“I know. I know you will! You did before. No one else ever has.”
“Stupid little boys. Think they can give a woman like you one orgasm and they are done. You need a man.”
She came down against him hard. “No. You misunderstand. No man ever gave me even one orgasm—not until you, Lars.”
And in that moment, he understood completely the effect words could have.
He lost control and blew inside her—long before he intended.
But he was the man who satisfied her, the only one, so he reached down and stroked her clit, even as he was still jerking and spilling. Her spasms were immediate and hard.
“So, so good.” Her words were punctuated with moans.
But not good enough.
When she’d calmed, he pulled out and rolled her to her side.
“I can’t taste you and feel your convulsions of pleasure against my mouth, as I would like.” He stroked the insides of her thighs. “But I still have a hand.” He inserted a finger into her and placed his thumb on her clit. “I will rub you until you are happy again.”
She closed her thighs around his hand. “You make me very happy.”
* * *
“And soon, you will make me hard again.”
She moaned against his neck and ran her tongue along his collarbone. He still needed some recovery time, but that was an excellent start.
Chapter Eleven
Tradd woke a little after 6:00 a.m. with a dry mouth and a guilty conscience. Somewhere along the way, they had gotten cold and made their way to bed. Even now, in his sleep, Lars held her tight against him. It had been an electrifying night filled with magic and, God help her, she wanted to wake him and recreate some of that magic—which made her feel all the more guilty.
Even knowing what it would cost him, knowing how much he wanted one more season, she’d taken what she wanted with no regard for anyone else. That was something the old Tradd would have done—the Tradd who wasn’t fit to be a mother. Maybe the new one wasn’t either, though, at this stage, that was beside the point, and she was going to give it her best shot.
What the hell had come over her? Maybe it was the hormones. She’d read that some pregnant women wanted nothing to do with sex, but some couldn’t get enough. Apparently, she was the latter. She was sore from it all, but maybe they could do what they’d done that last time before falling to sleep—he’d parted her and stroked her with his penis without entering her, only allowing himself to spill on her thighs after she had come three times.
Had she become a sex addict?
Beside her, Lars stirred and pulled her closer to him. Was he awake? He snored a little and spoke some gibberish—presumably Swedish—and settled down again. No wonder he was tired. Who wouldn’t be after a hockey game and a marathon session with a sex addict? He’d said things to her last night that would have made any other woman die of humiliation, but it had only made her want him more—and clearly it had been a turn-on for him that she liked it, liked that he told her what he was going to do to her before he did it and what he would do to her if his mouth wasn’t hurt.
His mouth. How was it this morning? She shifted to get a look—and when she did her stomach rolled and revolted.
No, not this morning! Not now!
She lay back flat, concentrated on the ceiling, and took long slow breaths. Sometimes that worked—staved off the nausea.
One deep breath, two, and three.
It was no use—as gingerly as she was able, she detached herself from Lars and crept out of bed.
And then she ran.
Barely awake, Thor reached for Tradd and déjà vu set in.
Was he destined to always wake to find her gone the morning after making love to her? Where the hell had she gone? This was her bed, her house.
And, by the way, what did always mean?
Never mind that. She was gone, but by damn, she had to be here somewhere and he would find her. He threw the covers off and stalked naked toward the bedroom door. Then he heard a noise coming from the bathroom. What was that? Or maybe he had imagined it. No. There it was again. And then he placed it.
He lightly tapped on the door. “Tradd? All you all right?”
“Yes.” She didn’t sound all right. He opened the door without permission. She didn’t look all right either. She knelt on the cold tile floor with her head over the toilet.
“Are you sick?” Of all the stupid questions he could have asked, that was the dumbest. Of course she was sick. Well people did not vomit.
“No.” She retched into the toilet again. “At least not sick like a virus—like something you could catch.”
He opened cabinets until he found a washcloth, wet it, and handed it to her.
