Wanna Puck? - A MFM Bad Boy Hockey Star Menage (Share Me Book 1)
Page 13
They set up the aisle in the garden between the glass-covered pool and the building, pooling our guests into a private canyon. Cherry blossoms floated in the air, framing the perfect picture before me—Dante, waiting for me, with Joel at his side as his best man. How quickly a decision to stop fighting had become a beautiful friendship.
I trembled as I marched up the aisle, past the endless eyes, toward my solid oasis. My dress was worthy of the building, as much princess as the hotel was castle, and I felt absolutely beautiful as I moved in it.
Butterflies rushed through my gut and I reached a hand up to touch my necklace, the pendant a tiny ice skate made from glittering crystals. Dante wore a tie pin shaped like an old-fashioned quill.
Our little acknowledgments of each other, these tiny reminders of what this day meant, were everything to me. Dante had understood and supported that; the fights that everyone told me were inevitable during wedding planning never happened. Even now, three steps away from him, I waited for the other shoe to drop, for the perfect bubble to burst, but I made it into his grasp without so much as a wardrobe malfunction.
The instant I held his hands and looked up into his eyes, that ball of impending panic melted away. There was nowhere in the world I would rather be in that moment than in his arms, forever. The music stopped and the wedding officiant began to address the ladies, gentlemen, and honored guests.
My heart fluttered as he spoke of love and its meaning, of life-long devotion, of friendship within a marriage. The longer he talked, the more I knew I had made the right decision. Maybe a person could be certain of forever after all.
Electricity bolted me in place when Dante kissed me, as if the magic of the ritual had created an unbreakable, unshakable bond. No eye in the audience was dry when we swept down the aisle as man and wife. Happiness flowed out of my eyes in dual streams as he took me in his arms in a little alcove, cupping my face in his hands and gazing deeply into my eyes.
“Are those happy tears, darlin’?” he asked.
“Of course they are,” I laughed, kissing his face all over. “I’m so happy. I don’t know if I can bear it.”
“I’ll bear it with you,” he said, beaming. “You’re my world, Livia.”
“As much as hockey?” I teased.
“It’s real close,” he laughed, but I couldn’t argue because his lips were already on mine.
His lips were like fire along my jaw and throat. Guests filed past us, unaware of our passionate interlude in the secluded little alcove. I heard the band tuning their instruments, and the DJ begin his final sound check. Scents of wonderful food filled my nostrils, and the gentle hubbub from the next room rose into party-level noise.
I sighed regretfully, recognizing my responsibility.
“We should get out there,” I told him with a pout. “It is our party, after all.”
“Hm…I’m sort of in the mood for a party for two,” he murmured against my collarbone.
“Come on, Dante,” I giggled. “We’ll show up, play our part, and then…” I trailed off, peeking up at him through my lashes as I bit my lip.
“I like the sound of that,” he growled, nipping my earlobe. “All right, you win, Mrs. Drake. Lead the way.”
We entered the reception hall with giddy, silly grins plastered all over our faces, and the explosion of applause barely penetrated my love-drunk haze. I hung on Dante’s elbow like a gentlewoman of old as we moved through the hall, greeting and thanking our guests.
“Are you ready?” the conductor asked as we passed the bandstand.
“What do you say, Liv? Ready to dance?”
“Always,” I said happily.
“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please! Introducing, for the first time ever, for their first dance as man and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Drake!”
More applause sounded as we glided to the floor. Eighteen solid months of weekend dates at the Revival had prepared me for this, and I confidently took my place in Dante’s arms as the waltz began. That princess feeling compounded as I twirled through the gilded room, my gossamer gown sweeping across the polished floor, my prince’s strong arms guiding me with the skill of a master.
The waltz melted into a foxtrot, the foxtrot into a tango, the tango into a mambo, the mambo into swing. Our first dance was a showcase of the skills we had developed together, a metaphor for our journey as a couple. We blew the audience away, and I laughed giddily. Whatever performance anxiety had clung to me earlier had melted away entirely.
I had the time of my life out on the dance floor. The reception schedule shifted slightly, seamlessly accommodating us, but after a while, the musicians bowed out for a much-needed break.
“Guess it’s time to eat.” Dante smiled, touching my face tenderly.
“I suppose so.” My sigh was intended to sound petulant, but it came out happy. Everything was coming out happy today.
We took our places and sat through the toasts. Some were hilarious, some were cheesy, and some brought tears to my eyes.
After the final toast, Dante stood up.
“Thank you all. My wife…”
He broke off and smiled down at me, pausing for a long moment after saying the word.
“That should sound strange, but somehow it doesn’t. My wife and I want to thank you all for coming, and for your fantastic toasts. Well, mostly fantastic.”
He paused for the obligatory chuckle, then continued.
“They say that every end is a new beginning. Likewise, every beginning indicates an end. Livia is my beginning. What I’m leaving behind…well, that’s hockey.”
