by Lia Riley
He rocked his hips harder. How long had it been since anyone had touched him?
Not since Maddy left.
A pathetic fact when so many puck bunnies would be willing to spend a night with a championship coach. He registered on a basic level that he was good-looking. At forty there was no sign of middle-aged paunch. He kept his body lean with a shit ton of running. But random hookups had never been his thing. Not even in his twenties. He was a feast-or-famine kind of guy, either in a serious long-term relationship or alone.
And more often than not . . . the latter.
He increased his rhythm, frowning at the sound of friction, the rasp of skin against skin. Hard for a guy to lie to himself when he was working over his dick. Neve Angel had lodged under his skin with all the ease of a barbed cactus. God, that woman was a pain in the ass. Always quick to call out a question that he had hoped would pass unasked, and with that small pouting smile that communicated one thing: Gotcha.
Heat licked up his neck. He needed to come, to purge his body of the poison, the unwanted attraction toward his small, sleek nemesis. But his body revolted. Unwilling to grant him the victory of an easy release.
Instead, desire pressed like a weight to the pit of his belly, increasing in pressure bit by bit until a shudder ran through his quads, the muscles tightening and bunching in small, involuntary contractions that sent microbursts of heat up his hamstrings and a targeted blast of heat to his sac. He removed the hand propping his weight against the tile, slid it down, his rough palm caressing the thin, ruddy skin encasing his balls, and expelled a ragged “Fuck.”
The spray peppered his chest in tiny licks. As beads of water trickled over his sensitive, flat nipples, the tip of his cock held a gleam that had nothing to do with the shower. He pressed the flat of his thumb down hard over his head, barking out a frustrated moan.
“Come on,” he ordered himself, his cock.
All in good time, Bossy. He imagined Neve’s annoyed tone with such pitch-perfect clarity that the orgasm took him by surprise.
His cock jerked in his hand, the deep, aching muscles clenching even after he came with a roar that might have made his elderly neighbors dial 911, thinking he’d just been murdered.
He leaned his forehead against the tiles, splaying both hands for balance. But his neighbors wouldn’t be more wrong. Because he was more alive than he’d been in recent memory. His nerves tingled. His body was primed, ready to take on the whole damn world.
A frown tugged at his lips. As awesome as he felt, this wasn’t good. What the fuck had he been thinking? This was a dangerous road. He better turn around and get his ass back to safer ground.
After flicking off the shower, he stepped out and reached for a towel, not the plushy soft one either. No, he grabbed the scratchy thin grey one that he’d had since his college days and for some reason never trashed. He scraped it over his damp body until his skin was red. He couldn’t be getting his rocks off to Neve Angel. She was the enemy who baited him every chance she got. She’d even written a piece on his divorce for a lifestyle mag. Probably earned a pretty fucking penny and took a vacation on his personal misery. She was just another jackal who feasted on the remains of other people’s lives.
If this was what happened when he stopped thinking about work, then he was in for a world of trouble. He tied the towel around his hips and stalked back to the kitchen, empty tumbler clutched in one fist. There was only one thing to do with this secret attraction—numb it with more whisky. Time to give himself one hell of a hangover, one that ruined him so much that he’d never be able to equate Neve Angel with sexy times again.
A week later, and there was still no deal to end the lockout doldrums. Neve shuffled into The Twirling Tassels and eyed the line of folding chairs with a growing sense of trepidation. There was a world of difference between having a big idea and executing it.
“Yeah. So. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” she murmured to the two women a step behind: her little sister, Breezy, and their friend Margot, who looked effortlessly sexy in high-cut black dancer pants and a midriff-baring royal blue tank top that revealed toned abs still bronzed from her summer trip to Baja.
“Well, for starters you should have worn heels,” Margot hissed, pointing to her own Louboutins for emphasis. “The welcome letter specified that—”
“She doesn’t own heels,” Breezy sighed.
In contrast to Margot’s eagerness, her sister’s face was tight with unease, the same way it was whenever she was called on to do something athletic. But she still rocked a pair of ruffled hot pants that showed off her every curve.
