by A. J. Norris
“You’re so bossy,” I chided.
“Baby, you haven’t seen anything yet.”
I swallowed a deep moan as his thumbs slid across the crease where my ass met my thighs and dipped inward. He watched me watching him and played my body, proving exactly why he was in control.
“Spence, please…”
“Please, what?”
“I can’t take anymore.” I couldn’t. This night…the constant back and forth teasing and the evasive cat-and-mouse game had come to a climactic apex I couldn’t dominate.
With a slight turn and a dip, he not-so-gently threw me face down onto the bed. I didn't care…there was nothing gentle about being with Spencer. Both of us were hungry and slow had no place in our vocabularies.
Following me onto the bed, his chest curved into my back, as he twisted my chin to face him. “Say that I win you, Charity.” His face held a sense of smoldering need, almost blinding me.
Raging desire rushed through my veins and almost boiled over. The wild look blanketing his eyes, and the way his lips curled up with every word he whispered, beat the natural argumentative side of me into submission. Jesus, there was no one else on earth capable of eliciting such want from me. To have something inside me besides deceit and a lifetime of pretending for once, I gladly admitted defeat.
Clasping his cheek with my free hand, I broke. “You win me.”
The last word barely left my tongue when he plunged forward and drove into me. Fighting to catch my breath, I cried out, my head spinning with every deliberate thrust. I’d been with plenty of men in my life. I was no choir girl. But the way Spencer possessed me made me feel almost virginal. From the expression on his own twisted features, he felt the same.
As he set the tempo, I dug my nails deeper into his forearm, marking him as mine. I didn’t care if I drew blood. Hell, I’d carve my name in his skin if I could. The rush of the chase, the thrill of the score, and the pinnacle of the conquest converged together and melted into every drive of his body.
“Fuck, Charity,” he groaned, dragging his lips across the back of my neck. His breathing quickened as he increased speed. Sensing I was close, he grabbed a fistful of my hair, all but stopping the frenzied pace he’d created.
Turning my head as best I could with his hand gripping my hair, I stared back at him in question. “Something wrong?”
He never changed his expression as he maintained our locked gazes. “Who are you?” When I didn’t answer fast enough, lost in the brilliance of the gold and brown swirls of his eyes, he slightly moved his hips again and demanded more forcefully, “Who. Are. You?”
“Charity St. James,” I moaned as my body climbed to a staggering crest.
“Who. Are. You?” he repeated for a third time.
Then it hit me what he wanted. With a slow, seductive smile, I dropped my forehead against the smooth pillow and sighed. “Your wife, Mr. St. James.”
The minute his name passed my lips, he thrust one last time, embedding himself so deep, it felt as if I’d absorbed his whole body. “Only mine.”
Tremors took a hold of us, and he came with a throaty expletive into my neck and a shout of my name. Struggling to catch a breath, lightning bolts charged through my body as I dug my fingernails into the sheets. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw a half-smile form on his lips.
Dusting light kisses across my back, Spencer gathered me in his arms and rolled to the side, tucking me into his side. After a few moments of silence, he found his voice. “Tonight was fun, but tomorrow’s another day, Mrs. St. James. Try not to lose so easily next time.”
I let out a very unladylike snort as I untangled our legs and loomed over him. “What makes you think I lost?”
He blinked once, his eyes betraying his confusion. “You said it, Charity. You said I won not ten minutes ago.”
I knew a mischievous smile coated my face when I felt him stir to life beside me. For eight years, Spencer’s body had responded to a challenge and an insult ten times faster than emotions and declarations of love. It was half of why we worked as a couple.
“No, I said you won me. You did. Because I wanted you to. But you didn’t win the bet.”
His lips tightened in a thin line. “How do you figure? Two AmEx Blacks trump everything tucked in that boot of yours, wife.”
I tilted my head back and gave a hearty laugh. “Spence, do you think those cops showed up because Paulie-boy was sweating over a few hundred-dollar bills?” I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. “Please…”
Clasping my chin in a firm hold, he steadied a gaze on me. “What the hell did you do?”
Never taking my eyes off him, I reached under the pillow for my ace in the hole. For eight years, Spencer and I played this game. It started out as a competition for dominance in our new relationship and quickly grew to nightly foreplay. Sometimes he won the bigger score for the night, sometimes I did, but the end result was always the same…shared rewards between the sheets as the sadistic team we’d always been.
Only tonight, I’d raised the stakes.
Holding up the silver ring, I dangled the keys to Paul’s brand new Mercedes-Benz in Spencer’s face and watched the sweat trickle down his temple. “I win.”
The layer of shock soon melted into pride as laughter rumbled deep within his chest. Sliding his hand up the inside of my arm, he closed his hand around mine, locking the keys between our two palms. “You realize this is grand theft auto, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you could go away for a very long time, right?”
“Yes.”
“Have you driven it yet?”
“Just to move it, but I was waiting for you to joyride.”
Biting back a smile, he nipped my ear. “New York or California?”
