by Maria Luis
Then, his mouth crashes down on mine, and I am so gone. He tastes like sex, there’s no better way to describe it. Or maybe it’s that he tastes like seduction. His lips tease at mine like he’s sipping champagne, plying them open with flicks of his tongue.
Who am I to tell him no?
I give in, surrendering, with my back pressed flush against the mirrored wall and one ankle tucked around his calf muscle, needy for more. I’m not even embarrassed about the way I moan his name and rub shamelessly against him.
It’s been a while, okay?
“Jesus Christ, Charlie,” he groans against my mouth, one large hand cupping my face to better the angle of the kiss. The kiss turns even hotter, if that’s possible. It’s a tangle of lips and teeth, of captured sighs and hotter than hell moans.
“What?” I gasp. My hands go to his butt, which is firm and lovely, and I really want my legs wrapped around his waist.
“You.”
It’s the second time someone has pointed me out like that tonight, but Duke’s harsh whisper speaks to something very different than how Jenny said my name earlier this evening. Jenny doesn’t want to get me into bed.
Duke’s voice, on the other hand, is raw. Hoarse. Like he wants something so badly but doesn’t know whether it’s good for him. Like he wants to tumble me onto a bed, to hell with the consequences.
“Ask me a question,” I urge him, mainly to distract him from having any second thoughts and leaving me desperate and wanting. “Whatever you want.”
His blue eyes sear me when they flick to my face. “Are you wearing any panties?”
A burst of shocked laughter escapes me. “That’s what you want to know?”
“Right now, yes.” His hand caresses my hip, and I watch as his fingers tangle in the fabric. The seconds tick by, slow and measured, as he hikes the silk farther up my legs. “Will you tell me?”
“No.”
He pauses. “No, you won’t tell me, or no, you aren’t wearing any underwear?”
Just then, the elevator door pings open, and I flash Duke a saucy smile. “Wouldn’t you love to know?”
“I would,” he tells me solemnly, “I definitely would.”
I’ve never been an exhibitionist. Hell, I’ve only had sex in a bed—missionary style. But Duke and I have been going back and forth for days now, trading barbs, trading flirtatious comments, and so it’s not much of a surprise that as soon as we exit the elevator, we’re kissing again.
Right now, I don’t feel like an Ice Queen. I don’t feel “rigid.” If anything, I feel molten under his touch, as though I am seconds away from coming undone. It’s almost . . . freeing, like that moment when you get home after a long day at work and unclasp your bra. You can’t help but sigh with relief, even as you want to stretch your body to release the pops of tension tightening your limbs.
That’s how I feel right now. My hands are in his hair, scraping back the layers away from his rugged features. His hands are cupping my butt, fingers tightening just so when I nip at his bottom lip and draw out a curse from him.
At once, I want to sigh in contentment and also to link my limbs around his body and beg him to make me come.
The thought of having an orgasm restarts my brain. We’re making out on a rooftop, though the bonus is that we are hidden away in an alcove-like protrusion of a wall. The city’s glittering lights fade behind the breadth of his shoulders. The hem of my dress slides up the length of my thighs, as Duke efficiently draws it up, up, up.
More importantly: Duke Harrison is about to have sex with me on a rooftop.
Words leave me on a marathon-worthy pant: “I have a question.”
“Okay. Go.”
“Actually, it’s not really that much of a question.” My dress is hiked up around my waist, almost exposing my lady parts to the world—or, you know, to Duke Harrison. This is just as nerve-wracking, actually. Forcing myself to ignore the distraction of Duke between my legs, I say, “I want to have sex with you.”
Cool air kisses my belly, and I realize Duke has the fabric of my dress bunched in his fists. “That’s good.”
“That’s good? That’s all you have to say?”
Much to my surprise, he shifts his grip and presses me against his . . . Well, hello there. “Are you happy to see me?” I ask, lifting my hips to cradle his.
