by Raine Miller
The Crush are on a three-day break after a grueling road trip that crossed three states and included six games. As I head home from the office, I pick up some takeout for dinner. It turns out that neither of us are very good cooks, so we are eternally grateful for the food culture in Vegas.
When I get home, I call for Viktor but he doesn’t answer. He said he was going to work out and then do a few projects around the house, so I assumed he’d be home.
I slip off my shoes and head upstairs, eager to change into yoga pants and a T-shirt. When I head into our bedroom, I can’t help the smile that breaks through at the sight that greets me.
It’s pretty amazing.
Viktor lies naked on top of our bed. There are rose petals strewn all over, candles lit, and soft music playing.
“What’s all this, my love?”
“I am sick.” He gives a fake cough to make his point.
“Sick?” I can’t help grinning. “Too much sex?”
“No,” he says quickly. “I have Scarlett Fever.”
I crack up at this. “Oh, well, that is terrible. How can I help?”
“You can marry me.”
Everything stops. My hands freeze over the buttons as I was unbuttoning my blouse. My head tilts to one side. Viktor turns onto his side, his amazingly chiseled body on full display. I did not notice the tiny ring box on the nightstand but I see it there now. I see the champagne chilling in a wine bucket. I see the two flutes awaiting the sweet, bubbly, cheerful drink.
I think he’s proposing to me.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on one knee, or something?” The words tumble out of my mouth without conscious thought.
He gets off the bed and quickly drops to one knee, the ring box now in his hand. He pops it open and the most amazing, emerald-cut diamond solitaire twinkles at me in the candlelight.
“As you wish,” he says, a line he is quoting from The Princess Bride. It’s one of my favorite movies and I’ve now made him watch it about, oh, probably fifty times over the past year. “Scarlett, you make me a better man. You are perfect to me, always so perfect. I want nothing more than to call you my wife. Ty moya rodstvennaya dusha. You are my soul mate. My life partner. My forever. And even if I never carry another cup around the ice, even if I never wear another medal on the Olympic podium, I will always win. Because I will have you. Will you marry me?”
I’m crying as I fall to my knees in front of him. I have no pants on and my shirt is half unbuttoned. My breath probably smells like the hummus I had for lunch. He’s totally naked. But yeah, it’s kind of perfect.
“Yes.”
He slips the ring onto my left hand and we admire it for a moment.
“It’s beautiful and I love it,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
“I will give you the moon, Scarlett, if you want it. I am forever yours.”
“The things you say,” I answer, sucking in a big breath.
“You like it.”
“I do,” I admit.
My shirt is gone in an instant. Then my bra and panties. He helps me to my feet and we pop open the champagne, toasting to our future.
Sweet liquid on his lips, he leans in for a lingering, smoldering kiss that makes my toes curl. It doesn’t matter how many times we’ve made love, how many ways, in how many places. He always makes me feel like this—like the earth has stopped turning, like we’re the only two people in the universe.
“How did I get so lucky?” I ask when the need for air breaks our kiss.
“I am the lucky one,” he says. “I am a much better man because of you, Red Rocket.”
“I still hate that nickname.”
“Noted,” he says with a chuckle. “I will make it up to you.”
“How many times?” I ask coyly.
“As many as it takes.”
Epilogue
May
We are on a short trip in Sochi on a bye week before the playoffs. Wedding plans are underway and Viktor wants to ask my father for my hand in marriage. I told him it seems backward, since we’ve been engaged for weeks and, frankly, I don’t feel like my dad needs to weigh in on my personal life at this point.
He insists, though, so we’ve made the trek overseas. Sochi, it turns out, is gorgeous in the springtime, the mountains still capped with snow, a contrast to the vast green hills below. I take a ton of pictures as we travel.
I’ve been feeling a little under the weather since we left Vegas, so I actually bow out of our first dinner on the ground that evening. Viktor will meet my father and ask for my hand, so I think it’s probably good for them to get some time alone together.
Pam FaceTimes me as I wander the streets, trying to shake off the nausea, which I’m attributing to jet lag.
“What’s up, girlie?” she asks.
“Just got in. Viktor’s off to meet my dad. I’m not feeling super awesome, so I’m taking a walk, trying to get some air.”
“Hmmm, do you think it was something you ate?”
“Not sure,” I say with a shrug.
“Period?” she guesses again.
I ponder this. “Now that I think about it, I am late with my period,” I share with Pam, but quickly shake it off. “Things have been really hectic at work…I mean, you know. Playoffs coming and all.”
“You pregnant, friend?” she asks.
“I don’t—” Finishing my sentence goes out the window as I face the fact that Viktor and I are just not very careful most of the time. “It’s possible,” I admit in a small voice.
“Okay then…well, I think you best go find the Russian version of CVS.”
After Pam’s suggestion I promptly burst into tears. Pregnant? Could I be pregnant with Viktor’s child?
Yes, you know it’s totally possible.