Tapping my index finger to my bottom lip, I paused in mock thought. Lifting an eyebrow at him, I reached toward the nightstand and pulled a quarter from the wad of cash I’d placed there earlier. “Heads or tails?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he replied with a wicked glint in his eye. “I plan to get both.”
“You’re insatiable, Mr. St. James.”
“Not as much as you, Mrs. St. James.”
Holding the coin on my thumb and forefinger, I grinned and flipped it in the air. Neither of us breathed until it landed on the soft mattress, proudly displaying the next chapter in our lives.
Spencer’s eyes lit up as he grabbed me around the waist, pulling my legs out from under me until I lay flat on my back. “Think they’re ready for us?”
Taking in the rumpled sheets littered with diamonds, emeralds, credit cards, and twenty- and hundred-dollar bills, I let an assured grin speak for both of us. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”
About the Author
Cora Kenborn writes romance novels full of danger, snarky banter, lovable bad boys, and damsels NOT in distress. She loves delving into the twisted mind of a dark villain while shocking readers with unpredictable plot twists.
Cora is a true Southern girl from Eastern North Carolina, who grew up on sweet tea and front porches. She says “y’all,” “fixin’ to,” and should you deserve it will “bless your heart.” She’s the mother of three hyperactive and occasionally adorable children and the wife to an understanding husband who tolerates her chaotic writer’s cave.
Although reading is her passion, she can usually be found taking notes during true crime shows, effectively freaking out everyone in the room. A domestic rebel, Cora admits to being a horrible cook, swears she's allergic to laundry, and believes she's more dangerous with a hot glue gun than any weapon on earth. Oh, and she and autocorrect are mortal enemies.
Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/corakenborn
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https://www.corakenborn.com/
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https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15178303.Cora_Kenborn
Brass Hearts
> By Savannah Blevins
Chapter One
Cressida’s Return
“This is what happens when you have sex with a man-giant.” Cressida Wales stretched, attempting to wrap her arms all the way around her friend Magnolia’s protruding belly. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Cressida hadn’t seen Magnolia since she announced her pregnancy. Twins. She couldn’t believe her friend was married and actually having two babies. At the same time. Out of one vagina.
Magnolia playfully swatted at her. “I hate you. I hate you and your new little blonde bob, and your Daisy Dukes with your skinny thighs. How did you manage to get prettier since I saw you?”
Cressida smirked at Magnolia’s fake pout. “Don’t hate me. Hate that mammoth of a husband of yours. What kind of super sperm does he have? Do all hockey guys make babies this big or just Austin?”
Magnolia rolled her eyes, but her smile was completely genuine. “I’m so happy you’re home. I’ve really missed you.”
After interning with Magnolia at the Madison Square Garden network, Cressida received a job opportunity in Vancouver. Now, over a year later, she’d gained some valuable experience and came back to Manhattan to work as Vice President of MSG Productions. The president, of course, was her mother.
Cressida took Magnolia’s hand across the table and held it. “I’m happy to be home. Stressed with the move, but happy.”
Magnolia’s long black hair fell over her shoulder. “You still haven’t found a place?”
Cressida sank across the table top in dramatic fashion. “I occupy half a room at my mother’s apartment.”
A smile played on Magnolia’s lips. “Half a room?”
“Well, Gigi and Scooter can’t lose their playroom. I mean how displaced would her overweight, devil-worshiping cats be if they had to move their smelly, human-size castle out of the guest room?”
“Geez. I completely forgot about your mother’s cats. Is she still weirdly obsessed with them?”
“I had tea with Gigi this morning. She wore a hat.”
Magnolia covered her mouth to keep from laughing. Cressida grabbed both of her hands. “Maggie, I need to find an apartment. I would beg you to let me crash at your place, you know, if you weren’t a walking birth control ad.”
Magnolia rolled her eyes. “Well, Callen and Penny are moving out of the guys’ famous bachelor pad this week. I don’t think it’s been rented yet.”
Cressida jerked back. “Wait. When did Callen get a girl?”
Magnolia perked up like a doting mother. “He’s married.”
“Shut your mouth.” Cressida’s lips turned down at the edges as she crossed her arms over her chest. “I had high plans of breaking that strong and silent streak in him.”
It was no secret that out of their group of friends, Cressida was the go-get-him type. She didn’t wait around to get what she wanted. She saw. She conquered. She bought herself another tequila.
“Stay focused—are you interested in the bachelor pad? I mean, it’s kind of lucky. Every bachelor who has stayed there has gotten married within a year.”
“Ugh. The last thing I need is some sport coat with wingtip Gucci shoes trying to put a ring on my finger.”
“I know you have a thing against the Wall Street type, but I could introduce you to some single guys on the team.”
Cressida made a repulsed face. Sure, she always joked about loving hockey guys. During her intern days she showed up early to watch them stretch and she might have had a slight crush on Callen Copley. However, she really wasn’t looking to date. Or get married. Or anything else that pertained to such events. It wasn’t part of her plan. “No thanks. I’m going to be working at the station, and even though dating one of the players ended so well for you,” Cressida said, showcasing Magnolia’s baby bump in mocking fashion, “I’m good on my own right now.”
