Undone by You

by Kate Meader

  “And you’re reminding me of the team’s schedule why, exactly?”

  Cade took a breath. “I’d suggest meeting in your hotel room in New York, but it’s risky. When we get back, I want to spend that weekend with you.”

  Dante snorted his disbelief. “So now it’s an entire weekend?”

  Not a no. Not a screw you. Just a timing query.

  Cade smiled, waited a beat. “I’ve had time to think. You should have talked to me on the ride home but you didn’t. You kept this surly, sexy, stoic act up, and it’s only turned me on more.”

  He could tell Dante was torn on how to handle this. Faced with one of his players coming out and on to him, the man was likely weighing his managerial duty to protect against his human desire to give in. Cade just had to figure out what would tip the scales.

  “Cade,” Dante started, his voice gentle enough to signal how this was going to go. Gay mentor Dante? Get in the rink! “I understand that this is tough for you. Your private life has suddenly collided with your public life, and that’s a lot to process. However, navigating this confusion should not—will not—involve an inappropriate hookup with your boss.”

  Now probably wasn’t the time to tell Dante that the collision between private and public wasn’t so sudden. Better to pop a finger on the scales.

  “I have a list,” Cade said, as if that was the most logical response to your boss telling you a hookup was off the menu.

  “A list?”

  “Things I’ve fantasized about doing to you. With you.”

  “Jesus.” Dante—I kid you not—actually pulled on his tie. Like the car had become hotter than the hinges of hell in the last ten seconds and that stretch of silk was a noose. Fucking adorable.

  Cade might be an excellent defender, but even he knew the best defense was a wicked offense. The shot was lined up. He just had to take it. “Want to hear more about the list?”

  Nostrils flaring, Dante ground out, “There are ethical implications here. It might be a game to you, but this is my fucking job.”

  Dante’s New York accent was unmistakable in how he said job like jawb Getting a little agitated there, boss? He dipped his gaze down Dante’s body, his destination obvious.

  Dante’s cock was currently engaged in an ethical cage match against the zipper of his pants. Perfect.

  “Considering I’m the one propositioning you, then I think we can assume an even ethical playing field. We could both make a lot of trouble for each other if this were to get out.”

  “The threat of blackmail is making me hard, Burnett.”

  Oh man. Cade loved the way Dante talked. That clipped, lethal cut of every word.

  “What I’m trying to say is that we both have a lot to lose. It’s dangerous”—he leaned in—“taboo”—so close he could see Dante’s flared irises and the dark flush flagging his cheeks—“and sexy as hell.”

  Dante placed a hand on Cade’s chest, both pushing him away and holding him in place. It was the first time Dante had touched him, and Cade’s heart went hog wild.

  “Aren’t you concerned I might play favorites after?” Dante murmured. “Or worse, want to trade out evidence of my indiscretion?”

  “Would you?”

  “I guess it depends on how good of a fuck you are.”

  Cade laughed heartily at that, enjoying Dante’s honesty and quick wit and—oh yes. The sardonic tilt to his lips that told him Dante was enjoying this just as much.

  Scales. Tipped.

  “Good night, Cade,” the hot Italian murmured, pushing him away gently.

  Reluctantly drawing back, Cade gripped the door handle. “Think about it, Dante. No-holds-barred, pure, unadulterated pleasure. Best of all, no one will ever know.”

  And then he exited that car, leaving the man wanting.

  FOUR

  The usual noisy revelry after a high-profile win greeted Dante as he stood outside the visitors’ locker room at the Spartans’ arena in New York.

  Just go in, man.

  Visiting the locker room was part of his job and had never been a problem before. Buff, naked athletes weren’t typical of most workplaces, but they were in his. He had a penis of his own, so seeing someone else’s didn’t set him off—except now he knew what Cade Burnett wanted.

  No-holds-barred, pure unadulterated pleasure.

  If Burnett suspected he’d left Dante a shaking, horny wreck after exiting his car two nights ago, then he was right. Dante hadn’t even made it home. After driving two minutes to get away from Cade’s neighborhood, he’d parked on a secluded cul-de-sac in the sterile suburbs and taken care of business. A few rough strokes, Cade’s name on his lips, and he was making a mess of the Bentley’s dash.

