Hot on Ice: A Hockey Romance Anthology

by Avery Flynn

  In this moment, she could be forthright about this. About her needs. Honesty would give her power.

  “I—I’m not okay,” she managed. “I’m aching.”

  His indrawn breath turned to a heartfelt groan that echoed in the calm, city-lit night.

  “Addy, you’re killin’ me.” She could hear his shallow breaths and she wondered how warm they’d feel on her bare skin. Mostly, she wondered about his hands. She liked big hands. Blunt, coarse palms that would cover her ample ass—because even a woman with a booty that made her fortune appreciated hands that made it look smaller.

  “I want you to tell me what you want, how you like it.” He was struggling to speak, each word fighting to find air. Fighting to find her. “I want you to imagine I’m over there, kneeling between your thighs, waiting for instructions.”

  Instructions. Straight talk. Taking responsibility for her orgasms.

  She was in charge here, as her imaginary, yet shockingly real lover bowed before her, ready to serve. How would he use those big hands? Would he be slow in moving from her ankles up her calves and finally between her thighs, every inch gained a mile taken from her resistance?

  She didn’t know what to do next. She knew what she wanted to do, but could she?

  You’ll never see him again. You’ll never see him at all. Just listen to that voice and let him listen to you.

  Listening . . . that’s all she’d ever wanted.

  The hiss of her jeans zipper was louder than she expected, probably because it was the sound of no return.

  “Good girl. Make sure there’s room for me. For my greedy mouth. All the way down. Now, what should I do next?”

  Take off your pants. Take your cock in your hands and stroke it from thick base to shining tip.

  “Addy?”

  Oh, God, she was doing this. They were doing this.

  “Um—take my panties off? They’re silky—”

  “What color?”

  “Cream. It’s my favorite color. It looks good against my skin.” She shoved her jeans to mid-thigh, the rough jerk taking her panties so they lay half-on, half-off.

  Poor, confused panties.

  “I love this part,” he said, his voice rasping barely above a whisper. “When I catch that first glimpse of you. Are you bare or do you keep yourself warm with a little strip?”

  She smiled at his turn of phrase. “Not completely bare.” After years on the modeling circuit, she’d gone back to nature—or nature with a landscaped trim. She pushed both her panties and jeans down and kicked them both off with her heels. The soft thud made it clear that clothes removal was in progress.

  Sanity removal wasn’t far behind.

  She was naked from the waist down on the darkened balcony of a downtown Chicago hotel, because a stranger had urged her on.

  This was fucking crazy.

  Then she heard it, a scraping sound from his side. He was unzipping, too.

  Even among the cavalcade of emotions hurtling through her veins, she was able to pluck out the one that signified relief. She wasn’t alone in this madness. They were a team—a horny, reckless, fuck-it team.

  “Now, Addy, what would you like me to do next?”

  Inhaling a ragged breath, she moved tentative fingers to her thigh. If she’d thought removing her panties was one step toward the ledge, this next one would hurtle her over into the abyss.

  “I want your—” The words refused to form.

  “What, sweetheart?”

  “I want—” Nope, can’t do it.

  “Tell me what you need, Addy. Tell me what I can give you.”

  His generosity sealed her fate. “I . . . I need your fingers to part me. To stroke softly.”

  He hummed, deep in his throat, and that sound did something to her. Something wicked and wanton, and oh so wild.

  “How will I find you?”

  Say it say it say it. “Wet.”

  And she was. Oh, God, the sparks that flew through her on that first contact lit up her sex-starved body. No man should have this much power. She’d spent two years recovering from a man who’d exercised terrifying control over her.

  She shook her head, annoyed at her thoughts for going there. This was no power trip. The stranger didn’t know a thing about her except that she had high standards for oral sex and that her voice apparently did things to him. And hell, if his voice didn’t do something for her. Something she’d never experienced before.

  Absolute abandon.

  Accept this as your due. Enjoy what this one-time, never-to-be-repeated experience offers you.

  “My mouth’s watering, just thinking of how you taste, Addy. Give me a preview. Tell me how good you taste.”

