more, but did.

  She ascended the stairs in front of him, and the sway of her hips made the pain in his knee go away entirely. With her back still to him, she pulled off her t-shirt. He couldn’t help but reach out and touch the muscles and ink she revealed. This wasn’t the last time, he was sure of it. But it might be the last time for a while, and he wanted to make sure he didn’t forget an inch of her body. He’d need something to think of when he took care of himself before she came to him.

  He pressed himself to her back and unbuttoned her jeans. Her hand fluttered over his for a second, and he spread his palm over her belly, feeling the heat of her and edging his pinky finger under her waistband. Almost unconsciously, he rubbed his cock against her supple ass until she let her head fall back onto his shoulder, eyes closed and lips parted.

  She was completely vulnerable to him this way, and he stared down the slopes and valleys of the front of her body, unsure as to whether he’d ever seen anything so beautiful. His family had always raved about the scenery up here, but that wasn’t the draw for him.

  He could give a shit if the lake drained itself and the trees disappeared—as long as he could look at Dahlia like this.

  Open and waiting for him. He pushed her jeans and panties down her hips and molded her hips with his palms until she squirmed against him. He grabbed the cord at the side of her neck with his teeth, hard enough to make another mark before he dipped his fingers into the center of her, feeling her more than ready for him.

  He turned her in his arms, and she swayed slightly on her feet. It filled him up with more lust to realize that he did this to her. She looked intoxicated, like she’d had a case of beer instead of just one. Anders never thought he’d be able to command this type of lust from anyone—not his money, fame, his looks—him.

  “Why are you smiling like that? Neither of us has come yet.” Dahlia’s words were lazy and soft.

  “Soon.” He dropped his hands. “Undress me.”

  Her throat moved as she gulped, and she lifted her still shaking hands to the hem of his shirt. He liked that he made her unsteady because that was how he felt inside when he was around her. Years of playing in high-pressure situations enabled him to push down the outer signs of nervousness, but it was always there, inside. Some players had lucky gloves or shirts or elaborate pre-game rituals. He’d had none of that. The only thing between him and a mental breakdown all these years had been his control. He’d erected an icy barrier to any possibility, and it had worked. Until now.

  She pulled his shirt over his head and undid his jeans. When she went to her knees gracefully to push his pants and boxers down, he wanted to drop his head back and yell. But he couldn’t stop looking at her. She coasted her fingers over the small scars from the surgical repair to his knee.

  Her attention there made him feel raw and scraped open, but he didn’t stop her. Fortunately for him, she didn’t linger. She stared at his cock with a hungry look in her eyes. He didn’t know if he’d ever get over the wonder that she wanted him enough that she’d get him off with no consideration for her own pleasure. This prickly girl, named after an exotic, untouchable flower, wanted him so much.

  She glanced up at his face, as if she was asking permission, and something took hold. He didn’t want her mout
h, he wanted the center of her. He nodded to the bed and she smiled.

  “Hop on.”

  “I thought you liked me on my knees?”

  “I do, but that’s not what I want right now.” She crawled up on the bed, giving him a show of her gorgeous backside. He reached out and palmed on her cheeks, making her start and gasp. “Turn around.”

  She immediately complied and draped herself across his bed like the feast that she was. He ran a hand down the center of her chest and kept going until his fingers found her pussy. He rubbed her clit for a long moment, until she stirred her hips and threw her arms over her face. The skin of her chest reddened, and he knew she was close to coming.

  “You should come now.” She shook her head from side-to-side, fighting the orgasm he wanted to give her. She was always fighting people wanting to give her things. He liked that she was self-sufficient and didn’t want to take any handouts, but he wanted to give her everything, and as many orgasms as she could imagine was just the start.

  Here, where it was the two of them, he’d teach her how to take. And then she’d give to him right back.

  Nine

  All of Dahlia’s reservations about spending one last night with Anders flew out the window the second he’d cupped her face in his hands, searching for and finding the very core of her. In that brief moment, seeing him question himself had made her believe that she wanted a future for them beyond tonight.

  If she explained about the check, he’d understand. Wouldn’t he? Sure, it would have been better had she stopped him on the path to his room and spilled the truth, but the moment between them stretched so perfectly that she couldn’t bear to ruin it.

  At least that’s what she told herself when she was laid across his bed, letting him touch her everywhere, fighting off the pleasure that came as naturally as a summer thunderstorm whenever his hands were on her.

  “Your skin is petal soft.” His voice was distant and filled with a kind of wonder that she’d never heard from a lover. “It makes sense you’re named after a flower.”