A collective gasp went up from the crowd; then, they fell silent. Dante nodded somberly.
“A man needs to be aware when a chapter of his life has reached its natural end. I have had the best of times with the Harriers. You’ll always be family to me, but as of today, I am retired. I will be spending next hockey season curled up on the couch with the love of my life, watching you jerks make me proud.”
He turned to Joel, who was sitting on his left.
“Joel, you’ve got it. You do. You’re going to lead this team to greatness year after year and send a whole new generation of girls into palpitations every time your face shows up on a cereal box. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it.”
The crowd laughed, but the laugh sounded a bit teary, too. Dante swallowed and cleared his throat.
“Thank you all for the best twelve years of my life. Here’s to the next twelve being even better.”
Everyone toasted, and Dante drank deeply. His eyes were filled to the brim with unshed tears when he looked back at me. My heart swelled and I kissed him, tasting the bittersweet goodbye on his lips. He clung tightly to me as if he were trying not to drown, and I squeezed him back.
My husband breathed a shuddering sigh as he released me, his cheeks wet. I dried his tears with tender hands, and he touched his forehead to mine.
His mood lifted as we went through the rotes of tradition, both classy and trashy, from cake to garters. The party began in earnest once those things had been checked off. The crowd grew more inebriated, and louder with every passing moment. It made for a fun atmosphere, but I was tapped. I needed a moment to think, a moment in my own skin outside of the cumbersome dress.
“Let’s get out of here,” Dante murmured in my ear, as if reading my thoughts.
“Yes please,” I whispered back.
We slipped away through the darkened edges of the room and made for the elevator like escaped convicts. Dante offered me his arm when we reached our floor—the top floor.
Our honeymoon suite was roofed in blue-tinted glass, giving the illusion that we were sleeping among the stars. Every luxury was included, from a jetted tub to massaging chairs, but my favorite feature at that moment was the excessive open space and utter silence. I moved to take off my dress but couldn’t unfasten it.
“Allow me,” Dante said, his fingers working nimbly over the endless row of pearl buttons down my spine.
“Did you have fun?” he asked.
“I had the time of my life,” I told him, and I meant it. “It’s nice to have a little quiet and time to ourselves, though.”
“Care for some company?” he asked through the glass.
I smiled and peeked out the door to take in his newly nude frame.
“Why, Mr. Drake, I would love your company!”
“Happy to offer it, Mrs. Drake,” he said with mock formality.
He stepped into the shower and wrapped my giddy self in his powerful embrace, kissing me deeply. I washed him down with my delicious-smelling shower goodies, and he didn’t seem to mind a bit. Bubbles slid between our bodies as we kissed, filling our senses with fragrance, igniting a firestorm of tingles over our bodies.
“Have you ever slept with a married man before?” he asked teasingly as he slid his soapy palms down over my rear.
“Of course not! I’m shocked that you would suggest such a thing!” I laughed.
“Do you want to?” he asked with a devilish grin.
“Of course I do! I’m shocked you would think otherwise!”
He laughed, pressing his mouth to mine in a shut-up kiss which quickly softened into a kiss of need. Then, he lifted me up against the shower wall and I squealed into his mouth.
“It’s slippery in here! Shower sex is dangerous.”
He gave me a look.
“I’ve spent the last twenty years on the ice. You think I can’t handle a little soap?”
“You don’t have your soap skates on,” I said stubbornly, biting his lip.
He growled, thrusting into me, making me cry out in a half-laugh. He was right; he could hold his own against the soap.
I writhed against him, pulling him deep inside, gyrating over him. He soaped my breasts and slid his hand over them, playing with my nipples, sending heat coursing through my core to melt between my hips.
I wrapped myself around him, clinging to his slippery skin, sliding against him as he moved inside of me.
“My husband,” I murmured, kissing his mouth.
“My beautiful wife,” he murmured back.
I’m his wife, I realized in an electric shock of astonishment. I gazed into his kaleidoscope eyes, memorized his loving face, and ran my fingers through his tight, curly hair. How lucky I am.
His breath quickened with his rhythm, building the pressure between my hips. His eyes darkened with love, with lust, with every bit of connection flickering between us in that luxurious hotel shower.
Ecstasy rolled over me from my prickling scalp to my curling toes, and I pulsed savagely around him. I shuddered and screamed his name; he gasped and growled, filling me with hot, powerful throbs.
He set me down with tender care and we rinsed off in the endlessly hot shower. Neither of us spared a thought for the party still in full swing downstairs; with terrycloth robes wrapped haphazardly around our dewy bodies, we raced each other to the bed.
I spent the rest of the night entangled with my glorious, magnificent, downright legendary new husband. I couldn’t wait to see where life would take us next.
The End
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Theirs To Share
Layla Valentine & Ana Sparks
Time for a tease!