  Did he mean that she should . . . do that? Needing a moment to wrap her head around this request, to just enjoy the pleasure of his voice urging her on, she continued to stroke. Each velvet swipe coiled her belly tighter. Eddies of pleasure swirled, ever-tautening, and she took care to avoid her clit. One touch and she’d shoot off so fast it would embarrass them both.

  Was he touching himself, too?

  “Addy,” he moaned, and she listened for noises of—there it was. That muffled sound of soft/hard tugs. He was jerking off, and just that confirmation, hiked her pleasure to untold levels.

  “How do you taste, sweetheart? I need to know. Need to know so badly.”

  She raised her fingers to her mouth and swiped them across her lips, flicking her tongue out to taste herself. Could he see that? Hear her movements from core to mouth?

  “I taste good,” she murmured, surprising herself, because she did. She’d never done that before. The action thrilled her, fueling her boldness. “You’re going to love it.” When your tongue glides between my legs and finds me wet for you, you’re going to love it.

  She wished she could say that out loud but judging by his reaction, she may as well have. He swore roughly. Score.

  “Bet you’re pretty and pink, right, baby? Bet you’re a work of art. Those beautiful folds swelling under my tongue, that tasty cream gushing into my mouth, that hot little clit throbbing in my mouth.”

  Oh, God, her fingers shoved between her legs, roughly, her need mindless and grasping. His tongue inside her, his mouth hungrily eating her out was all she could think about, and the lightest glance across her clit was enough to make her come madly on that sofa in the dark. There was no stopping her cries of pleasure, no stopping the waves of sensation, no stopping the need he had stirred in her.

  On her descent, she slumped boneless and listened for him, her only regret that, as he shouted her name when he released, she didn’t know his.

  3

  Ford paced his hotel room, the same mantra playing over and over in his head.

  You’re a fucking idiot.

  Every now and then he changed it up with fool or moron or even asshole when he was feeling particularly vitriolic, but the bottom line was the same. He had let Addy go without any idea how to contact her.

  That she’d wanted this should have put his mind at ease. After he had come with such force on the balcony he might have hit the John Hancock Center two miles out, they’d both sat there for a few minutes, recovering in the night’s stillness. He’d wanted to give her the chance to make the next move, and in delaying, he’d scared her off.

  Thanks, she had said, and then smaller, quieter, Good night.

  It sounded a lot like goodbye.

  His lust barely slaked, he could have gone all night. Shown her what every man she’d ever allowed in her bed had done wrong. They would have feasted on each other until dawn.

  Instead, he’d let her go and then spent the night alone, jerking himself raw to the memory of those sounds she’d made when she came. Filled with regret this morning, he’d gone out to the corridor to knock on her door only to find housekeeping cleaning up. A dropped fifty led to the discovery that she had checked out.

  Addy. He knew her first name. He knew the sounds she made when she imagined his fingers and tongue
inside her.

  He knew he was royally fucked.

  His phone rang, a call from Jax. Back to reality we go.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey. Marcy said to call.”

  Shit, he’d never answered the text from his brother last night because he was otherwise occupied getting a gorgeous stranger off on an open-air balcony in the middle of downtown Chicago. You couldn’t make this shit up.

  Penthouse, check your mail.

  “Tell her lasagna sounds amazing. I’m looking forward to a home-cooked meal.”

  “You need to get yourself a woman instead of banging all those fans on the road.”

  Ford snorted. They rarely spoke, but Jax had to know Ford was too serious about hockey to spend his spare time screwing anything that moves. Of all the Callaghan boys, Ford had been the most focused, hard-working, and driven. He didn’t have Jax’s brute force or Paulie’s natural talent, and now he bore the heavy mantle of the Callaghans, the dreams of their ghosts.

  “Having a regular woman’s no guarantee of a home-cooked meal. Life on the road tends to put a damper on that.”

  “Wouldn’t know,” Jax said on an exhaled breath.

  No, he wouldn’t. His knee had a pin in it, so he’d missed his chance.

