Dominik

by Sawyer Bennett

  That translates into having some mind-blowing sex with a man who may be the most skilled and amazing lover I’ve ever had.

  Damn it.

  “Who’s that from?” Regan asks. By her lilting, teasing tone, she suspects exactly who the text is from.

  “No one,” I say as I snap my head up and defiantly meet her eyes.

  “Liar,” she murmurs with a knowing grin. “It’s from Dominik, isn’t it?”

  I roll my eyes. “Why would you even say something so stupid?”

  She smirks knowingly. “Because it’s the same expression you get on your face whenever I ask you about him. Like when he sent you those flowers.”

  “Whatever,” I mutter, shoving my phone in my back pocket. “Now, shall we go house hunting?”

  “Oh, come on…” Regan sighs, once again throwing her arms out. “How can you possibly not be interested in that man?”

  God, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?

  I can’t admit it, but I’m more than interested—especially in what he’s got going on in between the sheets—but I cannot go there again. He’s way too dangerous. Presents the type of temptation that would be hard to give up down the road, and I don’t ever want to be addicted to someone. That comes too dangerously close to letting my heart get involved.

  Regan continues to prattle. “He’s so good looking. And rich. And he’s so nice. Always helping his players, and…”

  Her voice dims as I recall with crystal clarity our first meeting at the Vengeance rookie party two months ago.

  He was indeed damn good looking and, of course, rich. An absolute force with a confidence that’s so sexy no man can really compare. But Regan says he’s nice, which I find laughable. He was not nice that night. He was bad. Quite dirty. Domineering and controlling and, God help me, I loved every bit of his nasty side.

  He’s absolutely everything I would seek in a man if I wanted a relationship. Confidence oozes from his pores, and he knows exactly what he wants. Hell, he knows exactly what I want… and he gave it to me in spades.

  That night in his hotel room, my body responded in a way that has never happened with another man. Or even by my own hand. He was simply the most amazing sexual experience of my life. It was special, no doubt.

  But I had resolved that was all it would be… a great one-timer. When we parted ways, I did not look back because I don’t do relationships. The pain they cause isn’t worth the joy.

  So, I’m resolved. I have no qualms about walking away from Dominik Carlson and his repeated requests to see me again.

  Except… I did see him again. I flush hot thinking about the meeting in Detroit when my family gathered to watch Dax play. Dominik had shown up at the game, then invited my whole family into the owner’s box where he watched me like a hawk.

  I’m not stupid, nor am I being full of myself when I say… he came to Detroit to see me. I know this because he told me.

  Right after he cornered me in a private alcove at the restaurant where we’d all congregated after the game. Backed me right into a corner near the coat check, put a forearm against the wall near my head, and then leaned in super close.

  “Why are you avoiding me, Willow?” he murmurs, voice all deep and velvety.

  I lick my lips. “Because I’m not interested. Can’t you take a hint?”

  “Little liar,” he growls with a feral smile. “Right now, your eyes are dilated, your chest is heaving and I bet you’re wet just thinking about all the dirty things I could do to you right now.”

  I try to swallow, but my throat is so dry.

  Noise behind us causes Dominik to swivel slightly, and he makes a rumbling sound of frustration deep in his chest. Then my hand is in his, and he’s pulling me right out the emergency door exit into the back alley behind the restaurant. He turns right, walks half a block down, and pushes me against a wall.

  His mouth is on me, his hands on my face so I can’t escape, and then he’s obliterating every bit of common sense I’ve tried to hold on to where this man is concerned simply with the magic of his tongue.

  I moan, put my hands on his hips, and pull him in closer. The rigid length of him is hard against my belly, and there is no acceptable outcome other than him to fuck me right here against this wall. All my resolve to ignore him—to pretend he was nothing more than a great hookup—are out the window.

  One hand drops from my face, moves to my thigh, and then starts inching up my skirt. My entire body becomes electrified. I lean into him, wanting more, yearning for every long, thick inch of him. A fingertip toys with the edge of my panties.

  “I’m not going to fuck you, Willow,” he murmurs against my mouth.

  I freeze, disappointment chilling my blood.

  He can feel, vibrating straight from my body into his, how much I don’t like his words.

  But then he gives me something, biting into my lower lip before he says, “I’m going to give you just enough so every time you feel a rush of blood through your body, you’ll remember my hand between your legs and my name on your lips.”

  And then the things he did with just his fingers in that back alley—twice—left me a trembling mass of hormonal female nerves that didn’t know if I ever had a drop of power over him, to begin with.

  He hadn’t needed to fuck me that night.

  The fact he pulled me out of that restaurant with only a wall separating us from my family, then banged two orgasms out of me with nothing but his fingers, was more than enough to shake me up.

  “Your face is red,” Regan idly says. “And you’re perspiring.”

  “Am not,” I mutter, turning away from her so she can’t see the truth in my eyes.

  Dominik Carlson controlled me without any effort at all, and fuck me to high heaven… I loved it.

  Damn it.

  Regan latches on to my arm. She pulls, forcing me to face her. There’s no teasing or whimsy in her expression.