  Detailing it was a bitch.

  Embarrassing, but no one needed to know, and it would go no further. Dante had no intention of taking Burnett up on his offer. Too many lines had already been crossed.

  “All right there, Dante?”

  He turned to find a grinning Violet Vasquez, the youngest of Clifford Chase’s daughters. He liked Violet. She had a free-spirited insolence that made him smile, and for a while there, he had assumed she was in a casual relationship with Burnett. It would appear that, like Cade, Violet was not as she seemed.

  “Just a long couple of days,” he replied.

  “Yeah, I heard about Petrov and Shay getting into it.”

  Vadim Petrov, their big Russian left-winger, had been involved in a hotel bar brawl the night before with Leon Shay just as Petrov was about to be put back on the roster after an injury. Dante had been ready to suspend both of them but was persuaded by Isobel Chase—another team owner and Petrov’s coaching consultant—to let him play.

  It had paid off. Petrov scored twice tonight, ending a three-match losing streak for the team.

  Violet nudged Dante. “So it’s been a rough couple of days. Nothing like a little naked hockey butt to cheer you right up.” She bent her elbow in invitation for him to link arms with her.

  He laughed. “That’s not very professional, Ms. Vasquez.”

  “No, it’s not, but I’m an owner, and I’m all about the perks.” She pushed open the door. “I’m here for inspection, boys!”

  Christ, that had to be illegal.

  Using Violet’s entrance to cover his own, he slipped in behind her and was immediately confronted with Texas’s own Naked Cowboy wearing an itty-bitty towel and a shit-eating grin. Violet swatted Cade’s ass, earning a big laugh that faded when he noticed Dante. “Mr. Moretti.”

  “Burnett. Good game out there.” Stick to his face. Stick to his face.

  Problem with that plan was that Cade’s face was a work of art. Those hazel eyes, full, soft lips—or Dante assumed as much, because they were all he’d been thinking about for the past two days.

  “Thanks. I had a good night.” Turning his back on Dante, he grabbed boxer briefs from his gym bag and threw the towel down on the bench. That ass. Dante really should look away, but apparently witnessing the crime of Cade covering up those perfect buns was more important.

  Cade looked over his shoulder, a cheeky grin teasing his lips. “Get a good look, boss?”

  “Shut up.”

  Dante skirted Cade, the scent of the Texan’s soap and spice flooding his nostrils and going straight to Dante’s balls. Anxious to get his hormones under control, he spent the next few minutes doing his damn job—congratulating his team on an important win.

  One hour later they were on the chartered plane, heading back to Chicago.

  Dante laid his head against the headrest. What a batshit couple of days, starting with running into Cade at the club. He needed to get a grip.

  He needed to get laid.

  Admittedly, he’d been laying low since the start of the year as soon as it became clear the GM job in Chicago was his for the taking. Wanting to ensure no sexual indiscretion would stand in his way, he’d kept his dick in his pants throughout the interview process and in the first month of the job. Luckily this pe
riod had coincided with postsplit doldrums. Since his breakup with Jeff—or rather, the slow, pathetic death of their relationship—his libido had been stuck on a low simmer.

  Not anymore. Not since he’d locked gazes with a cocky, closeted Texan D-man across the crowded room of an exclusive gay club. Now that was a sentence that made no sense.

  It was time to get back to his routine. Work his ass off. Fuck his balls off. Achieve some measure of work-life balance, especially as the first year of his contract had taken on a new significance. A couple of weeks into his tenure, the Chase sisters had dropped a bombshell—not only had their father’s will required they run the team jointly, but one other curious stipulation was included: they had to make the play-offs or the team would be sold off.

  Of course, none of them thought to inform him of this during his interview process. If the Rebels didn’t make the play-offs, any new owner would be within his rights to fire Dante. Sure, they’d have to pay out his contract, but they wouldn’t have to keep him on. And while he’d been annoyed that the Chases chose not to tell him, he wasn’t sure it would have made a difference in his decision to take the job.