His only answer is to capture my lips with his, stealing whatever thoughts I have left from my brain. My article for The Tribune is the very last thing on my mind. Us having sex on a rooftop in Boston’s financial district steals to the forefront of everything else.
A masculine hand lands between my legs. With a groan, he rasps, “No underwear?”
“None. You could see the panty line under the dress.”
“Thank God.”
After that, there isn’t much conversation. I don’t notice the chill in the air, especially not when Duke flicks his thumb against my clit. I don’t notice the awkward way I’m positioned against a brick wall, save for the fact that Duke has lifted my leg around his hip so that he can slide a finger inside me.
I hiss with pleasure, driving my forehead into his chest, dragging my nails down his still-clothed arms. I want more. I want to see his tattoo for myself. Hell, I want everything.
My hand falls to his pants, over his hard-on. It’s long and thick, and though I’ve never really had a good sexual experience, I can’t wait for this one with Duke.
Duke, who is still one of the hottest goalies in the NHL.
Duke, whose smile is shy but whose humor is dryly delivered and complete with sexual innuendos. At least, with me that’s the case.
My fingers find the zipper of his pants. “Underwear?” I ask, torturing him when I pull down on the tab but stop halfway to the end zone.
“None,” he chokes out, “you could see the boxer line under my pants.”
Laughter escapes us both, dissipating only when he curls his finger just so, hitting that spot, and my hand lands on his cock, tugging at the rounded head.
“Jesus, Charlie,” he rasps, sliding another finger within me, hitting that spot again and again and again. “Jesus.”
“Do you want more?” I say, daring to press a kiss to the thick column of his throat.
“Fuck, yes.”
His fingers leave me, and he quickly scans the rooftop. No one is here. We might as well be the only ones at the hotel. “Are you sure about this?” he questions, his gaze landing on my face. “We don’t have to—”
“I’m one-hundred percent positive.”
Oh, am I. Charlie Denton, Ice Queen No Longer. More than that, I’m craving his touch, his kiss. The cold is already seeping back into my limbs, reminding me that it’s wintertime in Boston and that I’m wearing a silk dress.
Doesn’t matter.
I’ll stock up on Nyquil tomorrow, if needed. I’ll buy orange juice and drink it by the gallon. I’ll—
My thoughts scatter as Duke settles his tuxedo jacket around my shoulders. The scent of pine hits me like an aphrodisiac, and I want to curl into the coat. I flick my gaze up to his face. “Is this you’re way of telling me we’re done for the night?”
I wait, biting my lip, for him to tell me to gather my stuff as he sends me packing.
That’s not what he does at all.
His hands go to the zipper I’ve already halfway undone, withdrawing his erection and drawing his fist up and down in one hard stroke. Oh Lord, I can’t find my breath. Duke Harrison with his hand on his cock is the hottest visual I’ve ever seen. I have no idea what I’ve done to deserve this, but I’m not about to start complaining.
“Condom?” I whisper, and he nods once, pulling his wallet out from his back pocket and removing a packet from the cash slot.
Magnum.
As if Duke Harrison could be anything else than magnificent.
“I plan to taste all of you later,” he tells me, rolling the latex down his impressive length. “I’ll start here”—his finger goes to my clit, which is tin
gling with need—“and then I’ll work my way up to here.” His fingertip brushes my nipple through the silk, and he laughs hoarsely. “No bra?”
“Didn’t want any bra lines showing.”
His forehead drops to mine. “You’re killing me, Charlie.”
“Same here.” I squirm against him, and he lifts me up, settling me on what’s got to be a brick level intended for plants. It’s winter. It’s freezing. There are no plants. Except for me, and I’m ready to bloom.
No, I’m not sorry about that wicked cheesy line.
“Stop making me wait,” I say, urging him on when I clamp my legs around his waist.
He abides by my demand, thrusting inside with one hard stroke that has me calling out his name. My hands dig into his shoulders. His forehead drops to the curve of my neck.
“Fuck, Charlie,” he mutters, his lips staggering kisses over my exposed collarbone. “You feel so good.”