  She’s dead serious. “Seriously, Willow… why won’t you go out with him? By all accounts, he’s a great guy and he’s proven that time and again.”

  It’s true. He’s repeatedly stepped in to help members of the team on a personal level. He’s more than proven he’s a genuine man.

  “He’s a serial dater,” I say in exasperation, desperate to give her something so she’ll leave me alone. He may have been chasing after me for the last few months, but I’ve seen plenty of articles and photos of him at celebrity events with a different woman on his arm every time.

  “So are you,” she points out.

  That would be true, so I don’t really begrudge him that.

  “I don’t want to be just another notch on his bedpost,” I reply smoothly, folding my arms over my chest.

  Regan rolls her eyes. “Again… you have no qualms with racking up your own notches, so try again.”

  Damn it. I knew we shouldn’t have had such open sex talks.

  Finally, I admit it to her. “He’s dangerous, Regan. As in, someone I could fall for and I just don’t want that.”

  “Why not?” she asks, head tilted to the side.

  “You know why,” I say pointedly.

  Regan studies me, giving a thoughtful nod. Just when I think she might try to dissect my disastrous past love life, she simply says, “Listen, Willow… you’re a smart woman. You know how to handle yourself. If you don’t want it to get serious, then set the boundaries up front so it doesn’t. If you don’t want penis participation, make it optional. Then go and enjoy yourself. Simple as that.”

  Could it really be? There’s no stopping my eyebrows from rising incrementally as I consider this.

  “You know you want to see him again,” she taunts in a singsong voice, grinning impishly. “So just go have fun. You’re going to be around for the playoffs, and he’ll make a nice diversion. It doesn’t have to get serious if you don’t want it to.”

  Regan should be a salesperson, because she’s sold it to me. She used all the right words.

  Set bo
undaries.

  Don’t let it get serious.

  Have fun.

  “I am a smart woman,” I muse, repeating her own words. “I can handle myself. I know how to set boundaries and stick to them.”

  “Damn straight you do,” she chirps, raising her arm and letting her fist hover in front of me.

  I give a hard nod back—affirmation I’ve got this—and knock my fist against hers in solidarity.

  Whipping my phone out, I send Dominik a text.

  Pick me up at 7.

  CHAPTER 3

  Dominik

  I’m different than other professional sports teams’ owners in a lot of ways, but probably the most noticeable is in my hands-on approach to their personal welfare. Some call it being a busybody, but I don’t care. I like my guys to be happy and fulfilled because that translates into players with their heads fully in the game.

  It’s simply good business, after all.

  So it’s not much of a surprise to the team when I walk into the Vengeance training facility to get in a workout. I’ve got an afternoon full of meetings with the front office, so this is more convenient for me, but I also like the opportunity to be among my guys.

  After I pick a treadmill, I launch into a steady run. I usually run several times a week, along with strength training, but there was no opportunity this morning given my early interview with ESPN and the shoot for Rolling Stone.

  Both of those events went extremely well, and I may have had a little more pep in my step than normal given the fact Willow finally had the grace to text me back and had actually accepted my dinner invitation.

  Her response was unexpected, yet perfectly Willow. A handful of words.

  Pick me up at 7.

  I didn’t respond. Didn’t ask her where I might pick her up because I want to show her that I know exactly where she’ll be. Of course, I know she’s staying with her brother during the playoffs because Tacker told me. His information about Willow has been free-flowing, and I’m forever grateful since her brother won’t give me anything. I guess Tacker is in a gracious mood since he found love with his beautiful therapist, Nora Wayne.

  At any rate, I’m looking forward to seeing Willow. I refuse, however, to have any expectations of what may happen. I prefer to go in with the attitude that anything can happen, with endless possibilities.

  I’ve learned a lot about Willow despite the limited time we’ve spent together and let’s face it, the time we have spent together has not been wasted on conversation.

  But in her refusal to give me the time of day—in denial of her own desires—I’ve gained quite the understanding of who she is.

  Willow Monahan is confident.

  Smart.

  Independent.

  Doesn’t follow the norms.

  Isn’t easily flattered.

  Knows her own value.

  Every bit of that is sexy as fuck and sadly, in my thirty-nine years of living, I’ve realized that not a single woman I’ve been with has attracted me with anything other than her looks.

  Sure, Willow is a stunning beauty with dark brown hair and exotically tilted, amber-colored eyes. She’s on the small side, barely coming to my shoulders, whereas I normally date women who are statuesque, but she in no way appears breakable. If anything, she seems indestructible, which is probably by virtue of the immense amount of self-confidence she exhibits.

  Bottom line… I’m beyond intrigued. I’m not going to waste any opportunity to learn more about her.

  As if the god of irony existed, the one man who would probably hate the direction of my thoughts at this moment walks into the gym.

  I grin evilly, glancing at the screen on the treadmill. I’m barely over a mile into what I was hoping would be a five-mile run, but some things are worth giving up.

  Tapping the button to turn the machine off, I let it decelerate enough before I hop off. Grabbing my towel and water bottle, I follow Dax through the maze of top-of-the-line workout equipment available.

  He makes his way over to a squat rack, nodding and fist-bumping teammates along the way. Some look at me in shock as I pass, not realizing their ultimate boss is in their presence.