So many emotions fly through me all in an instant that I kind of freak right on out in the middle of a public street in Sochi. Thank God for Pam. Not only did she talk me down from the proverbial ledge, but she told me it was all going to be okay. She reminded me how much Viktor loved me and how much I love him, and told me that she knew he would be happy about a baby if it was true. And she did all of it via FaceTime while I made my way to the first pharmacy I could find. She even stayed on the line and helped me select a few different kinds tests from the shelves, and wouldn’t let me hang up until I assured her I was okay. She’s good, that Pam. After many virtual hugs and kisses, plus my solemn promise to get back to her with the results, we finally say goodbye.
I book it back to our hotel room with my three newly purchased pregnancy tests as fast as my legs can take me.
And twenty minutes later, sure enough, there are double lines on all of them.
I am pregnant.
When I hear Viktor’s key fumble in the lock a few hours later, I don’t know what to do with myself. He’s humming, a little drunk, as he sort of tumbles into the room.
His eyes light up when he sees me. Kicking the door closed, he beelines for me, pulling me in for a sloppy kiss.
“I take it my dad said yes.” I laugh.
“Yes, and then some. We drank much vodka to celebrate.”
“I can tell.”
“You want a drink?” he asks cheerfully. “We can celebrate also. Are you feeling much better after resting?”
“I do not want a drink.”
He pulls back to scrutinize me. My tone was weird and he caught it, even in his adorable inebriated state.
“Why?” He asks the question slowly.
“I won’t be drinking for, oh, maybe nine months or more,” I answer, the implication heavy in my voice.
“Nine months?” He looks confused.
“Yep. Nine months.”
He stares at me and I see the moment he gets it. His eyes go wide.
“You are—we are?”
“We’re having a baby, my love.”
I have never seen a man as big as Viktor Demoskev faint. His body just gives out and he goes down to the floor. Thankfully, there is no furniture nearb
y, so the fall is fairly graceful, under the circumstances. He made a remarkably soft landing, which was a good thing since I had zero chance of keeping him upright. The laws of gravity and all.
A moment later, he sits up from where I’m kneeling next to him and I can’t help but giggle at the spectacle. It’s probably nervous laughter on my part, really, but still…
“Are you okay?”
“From the fall or the news?” he asks, rubbing the back of his head.
“Both?”
“I am okay,” he says firmly. I bite my lip and he looks me straight in the eyes, suddenly sober for a moment. He puts his fingers under my chin and kisses me for good measure. “We made baby.”
“We did. We made a baby.”
“Well, then we have two things to celebrate,” Viktor announces as he gets up from the floor. He wastes no time before scooping me up and whisking me to the bed.
“Told you I can’t drink.”
“There are other ways to celebrate,” he says, grinning wickedly.
Viktor pulls my shirt over my head and spends a long time kissing at my very tender breasts. He is sweet and soft with his mouth and tongue, and I almost come just from the attention he pays there. He kisses my belly almost reverently before moving up to my neck and ears and jaw and chin. There is no part of me from the waist up that does not receive his love and attention, and he asks nothing in return. Instead, he finds new and creative ways to make me clench with orgasm, and I’m shocked by what he can do to me, even after nearly a year together.
When I pull away my pajama bottoms, he places a simple kiss on my stomach before rolling over to his back, an invitation to play. I spend the same amount of time and care with his body, kissing all of him, touching him, making him harder. I take him in my mouth, making sure that we don’t break eye contact while my mouth and tongue tease his lovely cock.
I align my whole body with his, savoring the feeling of being skin to skin with him. Just the act of touching him, teasing him, makes me come again, and I slip on top while I clench uncontrollably around him.
“My God, Scarlett,” he growls.
“Being pregnant apparently makes my body do weird things,” I tell him through another shudder of pleasure.
“Well, we’ll have to keep making you pregnant then,” he says.
“Babies for days.” I’m still coming as I ride him.
“Babies for days,” he repeats, a wide smile brightening his handsome face.
“I live for that smile,” I say. “Also, I can’t stop coming.”
“I live for you,” he says. “And now our little family. And I don’t want you to.”
As we explore each other with this love and excitement in our hearts, I realize he is right. There is more than one way to celebrate.
And more than one chance at love.
For that, I am very grateful.
Once upon a time a big Russian hockey player scowled at me for taking his picture.
It was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Sneak Peek of PUCK MONEY
Please read on to enjoy the first chapters of PUCK MONEY, Book 4 in the VEGAS CRUSH series featuring Boris and Talia, two new characters to join the team, plus a look in on our friends from the previous books, of course. All books in the VEGAS CRUSH series are STANDALONE contemporary romance with a happily ever after, and always plenty of hockey hunk action burning up the pages.
1: Enter the Ice Dragon
Boris
Saving a terrified mother and her screaming child from disaster in the Las Vegas Airport baggage claim wasn’t on my to-do list today. But what else do you do when a woman is fighting to keep her stroller from crashing down the escalator, her child screaming bloody murder as I head down to the baggage claim. Potentially a straight-out disaster in the making, I feel bad for both of them. I steady the stroller when it tilts to the next step as she pulls her crying toddler into her arms. Once we’re on solid ground, she gives me an apologetic smile, a soft, “Thanks,” and rushes the whole mess into the nearest restroom.