  He had things to prove to his father, his former crew, anyone and everyone in the NHL who said his sexual orientation was incompatible with leadership. He was finally a general manager for a professional hockey team. Granted, the team needed work, and before this season the Rebels had been playing like they were in a squirt league. But things were looking up. Were they rebounding quickly enough for a play-off spot? Only time would tell.

  Despite tonight’s win, he felt restless. On edge. A drink might help settle him.

  He headed to the galley and, because the Fates wanted to fuck with him, ran into the one person he was trying to avoid.

  Or maybe the one guy he needed to see.

  Cade looked up from his phone. Muffled cheers and sports commentary was the galley’s soundtrack. “Howdy, Moretti.”

  Dante grabbed a bottle of Dewar’s, the only whiskey on hand. He should talk to someone about improving the scotch choices on the chartered flights. “Watching replays of your best moments from tonight’s game?”

  “Nah. March Madness.”

  “UNC beat Butler?”

  “Sure did. Gonna take a miracle to bring ’em down.”

  “And that miracle’s name is Duke.”

  “No way. This kid they’ve got in Carolina?” He held up his phone. “He scored twenty-six points. Four three-pointers. He’s a beast.”

  Dante moved in. Hoops were safe. Chatting with a player about hoops was safe. He took the phone from Cade, their fingers brushing.

  Not safe.

  But damn, not safe felt not bad. It felt exciting.

  He replayed one of UNC’s drives to the basket. A few seconds in, a wisp of warmth heated his cheek and Dante knew he should withdraw, but he couldn’t. His body was weak, craved the proximity. Cade’s scent—spice, sex, the forbidden—was metal to his magnet.

  “See how he feints there?” Cade asked, his head almost touching Dante’s. “Awesome court smarts.”

  “Kind of like a defenseman I know.”

  Choosing not to meet Cade’s eyes, Dante sensed rather than saw Cade’s smile. “Glad I can make you happy, boss.”

  “Play every game like you did tonight, and I’ll be ecstatic.” Dante inhaled, his lungs full of Cade, his heart beating to a jerky rhythm. He didn’t usually act like this around guys who attracted him. He didn’t usually lose all reason.

  Walk away. Walk away now.

  But he stayed. Waited. And was rewarded with a few raspy words from Cade Burnett’s devil lips.

  “Been thinkin’ on my list.”

  Dante feigned ignorance. “Your list?”

  “Yep. You know the list I mean, Dante. Want to hear number one?”

  No. But he didn’t say it aloud, and not saying it was tantamount to an invitation.

  Keeping unseeing eyes on the phone screen, again Dante sensed the curve of Cade’s lips. A smile of victory.

  The Texan spoke low, husky, spilling his forbidden fantasies. “You’re wearin’ a fancy suit, just like the one you have on now, and I’m naked, because for some reason the idea of you fully dressed, all wrapped up in that armor of yours while I’m balls out with my mouth closed over your dick, really gets me stoked.”

  Dante closed his eyes, a carousel of X-rated images playing behind his eyelids, while his cock punched hard enough against his zipper to surely leave an imprint. He knew all the reasons this was a bad idea, so why the hell wasn’t he cutting this off at the knees? Why wasn’t he heading back to his seat with his drink?

  Instead, he stayed still and imagined falling into Cade, surrendering to temptation. He imagined parting his lips. Moaning in want. Curling a hand around Cade’s neck where his skin would be so soft and untouched.

  Cade would instigate the kiss, maybe grab Dante’s tie for leverage just like he’d done at the club, but Dante would be the one to lean in closer so their chests touched and mouths slanted to claim more, more, more. Somewhere along the way, Cade would move his hands over Dante’s shoulders and his pecs, setting his nipples on fire and turning his cock into a steel spike.

  And then that cock would feel the heel of a hand—Cade’s hand—pressed against it, the pressure too much and not enough and everything Dante had ever wanted. So perfect he thought he would die.

  He drew back, searching for sanity, but upon looking up, all he found was Cade Burnett’s gaze filled with thermonuclear heat.

  “How close are you to Violet Vasquez?”

  He’d not intended to blurt it out like that, or even ask it at all.