Magnolia pursed her lips. “Okay, I won’t push you.”
“But I am interested in the bachelor pad. I bet the rent is pricey, though. I would probably need a roommate.” The cogs in her head started to turn. She absolutely had to get out of her mother’s house. “That means I would have to put out an ad, and do interviews.”
Magnolia grinned wickedly. “You could always ask Gigi to move in.”
Cressida cringed at the mention of the hateful Persian devil that gave her the stink-eye for simply pouring herself a glass of milk every morning. If finding a roommate saved her from Scooter’s tuna fish birthday brunch next week, she would pay someone to live with her. “Tell Callen I’ll take it.”
Magnolia dug her phone out of her purse to call Callen. In a matter of minutes, Cressida officially had a new place and she was absolutely ready for it. The queen of Manhattan was ready to take the throne.
But first, she had to find a roommate. Preferably before Her Majesty went bankrupt.
Chapter Two
Hawke’s Mask
The strap on Hawke’s bag burned into his shoulder, but it was a familiar pain. In fact, pain in general was familiar. His goalie bag was no exception. He glanced around the Rangers’ locker room at the practice facility. It was his first time there if you didn’t count the ten-minute tour he received upon his arrival in Manhattan two days ago. He walked around the room, searching for his locker. He found it and sure enough, the staff made the same mistake as all the others. His name plate had his real name on it. He ripped the newly placed tag off and threw it on the floor.
Bastards would learn soon enough.
His bag fell off his shoulder and he unloaded his equipment. His body was still sore from the workout he had done that morning at the gym. His knuckles were swollen from the aggressive hits he took out on the punching bag. Then, of course, there were the memories. The same memories that always came flashing back every time he connected a punch to anything. Like the scars that tattooed his body, those images would never go away.
He wondered how long he would be in New York. Every team loved his skills on the ice. Hawke had the best save percentage in the league last year, but the management types didn’t seem to approve of his off-ice activities or his attitude.
Fuck them.
He was a grown man, not a fucking show pony. No one pulled his strings.
They traded him. It wasn’t the first time. Wouldn’t be the last. He pulled out the last piece of equipment. It was his scuffed-up black practice mask. He’d have to get a new custom game mask with the Rangers’ theme on it if they didn’t change their minds about him.
He snorted at the thought.
They would change their minds. He’d been on three teams in the last three years. They said New York had a way of dealing with “behavior” issues in players, like he was some fucking high schooler sneaking a beer on the back of the bus. New York wouldn’t be any different. No one would believe him if he said he was simply trying to survive.
Hawke sat down in his locker and put on his mask. The cage fit around his head like a glove. It narrowed his vision and focused his thoughts. Every city looked the same behind that mask. That mask made people forget the asshole behind it. All they saw was his quick reflexes, his uncanny ability to track a puck and stop it without an ounce of any genuine effort. Life would be easier if he could keep his mask on all the time. Maybe The Circle wouldn’t find him. Just maybe, he wouldn’t have to kill to keep his secret.
The door to the locker room creaked open and Hawke jerked his mask off and stood up. It was his new coach. He gave him a slight nod of acknowledgement before turning around to separate his pads.
“We have a press conference in an hour.”
Hawke pulled off his shirt and quickly pulled on his practice gear. He didn’t want him to see the scars that littered his body. Eventually, they would see them, and naturally, they would want to ask questions. Hawke didn’t talk about it. Not to the press. Not with his teammates. He didn’t want their pity or their fear. “No. You have a press conference in an hour. I’ll be on the ice.”
“You
know you have to be there.”
Hawke glanced over his shoulder. “I say I don’t.”
Coach scratched his head in the same way someone might bite their tongue to keep from spouting out obscenities. Hawke recognized the gesture. People did that a lot around him. Someone else stepped into view. Coach apparently brought backup.
Like that will fucking help.
A blonde guy stepped forward. Hawke recognized him, but couldn’t remember his name. He stuck his hands in his pockets, showcasing the long sleeve of tattoos on his arm. “C’mon, man. Don’t be a dick.”
Hawke almost wanted to smile. He’d never been called a dick on the first day. “I don’t do press. I don’t do team building. I don’t do curfews or any of that shit. If you want, I’ll make you a nice little list to save you some time.”
“I get it,” the blonde guy said. “Press…it sucks ass. Following team rules when you’re a grown man…it gets old. I’ve been there. I broke every rule this team had. They made new rules because of me. But we all eventually have the hard realization that we signed up for this. It’s part of the job.”
Hawke gritted his teeth and placed his jersey over his pads. He pointed at his coach. “You won the Stanley Cup last year, right? Good for you. But, your goalie retired. If you want to win it again…leave me the fuck alone.” Hawke eyed the guy, who now he recalled was Henrik Rylander, the league-leading scorer. “That includes you too, Captain.”
Hawke placed his mask over his face and grabbed his stick. He wouldn’t be at that press conference. It would be safer for everyone if his face wasn’t plastered all over the news every night. The Circle would eventually find him…they always did. But he wasn’t going to shine a spotlight on himself. It would only make the vengeance they craved sweeter.