“Believe it or not, that was not my concern. Should I call a doctor? Take you to a doctor?”
She pressed the cloth to her mouth. “No. I’ll be fine. I ate some nachos last night at the hockey game. That’s what made me sick.” She vomited again. “I’ll be fine.”
He caught sight of her robe hanging behind the door, removed it from the hook, and put it around her shoulders. “What can I do for you?”
She wiped her mouth and met his eyes. Her face was bright red. “Just go. It isn’t at the top of my list being seen like this.”
What kind of man left a woman sick and helpless? “Tradd, I—”
“Really. Please. And don’t get caught.” And she went on about her being sick.
“Well.” He stood there needing to do something but coming up with no ideas. “Call me if you need me.”
She didn’t look up. She just waved her hand in the air, waving him away.
At least he had an answer. The kind of man who left a woman sick and helpless was one who wasn’t wanted.
He left to find his clothes.
Chapter Twelve
Despite Tradd’s warning, Thor didn’t consider worrying about getting caught. It wasn’t even 6:30 a.m. yet, so what did it matter that he was riding the elevator from Tradd’s condo smelling like sex and expensive perfume? He was more concerned that he’d left her sick. Maybe he should go back.
Then the elevator doors opened—to reveal Pickens Davenport. Fuck and triple fuck. Appropriate thought since that’s what he’d done with Tradd.
Unlike Thor, Pickens was impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, white shirt, and burgundy tie. He had a black garment bag slung over his shoulder. It was almost certain that he did not smell like sex. Thor could never recall seeing Pickens look the least bit surprised, much less dumbfounded like he did now. But Pickens wasn’t a man built for surprise, and he’d recovered by the time Thor stepped out of the elevator.
“You’re out early, Pickens.” If he spoke first, maybe he could control the situation. Ah, hell. Who was he kidding? The most he could hope for was that Pickens wouldn’t catch the scent of his daughter. Thor stepped into a spot that he hoped was downwind of Pickens.
“Those who get up early control the world. I had a breakfast meeting.” He looked Thor up and down. “Your mouth is a mess, boy. Looks like raw hamburger meat. And from the looks of you, you just rolled out.”
He would explain himself before Pickens started asking questions.
“Yah.” He touched his finger to his injured mouth and searched for a lie. Then he remembered that Jake Champagne lived in this building. “Sparks was having a straight tequila night last night.” That was what the team said when Sparks slowed down long enough to think about his former wife, though it didn’t mean he had actually been drinking tequila. The reference was from an old song by the same name. Thor had seen such times. It could be ugly, though—as far as he knew—it hadn’t happened last night. “I fell asleep on his sofa.”
Pickens nodded. “I notice you’re wearing clothes from last night—mostly. No tie.”
Fucking hell. Did this man miss nothing?
He shrugged and held up his jacket. “It’s in my jacket pocket. Lucky there is no Sound rule about what a player wears the morning a
fter a game.”
“No, but if there were, I know I could count on you to follow it.” Pickens looked sober. “You’re a good teammate, Thor. Not everyone would have sat up with Sparks half the night listening to him rant and cry.”
Guilt moved in like a tsunami.
“Are you here to see Sparks?” Obviously, Thor had to ask why Pickens was here and it would be best to pretend he didn’t know Tradd lived here. “Or maybe bring him a set of clothes?” He gestured to the garment bag Pickens carried.
Pickens shook his head. “No. I’m not in the habit of calling on my players at daybreak—or really at all. And I figure I pay them enough that they can provide their own clothes. But my daughter gets up early. I’m here to bring her something Mary Lou had made for her.”
“Tradd?” Thor tried to look puzzled.
Pickens looked like he was about to lose his patience. “Of course, Tradd. How many daughters have I got? What’s wrong with you, boy?”
Maybe he had laid it on too thick. “Nothing. But I thought she lived at Green Hills.”
“I’m pretty sure I told you I’d bought Emile’s condo and she moved.” Pickens’s face took on a suspicious look—like he smelled a rodent.