  After two seconds of their customary awkward, Jax picked up the slack. “The kids are dying to see you. They can’t wait to touch the Cup. Pretty proud of their uncle even if he did do it with the Raisins instead of a decent team like the Rebels.”

  The Raisins was the not-so-nice nickname given to the Rajuns. It used to bother him, but then he won the Cup, so fucking whatever.

  “Sorry to inform you, bro, but the Rebels suck.”

  Jax sighed, relief in that sound to be on the safer ground of local sports and the inevitable disappointment that came with being a Rebels fan. “Yeah, the old man’s still got a death grip on the reins. He’s been driving the team into the ground for years.”

  It was a commonly held belief that Clifford Chase’s dominion over the Chicago Rebels had done more bad than good. They used to show promise but Old Man Chase didn’t want to spend the money for decent skaters. His daughter was on tap to take over, but Ford—and just about everyone in the league—had their doubts about how a woman would fare in the cut-throat, testosterone-drenched world of professional hockey. It wasn’t as if this was pansy-ass football.

  An alarm went boom in his head, and he had to struggle to refocus on the conversation. The voice on the other end of the line was no longer his brother’s.

  “Uncle Ford?”

  His nephew Coby, a wicked talented little skater who had all the makings of a great defensive linesman when he grew up. Give him twelve more years.

  “Yeah, buddy, how’s it hangin’?”

  “Are you going to bring me a Rajuns shirt signed by the players?”

  Ford flicked a glance to his suitcase where he had packed away three Rajuns shirts, all autographed by the team. He’d even had to walk in on Kazakov’s hairy ass as he celebrated with not one, not two, but three “fans” on the night of the final game. Everyone was scattering the day after, so he took one for the team and bleached his eyeballs later.

  The things he did for his family.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered. Looking forward to seeing you. All of you.”

  That tinge of guilt reignited in Ford’s chest. Surely Jax wouldn’t be angry Ford played it this way, arriving in Chicago a couple days ahead of schedule. Coming in early had given him time to adjust to being back in his hometown after so long. Away games didn’t count.

  I’ve needed the quiet. The anonymity. Last night he’d reveled in guilt-free pleasure with a woman who knew nothing about his stats or his big contract or his tragic backstory.

  The sound of a scuffle heralded the arrival of another nephew. Ford spent a few more minutes playing famous hockey-player uncle before he rang off.

  Damn, he missed them. He missed them all. He didn’t want to play famous, absent, hockey-player uncle forever. At the grand old age of twenty-six, it wasn’t as if he’d been on the road forever, but the yearning to find a home—to make a home—was singeing the edges of his heart.

  Now what was it that had pinged him while he was talking to Jax? He played back the conversation in his head. Chicago Rebels. Clifford Chase. Chase’s daughter.

  Harper.

  He knew he’d recognized her voice, that melodious, fifties sex-kitten lilt. He’d met her a few times over the years, usually at some hockey PR event. If she were plain, she would’ve had a better shot at being accepted in the locker room. But she was far from plain. She was an attractive woman with cupid-bow lips and a sexuality she was unafraid to flaunt.

  For all her multiple attractions, however, she had nothing on her friend.

  Addy.

  Ford smiled to himself. Guess he had a call to make.

  4

  Addison was ushered into Harper’s oh-let’s-just-call-it-a-mansion-shall-we in Lake Forest, a wealthy water-fronting enclave just north of Chicago, by a woman dressed as French maid. This did not surprise her. Harper was known for her amazing parties and she always hired catering staff, but really, the French maid outfit was a tad much.

  A long day meeting with the marketing team for her upcoming lingerie line had left Addison pooped. Relaxing in a hot, sudsy bath would be just the ticket, especially the claw-foot tub in the guest bathroom adjoining her temporary home for the next few days. Harper hadn’t blinked when Addison said she’d take her up on her offer to stay after all. Getting out of the hotel after what happened last night was imperative.

  The greeter must have been told to take jackets. As Addison wasn’t wearing one, she merely flailed her hands and gestured to the salon. Yep, Harper called it “the salon” like she was Dorothy Freakin’ Parker reincarnated.