Neve’s heart sank into the soles of her Converse. Breezy’s beehive and cat’s eye makeup gave her a smoky Adele appearance, while Margot looked like the classic girl next door, albeit one who’d shimmy down the apple tree outside her bedroom window to get jiggy in the neighborhood park. But in her grey yoga pants and UC Boulder college T-shirt, Neve felt about as sexy as a mushroom.
This was a big mistake. Huge. She was a confident duck, not a sexy swan, and leaving her rut didn’t mean climbing Striptease Mountain. Her jaw clenched. There was one person to blame for this serious overreach.
Tor Gunnar with his cold-fish, penguin-fucking comments
As if on cue, bump-and-grind jazz music began to play and the other students took their positions straddling the chairs.
She adjusted her bun, stomach queasy. If the Hellions coach hadn’t acted like the idea of being attracted to her was a joke, she’d have never pulled up the burlesque studio’s number that she’d photographed while stuck in traffic. And she’d have never been irritated enough to go out for emergency drinks with Margot and Breezy at their favorite bar.
And she certainly wouldn’t have knocked back three Jack and Diet Cokes before revealing Tor’s smart-ass comments.
After Margot and Breezy had wrapped up their gasps and “Oh, honey, no! What is he talking about? What a jerk!” comments, she’d sheepishly confessed her half-baked burlesque idea with every expectation that they’d laugh her under the table.
Instead, Margot had slammed her hand down on the table so hard that one of the empty glasses went flying halfway toward the pool tables. “Yes,” she shouted. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” She banged her hand as if in the throes of pleasure. “You need to do this. Take back the power, hold up your head and be the badass woman not afraid to shake her booty. Heck, all of us should get more bow-chicka-wow-wow. It’s good for the soul.”
“Speak for yourselves,” Breezy had sniffed, even while her eyes danced. “If I have any more bow-chicka then I’m not going to be able to sit down for a week.”
“No one likes a humble bragger,” Margot had scolded with mock severity. “Although you can’t keep secrets about Jed West’s bedroom prowess all to yourself. Throw us a bone . . . er.” She’d waggled her eyebrows. “Like does he talk dirty? Huh? Huh?”
“I’m not telling you that!” Breezy looked as if she’d stuck her face in a plate of ketchup. “It’s private.” She’d fallen hard for Jed West, captain of the Hellions Angels over the summer after he’d showed up for a literacy event at her library. One thing led to another and the rest of history. After concerns due to symptoms arising from a nasty concussion, he retired from the sport and took a position coaching college hockey for Denver University. Breezy had moved into his condo and cue the cheesy happy-ever-after music.
In her desire to save Breezy from more embarrassment, Neve had declared they would sign up right there. Now she wished she’d demanded her sister give Margot the gossip.
“Bonjour, bonjour.” A svelte fortysomething woman bustled into the room in a black bodysuit and fishnets. “I am Madam Monique and you are ’ere for ze beginner ’eel class, non?” She had a French accent to boot. Striking a pose, hands on her hips, she surveyed the class.
There were ten women in total, all dressed in fashionable dance wear and ready to flaunt their moneymakers. Neve caught her own dumpy reflection in the studio mirror. She lo
oked as if she’d gotten lost on the way to FBI boot camp training.
“Alors, where are your ’eels?” Madam Monique cast a finger to Neve like a Renaissance painting of an Old Testament god.
“Uh . . . I don’t have any,” Neve mumbled.
Someone in the back row tittered.
Her cheeks went from warm to scalding. It was like being back in middle school again.
“But zis is a ’eel class.” Madam Monique seemed honestly confused.
That made two of them. Her mouth dried. Why had she signed up again? In trying to mentally one-up Tor Gunnar, she was only serving to humiliate herself.
“That’s what I told her,” Margot sang out.
“Stop being the teacher’s pet.” Breezy giggled.
“Next class, ’ave the ’eels and an outfit that makes you feel fabulous, okay?” Madam Monique refocused on the rest of the class. “Zee dances you master in zis class will change your life. You will ’ave power. Sex appeal. Radiate charm and confidence. Men will see you coming and ooooh . . . notice you going.”