Disoriented, I look around and find the amiable smile of my agent, Scott Rose, where he stands with a few other guys. Everyone holds a sign with a name on it, apart from Scott. I point to the signs. “No ‘Welcome Ice Dragon’ sign?”
“Sorry, bro.” He grins and gives me a friendly slap on the back. “How was your flight? I see you started do-gooding right off the bat. That’s nice what you did for that lady.”
“Is do-gooding a real word? My English is pretty strong but that is a new one for me.”
“Come on, let’s go grab your bags, do-gooder.”
Bags in tow, my agent leads me out into the hot, Las Vegas sun. We cross four lanes of traffic and head to the short-term parking, where Scott’s Mercedes SUV is parked. It’s shiny and white and very, very clean. Kind of like Scott, I suppose. He’s slick as all get-out in his suit, no tie, and I feel a bit underdressed in jeans and a button-down as I climb in. I will say I’m glad I am not in a suit, though, because I’d be sweating like crazy. Apparently, Scott Rose does not sweat.
“I’ll get the air going,” Scott says as he starts the engine. “It’s hot as dragon’s breath out here today.”
“Hotter than Austin,” I comment. “How is that possible? It must be ten degrees hotter here and Austin is further south.”
“One of life’s great mysteries, the weather. I think hockey players are somewhat more sensitive to the heat, though, since they’re on the ice all the time.”
“Perhaps that is true.”
“You excited about moving to Sin City?”
I nod. “It is more the team that excites me. I like what I have seen from the lineup.”
“A city full of gorgeous women, plentiful liquor, and endless nightlife and your head is already on the game. I knew there was a reason I took you on. I wish I had ten of you on my client list. Easy peasy.”
“I am a boring guy,” I say with a shrug.
“Not on the ice, though. There’s a reason they call you the Ice Dragon. You’re one of a very short list of the NHL’s best forwards. Play you with Evan and Mikhail on wings, Georg and Viktor on defense…damn. Can’t wait to see what you all can do out there and I don’t care what the rabble-rousers are saying online. Evan and Georg are still among the best on the ice.”
“People are saying otherwise about them online?” I press.
“Bah,” Scott grunts, waving off the question. “Fall from grace, lucky championship season, aging players. You know same old garbage, different day. Some even say they’ve gone soft since settling down. Frankly, I’m glad Georg isn’t dead from liver failure. I’ll take a sober, serious, and much less reckless Georg any day.”
“He was a wild man,” I agree. “Hey, thanks for your help with the contract negotiations.”
“That’s my job, buddy. You ready for the big pressure, though? You’re here to make sure those yahoos stay on their top game. To add to the good mojo. Max Terry wants that cup again. Wants to prove it’s not just a fluke out here.”
“Big pressure comes with big paychecks,” I answer, watching the Strip come into view. There are so many people. It’s still midday, so I’m sure I’m not getting the full view of the famous area with its lights and fountains. But I get an idea, just from the masses of people, tourists with cameras, taking selfies with their phones, carrying shopping bags.
“Quite the place, huh?” Scott gives me a look. “You’ve never been out on the Strip before?”
“Not really. I didn’t go out exploring the times we came in to play the Crush.”
“Well, this city is a distraction. Be careful not to let it shift your focus. Just ask Georg how easy it is.”
“Georg could be distracted by a paper bag.” I’m not lying. Georg has always been that way. He and I are distant cousins, so I have many memories from when we were kids. Well, his father and my mother are cousins, somehow way back in the bloodlines. It’s complicated in the way that families are complicate
d with marriages and divorces and babies, and the rest of what comes with that. We saw each other at family gatherings, and hockey events too, but a lot more after my mother moved us back to her native Saint Petersburg.
“If there was a liquor bottle in it,” Scott says.
“True,” I say, nodding. “He’s clean this past year though, I heard. Right?”
Scott bobs his head in affirmation. “Clean. Married. Focused. I took him on once I saw how good he could be when he wasn’t dicking around.”
“I am excited to play with him again. It’s been a while since we’ve been on the ice together but what I’m really looking forward to is playing with him on the same team.”
“He had raw talent then. He’s really grown into it now. It’s much more powerful. Very exciting to watch.”
“I remember from the playoffs,” I say with a nod. “He was a surprise on the ice.”
“To us all, buddy,” Scott agrees. “To us all.”
We pull into a garage system that looks attached to a hotel, dropping the vehicle with a valet who asks for a selfie and tells me how awesome it is that I’ve come to play here. We walk out into the hot sun, traveling on foot for a block before heading into the arena where I will play very soon.
Inside the owner’s suite, Max Terry and I shake hands and then he tells me basically everything Scott just said on the way from the airport. He wants another chance at the cup, and he thinks this is the lineup to make it happen. And I can’t deny that he’s right. On paper, at least.
He hands me an envelope, which he describes as a “Welcome letter,” and I find myself frowning at the inoffensive piece of paper for long enough that I realize it probably sends the wrong message, so I fold it, shove it in my back pocket, and force a smile to make sure no one gets the wrong impression.