So does he. I lose myself in the eroticism of the push and pull of his hips from my body. There are no words that adequately define how I feel—needed, desired. For the first time in my life, I feel wanted by a man.
I’ve never needed to feel wanted. Over the years, I’ve learned to love my independent streak, to enjoy the life of a woman on her own, though fate handed me those cards too early in my life.
But in this moment . . . I want it to last forever.
“Please,” I whisper, begging for something that I don’t yet know the name of, “please.”
Another kiss, this one to my forehead. “Whatever you want, sweetheart. You can have whatever you want.”
With three more sharply driven thrusts, he gives me more than I could have ever asked for.
He gives me an orgasm.
He gives me a second orgasm. (Who knew such a thing existed?)
He gives me the hope that maybe, just maybe, we can be more than just random sex on a hotel rooftop.
Maybe it can lead to love.
Chapter Thirteen
I spend all of two hours deliberating on my decision for The Tribune.
Two thousand words, to be more precise.
I know what Josh wants of me. I know what’ll happen when I don’t hand over the “goods,” so to speak. But after writing out an article that meets his specifications, I realize that I just can’t do it.
I can’t turn in something that, in turn, guarantees Duke’s fall from society’s pedestal.
Whether anything comes of me and Duke is just a bonus, but I can’t force myself to type two thousand words of pure tabloid fodder. I tried, I really did. Thing is, bullshit only gets you so far when you’re creating a captivating story.
By the time I typed the last paragraph, I was ready to vomit from self-disgust.
So, yeah, that’s not going to happen. If Josh decides to fire me for writing the article that I want to write, then I’ll tackle that obstacle when I reach that particular crossroads.
“You’re smiling like a woman obsessed,” Casey tells me from her desk. “Stop gloating.”
I scrub a hand over my mouth, but damn it, the smile won’t go away. “I’m not gloating.”
“You’re gloating.” She swings her chair around so that she can watch me. “Go ahead, tell me how good the sex was again.”
My grin feels like it could splinter my face in two, I’m smiling so hard. “It was great.”
“Your attention to detail is lackluster.”
I point my ballpoint pen at her. “Says the woman who refuses to write anything longer than one thousand words.”
“Not everything that’s longer is better,” Casey quips, pointing her pen at me like we’re in a battle. “Haven’t you heard the saying, ‘The size doesn’t matter as long as you know how to use it’?”
My mouth drops open. “One, I don’t think that’s exactly the correct phrasing. And, two, please tell me you didn’t just quote a penis metaphor.”
“Concise syntax is sexy. I’m telling you, Charlie, shorter is better.”
Lifting my hand, I shake my head, as laughter breaks loose from my chest. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this happy before. If I have, it’s been years, probably close to the time before Dad was diagnosed.
“You’re sick, Casey.”
“You keep saying so, but no one else agrees with you.”
“They’re just too polite to tell you so.”
Still laughing, I switch my focus from my coworker to my email server. Quickly I scan the last line of the new article I’ve written: “I don’t plan on leaving Boston until Boston kicks me out.”
It’s perfect. Brilliant.
Honestly, if I hadn’t written the piece myself I’d be praising the journalist who had. With a little prayer sent up to the journalism gods, I click SEND and release my new feature on Duke into the wild.
Or, rather, to the office downstairs, which has Josh’s name plastered on the door like the calling card of doom.
It’s Wednesday, two-forty p.m., which means I’m just ahead of my deadline. Which is great, because I have plans. Plans that involve Duke, me, and two pairs of hockey skates. He’s taking me ice-skating to, and I quote, “see what I’m made of.” All day, my excitement has been radiating like a physical force field that just won’t quit.
“Leaving already?” Casey asks, already knowing the answer.
I clock out on the computer, and with a dismissive sweep of my hand, flick my trashy article about Duke into the garbage bin. I’m better than that nonsense Josh was spewing about on Monday.
“I’m meeting Duke at the rink.”