Thor started to sweat, which was only going to enhance how he smelled. “I’m sure you did. Forgive me. I forgot.”
Pickens considered for a moment, and then his facial expression went back to normal. “Your mind was on hockey—which is what I like.” He clapped Thor on the back. “Why don’t you come up with me?” Pickens said. “Tradd has probably already made coffee. She doesn’t use those pod things. She makes French press.”
Well, let’s consider, Pickens. Why don’t I come up with you? How long have you got for me to name the reasons? Also, I would bet all I own that you aren’t going to find any coffee. Last time I saw her, her head was in the toilet.
“I’d better not. I need to shower, and then I’m going to work out.” What I really have to do is get in touch with Jake Champagne and make sure he covers for me, which is going to be difficult to explain.
Pickens nodded. “All right. I’ll let you get on with it. You want to play golf this weekend?”
No, I sure as hell do not. “Sure. Text me the time.”
When the elevator doors closed on Pickens, Thor took out his phone to warn Tradd that her father was headed up. Then he realized he didn’t have her number.
The doorbell rang just as Tradd lay down again. That would be Lars. He had come back. She didn’t know whether to be glad or mad. On the one hand, he wanted to be sure she was all right and that was nice. On the other, she had told him to go and she liked being obeyed.
But maybe it was simpler than all that. Maybe he had forgotten something.
She wound her robe around her as she slowly made her way to the door.
She threw the door open. “Did you forget—” Hell in a hand basket.
He father frowned. “Did I forget what?”
“That it’s six o’clock in the morning.” Her knees were weak. Why had she not considered that Pickens sometimes dropped by early? Selfish. That’s why. She’d wanted Lars in her bed and nothing else had mattered. If her father had come five minutes earlier, Lars would be on his way to play for some third-rate team in Europe right now.
Pickens strolled in. “It’s not six. It’s almost seven. And since when are you still in bed past five?”
Since a Swede-warmed bed makes it an exciting, lovely place to be. Though Pickens had a point. She’d always been an early riser. She’d had to be, to get the look perfect before going out into the world.
Pickens walked toward her bedroom. “Your mother sent this.” He held out the garment bag. “I’ll just hang it back here.”
That would be the silver-studded, white satin pants and halter that she intended to wear at The Neon Fiddle tonight. Ten minutes earlier, and Pickens would have been walking in on Lars.
Before that could sink in, Pickens called her name. “Sister! Why is there blood on your bed?”
Blood? Her stomach went into a tailspin. Blood meant miscarriage. She couldn’t be having a miscarriage without knowing it, could she? She put her hands on her stomach and looked at her feet. All seemed normal.
She hurried back to the bedroom, where Pickens met her with a blood spotted pillow—Lars’s pillow and Lars’s blood from his mouth.
“Did you have a nosebleed?” Pickens asked.
“Yes. That’s it. My sinuses.”
He took her chin in her hand and tilted her head back. “Hmm. Seems to be okay now.”
“Yes. I got it to stop.”
He nodded, somewhat satisfied. “Since you’ve been a layabout, I’ll get the coffee going.” Pickens headed toward the kitchen.
“I’ll just get dressed.” And pray to God I don’t throw up when I smell the coffee.
Thor started out by politely ringing Jake Champagne’s bell, morphed into leaning on it, and then began to pound on the door with his fist.
Finally, bleary-eyed and half naked, Sparks threw the open door. “This building better be on fire!” His mouth dropped open. “Thor? What the hell?” He stepped aside to let Thor enter. “Is somebody dead?”
“Almost assuredly, but no one we know.”
Sparks closed his eyes tight and shook head. “Then what? How did you get on the elevator?”
“Never mind that.” He had, in fact, memorized the code when Tradd had punched it in the night before. “I’m here to tell you what happened last night.”