Next up is a sneak peek of our previous MFM romance, Theirs to Share, which is available in full now
Happy reading!
Copyright 2017 by Layla Valentine and Ana Sparks
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author. All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
“Come on, come on.”
Squeezing my fingers around my oversized satchel bag, I tap my heel against the floor of the elevator. The anxious tic does nothing to speed things up.
It’s my second week at my first, real adult job. My sixth day. And I’m ten minutes late.
I check the time on my wristwatch, noting the painful tick of the second hand. Finally, finally the door opens with a ding.
Throwing myself onto the sixth floor of the building, which houses the main offices of the Franciscan Tribune, I rush past the shiny front desk and down the hallway. Phones ring, keyboards click, and reporters, editors, and interns exhale headlines like oxygen. It’s the kind of atmosphere I thrive on. It’s what I’ve been spending my whole life looking forward to.
It’s why I can’t screw this up.
Reaching my tiny cubicle in the open-working space, I collapse into my swivel chair and deposit my purse on the carpet. If I’m lucky, no one saw me come in late. If I’m even luckier, no one cares.
Powering up my computer, I surreptitiously scan the room. No one so much as looks my way.
Thank God.
No sooner have I let out a relieved exhale, though, than I feel someone hovering nearby.
“Good morning, Noelle,” comes the clipped voice.
It’s Graham, my editor. He leans against the fragile cubicle wall, his striped tie falling over the divide. Every muscle in my body freezes.
“Good morning.” I force a smile. Did he see me come in late?
“You look nice today.”
The way he says it, it sounds like an insult.
I glance down at my cream-colored pencil skirt, polka-dot blouse, and red heels. There’s nothing inappropriate about my outfit… At least I don’t think so.
But maybe I’m wrong. Four years of college and a year waiting tables didn’t exactly prepare me to dress for success. And it’s street fashion blogs that I get my ideas from.
Maybe I’m too creative with my outfits. Maybe they’re too loud. Or my skirts are too tight.
Or is it my makeup? I shouldn’t have tried out that new smoky eye, dang it! This isn’t a club. This is an office. This is…
“The boss wants to see you,” Graham says coolly, looking over my head like he’s already bored with me.
“Huh?”
“Yeah.” His lips press together. “I know. The elusive Ethan Ford Jr. Who even knew he existed, right?”
My stomach drops.
“Do you know why he wants to see me?”
Also, how does he even know who I am? I’m an underling at the paper, a fledgling reporter whose biggest story so far is an article about the local nut festival—a succinct 400-word piece that ran on the last page of the paper, right next to the advertisement for a carpet cleaning service.
Graham shrugs. “Didn’t say. But he’s in the boardroom waiting for you.”
Before I can pump him for any more information, he’s gone, and I’m left staring at my computer screen.
My hands shake in my lap, and I press them together to get them to stop. Ethan Ford Jr… I’ve done my research on him. He’s a mega-billionaire, born into media royalty. His father, the Ethan Ford most of the world knows best, died several years ago. His son promptly took over most of the family’s assets, including one national paper and numerous smaller ones, the Franciscan Tribune being the most recent one Junior has added to his list.
Though the internet is mostly composed of stats on Ethan Ford’s business success, the hallways and cubicles of the Franciscan Tribune are filled with something else entirely.
Callous. Stifled. Pompous.
Those are the nice adjectives people use
to describe Ethan Ford. I’ve never met him myself, but hearing others talk about him hasn’t exactly given me any faith in his possessing a glowing personality.
Closing my eyes, I take in a long, cleansing breath, then stand. As much as I don’t want to go into that boardroom, delaying it will only make things worse.
Hugging a fresh notebook and my phone to my chest, I make the too-short trek to the boardroom. Its longest wall is floor-to-ceiling glass, and as I get closer I see the one person in it. His hands are clasped behind his back and he looks out the window, his back turned to me.
You can do this, Noelle. Just smile and nod. Smile and nod.
Steeling myself, I knock on the boardroom’s open door.
Mr. Ford unclasps his hands and turns around.
And my jaw nearly hits the floor.
The man standing on the other side of the long, polished table is nothing that I expected him to be. While some suits hang loosely on men, hiding their best assets, Mr. Ford’s does the opposite, his tailored outfit accentuating his broad shoulders and firm chest. His hair is dark, his eyes brown and large. A square jaw is covered with just the right amount of stubble—the amount that makes you wonder just what it would feel like to have that stubble scrapping along the inside of your thigh.
Heat fills my face, and I clear my throat. Words, words. I must know a few of them…
“Noelle Edwards?”
His brow furrows together. Uh-oh. Thirty seconds in the boardroom and I’ve already done something wrong.
I lift my chin, attempting to look confident. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m Ethan Ford.”
“Yes, sir,” I dumbly agree.
He unclasps his hands and gestures at the table.