  Cade looked taken aback. “We’re not—you don’t think—”

  “No, I know that. I’m asking how close the two of you are.” He stared at Cade, willing him to understand. He was already taking a huge risk even contemplating this; he wouldn’t stand for gossip.

  “She knows who I am, but this . . .” Cade motioned between them and shook his head.

  There was still time to back down. File all the indiscretions and innuendo in the bottom drawer of fantasies to be pulled out for special occasions. But he had a problem. In Dante’s playing days, he was known as a hard-ass on the ice, a brute enforcer who took every challenge thrown his way, such as beating up on the assholes who Dante assumed would pound him to a pulp if they knew he was gay.

  That fucker never backed down.

  And then there was the way Cade said it: she knows who I am. Like the who of Cade was this precious secret and only a chosen few were gifted the privilege of knowing it. Of knowing the real Cade. It cracked open something inside Dante’s chest.

  Cade needed this. Cade needed him.

  And maybe Dante needed something, too. “Do you know where I live?”

  Those hazel eyes widened. “I do.”

  “Tomorrow night. Come for dinner. We can talk.”

  “Talk?”

  Yes, that’s what I’m telling myself. Please play along. “You know this . . .” He gestured between them, mimicking Cade’s motion from before. “Can’t happen. But I’ve been where you are and I can listen.”

  Cade looked a little thrown, which would be the first time since this shitshow had started. Good. Dante would have to think of other ways to keep him off his game.

  “Don’t worry, Burnett. I won’t try to force you into a relationship, but I do like to cook.”

  The Texan smiled. “And I do like to eat. And talk, in case you haven’t figured that out.”

  Talking. That’s all they’d be doing. Repeating it to himself all the way back to his seat didn’t eliminate totally the little eddies of excitement swirling through Dante’s body. But it was a start.

  FIVE

  Cade examined the label on the bottle of wine in his hand: a pig’s ass with a squiggly little tail. Who sells wine with a pig’s ass on the label? Who the fuck buys it?

  Idiots, that’s who.

  So he knew dick about wine, but
he thought it would be an appropriate offering when you visited someone’s house for dinner. And sex. Bone-melting sex.

  Except that wasn’t on the menu, according to Signor Moretti. They were going to talk. Though Cade had no clue how he’d be able to hear a word out of Dante, not when he was imagining all the better uses for that sexy Italian mouth.

  The door to Dante’s townhouse opened, and with it came a blast of earsplitting opera. The man of the evening stood there wearing a sky-blue shirt, open at the collar to reveal a tuft of chest hair, and an apron with Chefs Do It Better on it. A spatula in one hand completed the Hot Cook look.

  “Cade.” Just his name, one syllable infused with the promise of pleasure.

  No pleasure. Just talking. Of course, talking with Dante was the ultimate in foreplay, wasn’t it?

  “It’s got a pig’s ass on it.” Cade thrust the wine into his host’s hands.

  Real smooth. Up there with “I carried a watermelon.”

  Why was Cade so nervous? He’d been the one with the full-court press, crafting a seduction worthy of Don Juan, and now he was acting like a pissin’-in-his-pants schoolkid.

  Dante took the wine and studied the label. “A pig’s ass? So it does.” He held back the door, inviting Cade in. “Hang your jacket on the hook.”

  Glad to have something to do, Cade took his leather jacket off while Dante put the bottle and the spatula down on a foyer table. They stood there staring at each other for a few seconds.

  “You seem nervous, Cade.”

  And you don’t. Maybe being on his own turf had swung the pendulum of power back to Dante’s side.

  “I’m fine,” he lied.

  Dante dipped his gaze down, then up again, and Cade immediately felt self-conscious about his casual look: a gray Henley and faded jeans. Should he have worn a nice shirt? Dressed up so he matched the décor? The music? The man?

  Dante’s teeth snagged his lower lip, and Cade bit back a groan. “Anything I can do to help?”

  Cade’s throat had dried up, and for the first time in his life his chatty-as-all-get-out, ten-gallon mouth failed him. This was the worst idea in the history of fucking ideas. What were they going to talk about apart from Cade’s closeted situation? The guy was playing opera, for Christ’s sake.