  “You can go right—”

  “Addy!” Harper bounded out so quickly that Addison had to check the petite blonde’s feet for skates. Her friend tossed sunny waves of hair over her shoulder and took Addison by the arm, gripping a little tighter than was comfortable. “A word, please.”

  “Everything okay?”

  Harper bit down on her lip. “Yes . . . and no.”

  “Look, I’m really fine if the bean counter didn’t show.” She kept her voice in a whisper just in case he had shown and the news was worse than she feared. Such as he smelled like three-day-old cheese or sprayed saliva when he talked. “I’m not really in the mood to put on my first-date face.”

  Not after last night. Her mind strayed to the fantasy-made flesh. She yawned, still tired after she’d lain awake all night, her feet itching to race to her neighbor’s room and see that initial orgasm to its logical conclusion: a hot-as-Hades stranger plunging into her over and over.

  “That’s not the problem,” Harper went on, oblivious to Addison’s sexy and very inappropriate daydreaming. “You see, we have another guest and well, he just showed up. I’ve met him a couple of times, so I couldn’t really turn him away but . . .” She screwed up her face in a mix of embarrassment and disgust.

  “But, what?”

  “It’s Killer Callaghan.”

  Killer who? Was that a WWF wrestler? Addison’s blankness must have been reflected on her face.

  “Ford Callaghan,” Harper prompted, then lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper that wouldn’t bounce off the marble-walled foyer. “Right winger for the Cajun Rage? The team that brought home the Cup a month ago? You know, your ex-husband’s hockey franchise.”

  Addison tried to recall a face, a body, a head of hair, but nothing came to her. The Rajuns’ players all tended to blend together into one vast muscle mass. None of them had stood out during her three-year disaster-piece of a marriage, and if she had favored one with any attention, her ex would not have appreciated it. She’d always been a sports fan but after the split, with her ex taking hockey in the divorce, her interest had waned. Self-preservation had made that a necessity.

  “Si
nce the Great Escape, I haven’t exactly been keeping tabs on the team’s roster or their colorful nicknames. So there’s a hockey player at the dinner table. Is he house-trained or should we expect juicy belches and ball-scratching?”

  “I can probably go an hour before I need to be walked.”

  The ground yanked from beneath Addison’s feet.

  That voice.

  It couldn’t be, but she’d recognize it in . . . well, the dark. It was him, her hotel room neighbor, her dirty-talkin’ fantasy man. How could he have known she’d be here?

  No. It was a coincidence, nothing more. A crazy one-in-a-billion coincidence. He couldn’t know she was the woman on that balcony, the woman who had turned into a wanton sexpot with very little encouragement. And he wouldn’t know it was her.

  Unless she spoke. A little late to be concerned about that because he must have already heard her speaking to Harper. What had he said about her voice? A dead man’s dick would raise the lid of a coffin on hearing that voice of yours.

  Oh. Shit.

  Her heart jerked like a pinball around her body, her gaze following suit as she pivoted to meet the Panty Whisperer in the flesh. She had a sense of something big and blond and vaguely Viking pillaging her senses, and she quickly looked away as if that could make it all disappear.

  Unfortunately the universe did not work this way.

  She shot a look at Harper, trying to discern her friend’s knowledge levels. Harper didn’t give off smug or pleased, merely concerned.

  Addison searched her brain for another explanation. Had he followed her? Was he a whacko nutjob after all?

  Something clicked, locked, and knocked her on her ass.

  This was the hockey player Harper had mentioned.

  The one who had dropped by out of the blue for dinner.

  The one who played for her ex-husband’s team.

  Double—no, triple—shit.

  Unable to avoid reality any longer, she turned to where he stood at the entrance to the salon, though “stood” was all wrong. More like “loomed.” She had underestimated his height. He was at least six feet four inches of brute strength, topped with shoulders as wide as a Buick, and further crowned with a head of dirty-blond hair that was a little on the long side. Plenty for her to hold on to.