“Do you want to sit?” He nodded to a sectional sofa, which was the one piece of furniture in the room apart from three large flat screen TVs and a long, low table with five gaming systems on it. Headphones, games, and assorted controllers littered the floor.
“No time for sitting. Listen, and listen well. You had a straight tequila night last night.”
Sparks’s face fell. “I didn’t, but thanks for reminding me …”
“I said listen. If anyone asks you, in your world, you had a straight tequila night. I brought you home from The Big Skate. We stayed up talking. I fell asleep on your sofa.”
Sparks widened his eyes and let out a whistle. “You’ve killed somebody, haven’t you? Who? Please let it be that Avalanche asshole, Alvin. Please tell me you flew to Colorado and killed him in his sleep.” He widened his eyes even more.
What was left of Thor’s patience was fleeing quickly. “Put your eyes back in your head. You look like one of those anime cartoons.”
“Women like my eyes. So how did you do it? Knife? Crushed windpipe? The best thing would be a big, sharp icicle. Then there’d be no murder weapon.”
When did he get so bloodthirsty? “Stop it. I did not kill Scott Alvin or anyone else, but I might kill you if you don’t do as I say. Thanks for the icicle tip.”
“If you didn’t kill anyone, why do you need an alibi?” Then he took a deep breath, lifted his chin, and pointed at Thor. “Oh … fuck. You didn’t.”
Hell.
“You did.” Sparks was all big eyes and nodding head. “You slept with the boss’s daughter. You’ve been telling us for six months to behave ourselves and not to give Mr. Davenport any more reasons to want to be rid of the team. Now you are the one who’s going to get our asses sold to Massachusetts!”
There was no point in denying it. Why couldn’t Sparks just accept what he told him to do without question, like he did on the ice?
Sparks put his hands up. “I do not want to move to Massachusetts. Do you know how cold it gets up there?”
“I have some idea.”
“I am from the Mississippi Delta.”
“I am well aware of that. The token Southerner on this team.”
“It’s hot in the Delta. Nashville is too cold for me.”
Thor’s head was pounding. Here his career and his relationship with Pickens—who he considered a friend—was at stake, and then there was Tradd, who he couldn’t seem to get out of his system. Were things not bad enough without this ma
n-child blathering about his fear of the cold?
Apparently not, because he blathered on, “It’s bad enough that we have to go up there to play the Bruins. But live there? If I have to move to Massachusetts, you’re going to shovel my driveway and drive me around, because I can’t drive on snow.”
“I can promise you with absolute certainty that I will do neither of those things. But if you don’t want to live in the cold—”
“I do not. I was not built for it.”
“Then, you had a straight tequila night and I spent many hours talking you down.”
Sparks nodded. “I did. You did.”
“So we understand each other?”
Sparks nodded. “Don’t go to The Neon Fiddle tonight.”
No problem. “What is The Neon Fiddle?”
“The hottest honky-tonk in Nashville. Located across from Bridgestone Arena. You know—where you play hockey. Don’t you notice anything around you?”
“Only those things that are relevant to me.”
“Yeah? Well, it might be relevant to you. Your girlfriend is singing there tonight.”
“And you came by this information how?” The thought of Sparks knowing something about Tradd that he, himself, did not, made him want to punch something—or someone. Maybe Sparks.
“Read it off the sign when I was leaving Bridgestone last night.” Sparks made a sweeping motion with his hand. “‘Performing live tomorrow night.’ That would be tonight. ‘9:00 p.m. Rita May Sanderson.’ You might have read it, too, if you didn’t consider everything irrelevant.”
“It’s not relevant.” Never had been, never would be. He made his way to the door.
Just then a female voice called out, “Jake? Where are you?”
“That had better not be an ice girl,” Thor said.
“It’s not,” Sparks said. “But if it were, you wouldn’t be in much of a position to pass judgment.”
Hard to argue with that. He left swearing to himself that if he cleared this building without another Pickens encounter, he would never put himself in this position again.
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