One girl raised her hand. “When do we get to wear the pasties?”
“What’s a pastie?” Breezy murmured.
“No clue,” Neve shot back. “But I think it’s making me hungry.”
That set Margot to giggling, and the problem with Margot’s giggle was that it was contagious, a hiccupping snort that made the listener helpless against joining in.
Neve wheezed and Madam Monique froze. “Ah. Bien. Our first volunteer,” she purred, crooking her finger to beckon Neve forward. Her grin was like a cat who’d eaten the cream. “Mais oui, a most excellent idea.”
Neve drew forward with as much enthusiasm as a prisoner approaching the guillotine.
“Remove your shirt.”
“Come again?” Neve asked. All she had on was a sports bra, one that used to be white until it got mixed up with Breezy’s red sweater in the wash a few years ago when they were roommates. Now, not only was it old and stretched out, it was also the same hue as a slice of baloney.
“Oui. Your shirt,” Madam Monique declared imperiously. “Strip.”
An hour later Neve hurtled into the studio parking lot.
“To The Watering Hole, stat,” she muttered to Breezy and Margot when they emerged a moment later.
“You were a good sport . . . trying on those pasties for the class demonstration,” Breezy said. “But yes, after that drinks are in order. I’m going to message Jed and let him know our plans. He wanted to meet up and hear all the class.”
Neve groaned. Madame Monique had made her try on the nipple adhesive coverings and do a shimmy in front of everyone.
“Did you mean to get your arm stuck in the bra strap like that?” Margot asked, a little too innocently.
“That’s it, not only are you buying the first round, you’re also the designated driver,” Neve growled, shoving her Jeep Wagoneer keys at Margot. “Ugh, that was an hour of my life that I can never get back.” She crawled into the Wagoneer’s backseat, letting Breezy and Margot take the front. “I think my tassels are twirled out.”
“No way. It was your bright idea to sign us up for the whole month,” Breezy said sternly. “I coughed up the money and it’s nonrefundable.”
“Blech. Isn’t Jed your sugar daddy? Come on. You can’t be hurting for cash,” Neve snapped, giving herself over to her black mood.
“Neve Frances Angel.” Breezy whirled. “I’m giving you a pass for that comment. But it’s the only one. Jed is my boyfriend. He isn’t Mister Hockey or a punch line to your jokes.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” Neve muttered even as envy flared, a toxic brand of jealousy that she hated harboring anywhere in the vicinity of Breezy. Anyone could see that her sister was gaga for Jed, and not only that, the feeling was mutual. When she walked into a room, it was like she was the only person who existed for him.
No one had ever looked at Neve in that way. And before Jed, no one had ever looked at Breezy like that either, not even her old fiancé. But now she’d won the relationship golden ticket and was skipping off like she had an all-access pass to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory while Neve stayed stuck behind the gate.
“How do I get to The Watering Hole from this side of the city?” Margot asked. She had been raised in Portland and had come to Denver to attend yoga teacher training a few years ago. She still got turned around on city streets.
“I think I know but let me double check Byways in case it can get us there faster.” Neve pulled up the route, and let the monotone voice call out the directions.
She idly watched the app screen as Margot drove through the city streets. Better than remembering Madame Monique’s disapproving “tut-tut” as she ordered Neve to loosen up and “try and ’ave fun.”
Neve’s heart paid a surprise visit to her throat. Then there it was . . . the red-pitchfork avatar appeared on the screen.
Rovhal30 was out on the town tonight, and if the GPS signal was anything to be believed, he was currently in the parking lot at The Watering Hole.
Holy crap.
And here it was, ladies and gentlemen, the moment of truth. Her fantasy was about to become—for better or worse—a reality.
Chapter Five
“What the hell happened?” Tor barked into his phone in lieu of a greeting, pacing the back corner of the bar parking lot. The text message had come in as he was walking inside.
Inger: I had a fall at the climbing gym. In the hospital. Okay. Mostly.