  It’s when Erik sees me while swinging some kettlebells and says, “What’s up, Dominik?” that Dax jolts and turns around to find me just a few paces behind him.

  He frowns, shakes his head, turns to the squat rack, and starts to load weight on the barbell.

  I smile at Erik, giving a chin lift, and saunter up to Dax.

  “So how are you feeling?” I ask, halting beside him. “Got your playoff head on?”

  “Sure do,” he replies curtly.

  I think in ordinary circumstances, Dax would actually like me. And he seems like a genuinely decent guy. Oh, I’ve heard all about his story… marrying his best friend’s little sister after he tragically died.

  Very romantic.

  But I think it’s just too much that I’m interested in his sister, especially since that first night we were together, I didn’t bring her home until close to three AM and he was well aware it was me dropping her off. I saw him peek out the window as my limo pulled in, and I remember how mussed up Willow had been when she walked into that house several minutes later after we’d continued to make out on the front porch.

  “Got a hot date tonight,” I say casually. Dax’s spine stiffens, but he doesn’t spare me a glance. Merely adds another plate of weight onto the bar.

  “Any idea with who?” I prompt.

  His eyes finally come to mine. Although he tries for a pleasant tone, he fails miserably. “I’m going to guess it’s with my sister.”

  “Good guess,” I reply smoothly, maybe relishing this a little too much. So I sober just a bit, because my intent was only to tease a little, but mostly to reassure. “I just want you to know… I don’t have any nefarious intentions with regard to Willow.”

  Dax snorts and turns away, grabbing a twenty-five-pound plate to add on.

  “I like your sister—”

  He wheels around, leans in, and whispers harshly. “Don’t pretend otherwise. You want in her pants.”

  Okay, I can’t argue because I most definitely want there. But I want something more than that.

  “I like your sister,” I repeat, this time slowly and with articulation. “I will treat her with care and respect. What she and I do in our time together is nobody’s business but our own, but I promise you… she’ll have my utmost respect the entire time and that is in a large part because I respect you. I just need you to know that.”

  Dax is totally taken aback, as evidenced by the round eyes that are repetitively blinking at me right now with a low burn of suspicion within them.

  But I’ve said what I came to say. I only needed to make him that one promise, hoping it will suffice to cool him down. I’ve been a pain in his ass lately, hitting him up for information about his sister, and he has no reason to believe I’ll be good to her. He doesn’t know me.

  I turn to walk away, but not before I hear him make a promise of his own. “You hurt her, and I’ll hurt you. Don’t care if you’re my boss or not.”

  “Fair enough,” I reply without looking back. I would expect no less. It actually makes me respect him more.

  I head to the treadmill, intent on getting back at it. I see Tacker and Wylde are assisting each other on bench presses and just to the left of them, Bishop and Legend are on rowers, appearing to be in a competition to see who can go the farthest the fastest.

  Nice to see the entire first line in here and working so closely together, but these guys have had something almost magical bonding them together from the very first game last year. It’s just one of those perfect storms of talent and personalities that came together to make a championship team.

  I couldn’t be prouder, and we’ve only just started the playoff season.

  “Mr. Carlson,” I hear from behind me just as I reach my treadmill.

  I turn around to see Rafe Simmons, the center for our second line, hea
ding toward me. He’s dressed in workout gear and is covered in sweat, so I’m thinking he’s on his way out of the facility.

  “I hate to bother you,” he says as he approaches. “But do you have a moment to talk privately?”

  I glance between my treadmill and him. My time is dwindling since I wasted it goading Dax. “Think you can make an appointment?”

  “It’s actually pretty urgent,” he replies, his eyes cutting down to the floor before popping up to regard me apologetically.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say without hesitation. I can see on his face something is wrong, so I scan around the facility before I spy a private corner. “Let’s go over there.”

  We weave among the equipment. I notice Bishop’s eyes on us—narrowed slightly in a concerned way. Not surprising given he’s the team’s captain, and he makes it his business to know everything that’s going on with his teammates.

  Much the way I do.

  When we reach the corner, far from anyone who might inadvertently hear us, I stop and face Rafe. “What’s up?”

  Rafe looks incredibly tense, his face etched with some heavy thoughts. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, a nervous movement. He glances around the facility, his gaze lingering a moment on Bishop, and I realize that whatever Rafe is getting ready to tell me, Bishop already knows.

  His attention returning, Rafe takes in a deep breath and lets it out in a rush. “There’s no easy way to say this, but I want to talk to you about trading me.”

  There’s nothing that could have surprised me more and I’m not even sure I heard him right. But I immediately try to dispel that stupid-as-fuck request. “Listen, I know you’ve been moved back down to the second line with Tacker coming back, but—”

  Rafe shakes his head in frustration, almost barking out his reply. “No. It’s not about that.”

  I study him, spotting the grief deep within his expression. Taking a step closer, I lower my voice. “What’s wrong?”

  “My father just got diagnosed with late-stage pancreatic cancer. He doesn’t have much time left.”

  All the air comes rushing out of me as my gut churns with sorrow on his behalf. “Christ… I’m sorry, Rafe.”