“Sexy.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
But as I drive two towns over to the ice rink, so that I can meet Duke for a skating session, I have to agree with Casey. Everything about Duke is sexy, from his good looks to the way he moans my name when he’s deep inside me.
Call me a nerd, but what I like most is the way he looks at me. The way he teases a smile onto my face, even when I least expect it.
Okay, let’s face it: I’m besotted.
I fancy the guy.
This time around, I think the guy fancies me too.
And that’s unfamiliar territory, to be honest.
By the time I reach the rink, I’m a bundle of nerves. Although I met up with Duke yesterday for a quick lunch, this is the first time we’ll actually be hanging out at length after I, you know, spent most of the night at his house after the charity event.
What? So I like sex.
I like sex with Duke.
This is not a crime.
Though I wouldn’t be opposed to him whipping out a pair of pink, furry handcuffs. Just saying.
The parking lot is empty, save for a standard Ford F-150 parked near the entrance to the rink. And Duke, well, he’s leaning against it, with his ankles crossed and his hands shoved deep into the front pockets of his jeans. Aviator sunglasses rest on the bridge of his nose, lending him a bad boy appeal that I find intriguing.
At the sight of me climbing out of my Prius, his naturally sullen mouth breaks into a grin and he kicks away from his truck to saunter over to my car. “You made it,” he says by way of greeting when he steps into my personal bubble and fills my senses with his familiar scent of pine.
I try not to inhale too deeply like a total weirdo.
Going for a flippant response, I pat his hard chest and murmur, “Why would I turn down the chance to whip your butt on the ice?”
His hands wrap around my elbows, pulling me close to him. “Honey, the only one whose butt is getting whipped today will be your own.”
My chin lifts and I make a show of staring him down past the bridge of my nose. “You sound so sure of yourself, Mr. Harrison.”
“Hard fact, Miss Denton.” His hands skip up to the base of my neck, his thumbs rubbing in little circles that urge a moan from my lips. “Don’t make me start listing off stats.”
“We’ll be here all day.”
“Exactly.”
Our gazes meet and, as if
balancing on the same thread, we simultaneously lean in. Our lips touch in a soft caress, so much softer than the other night. But this kiss is no less potent. I wind my arms around his neck, hanging on, forcing him to drop his hands from my neck to my hips to hold me steady.
It’s the sort of kiss I used to dream about growing up. Lazy and easy, as though we are in no rush to head inside the rink and face off on the ice. But then Duke shifts ever so slightly and everything changes.
His tongue touches my bottom lip, seeking—no, demanding—entry, and I give it to him. Parting my lips on a sigh that he devours with a husky groan. Running my hands down the length of the corded muscles of his back. Tasting a hint of mint on his tongue.
The sound of a car door slamming to our right interrupts the moment, and Duke pulls back slowly. His mouth is swollen from our kiss, and something about that delights me like nothing else ever has.
After a moment, he clears his throat and rasps, “Obviously, you’re trying to wear me down.”
“For what?”
The grin he gives me is all sin. “You’re worried you’ll have to play dirty to win today. Still up to your games, I see, Charlie.”
“I’m all out of games,” I inform him with a flick of my ponytail. “Meet me on the ice and you’ll learn that first hand.”
He tips his head back and laughs, the deep, throaty laugh of a man who knows exactly what he wants. I’m not sure that the answer will be me a month from now, or even a week from now, but he catches my hand in his and leads me to the rink’s entrance.
For now, I’m content just with this.
The guy at the front desk immediately recognizes Duke, and his placid customer service facial expression morphs into hero-worship. It’s a little sickening, the way that Duke causes men and women to forget their own names. But, then again, he also makes me forget that I shouldn’t hop into bed with a man I’ve known for less than two weeks.
So, am I really any better than . . . I squint at the guy’s nametag. Sam. Let’s face it: Sam and I are two peas in a pond.
The only difference being that I know what it’s like to see Duke come undone in orgasm.
It’s a sight I want to see again, soon.