Typical Inger. To describe his sister as understated was an understatement in and of itself. She was like the Black Knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, could be limbless and still chirping about how it was merely a flesh wound.
“X-rays came back twenty minutes ago. They’re telling me that my femur suffered a hairline fracture.” She blew out a frustrated breath. “And my kneecap is pretty much shattered. There were some other things, but I forget. Doc thinks I can kiss my spring climbing trip to Yosemite goodbye. I’d be mad, but I’m hopped up on so much Vicodin that I don’t even know my own name. Who are you again?”
He didn’t smile. Nothing about the situation was remotely funny. “Do you need me to get on a plane?” Inger lived in Minneapolis with her boyfriend and two corgis. They saw each other infrequently, but stayed in touch via short weekly calls.
“Nah, I’ll live. At my age though, I should use a harness. That’s a weird word, right, harness?” Her normally crisp voice slurred. “Climbing harnesssssss.”
“Inger. Focus,” he snapped. “I’m serious.” His sister wasn’t a rambler. She was a corporate attorney with a reputation for precision speech. She must be pretty messed up. “I can come, just say the word. Is Jason looking after you? Making sure you are getting pain meds? Staying hydrated?”
“So protective, little brother.” There was a smile in her voice, but the tightness underneath made it clear that she was in a lot of pain. “He’s being a big help. But this means I have to bail on being your plus one to Maddy’s wedding. I’m getting transferred to a rehab facility for a week or two.”
“Don’t give me a second thought, just focus on getting better. I’ll be fine. Maddy and I are on good terms. Olive will miss you though.” He hoped his tone was convincing. He didn’t want to be a selfish asshole. His sister had sustained a serious injury, one that required a lengthy recuperation. He’d put in a call to a clinic he knew in the cities and get her squared away with some kick-ass PT. And she was right, her boyfriend would look after her. Jason worked from home for a tech firm and was devoted to her.
But now Tor would have to endure his ex-wife’s wedding alone. It wasn’t that he longed to have Maddy back. Not at all. They’d gotten married for plenty of the wrong reasons and too few of the right. But still.
The fact that she’d been the one to walk out had left a hurt that went deep. These days the pain was so familiar as to be a part of him, like the twinges in his lower back, old injuries from his days playing for the Univers
ity of Minnesota.
She’d made him choose between work and love. But when it came down to it, he loved to work. He didn’t just do his job, he was his job—and when she’d rejected that part of him, it’d felt like she’d rejected all of him. If she’d really understood him, she’d have respected that he didn’t coach for glory or a paycheck . . . He did it because it was what he was meant to do. And yeah, the grueling NHL schedule demanded that sometimes he’d miss an event or a birthday, but he’d do his damndest to make it up. He’d established a FaceTime date with his daughter every night he was on the road. But his efforts were never enough. Maddy had crafted a narrative wherein she played second string to hockey and eventually he gave up and gave in to her story, becoming less emotionally involved.
Until she was gone.
He wasn’t proud. But that’s how it happened.
Inger called it “growing apart.” He didn’t know what to call it except a failure.
And he hated failing.
He bit down on the toothpick in the corner of his mouth, snapping the thin wood in two before spitting the shards onto the parking-lot asphalt. He’d given up smoking cold turkey when Olive was born. Toothpicks still took the edge off.
Two guys stumbled out of The Watering Hole front door doing a bad rap impression of Eminem’s “Lose Yourself.”
“What’s going on over there?” Inger asked, her words slurry, sleepy.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m getting a drink with Jed.”
“Ooooh, Jed West Jed?” She perked. Woman always did when hearing that name. “How’s he doing in post-Hellions life?”
“Good.” Great actually. The asshole was happier than he’d ever been, coaching on the college level and in love. Tor wanted to be happy for his friend, and he was, most of the time, when he wasn’t cursing him as a son of a bitch for his good luck.
He’d found a woman who loved him for who he was. No apologies.
“Wow, thanks for the newsy gossip,” Inger teased. “Hey.” She yawned. “I should get some sleep. Jason will be back soon and the nurses wake me up every two hours on their rounds.”