by Lia Riley
Good answer. Good man.
He wasn’t finished. “It makes me hopeful. I’d like to love again.”
Heat radiated through her core.
“By the power vested in me by the state of Colorado, I now declare you husband and wife.” The officiate gave a theatrical pause. “You may kiss the bride.”
The room burst into applause. Then everyone stood and began to file into the adjacent reception space. Even though it was ridiculous, it felt like everyone stared at her shoes. “Sorry your date is the big klutz.”
“Not a chance.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her in tight. “Pretty sure mine is the one who is bold and beautiful, who has a sassy mouth and gives me a run for my money. Let them stare. You know how you got that ankle injury.”
“Tripping over a piece of granite hiding in a patch of dry grass?”
“No. Not literally, Angel.” He kissed the top of her hair. He’d been doing that all day, finding sneaky ways to kiss her with affection.
These kisses were getting seriously addictive. She craved them. The gentle sweetness. The shared affection. She’d never had this feeling before—this sense of belonging to someone.
“You went up against a moose,” Tor said.
“Well, technically you did.”
“We both did. You were amazing by the river. You kept your cool and damn it, girl, you can run.”
She pretended to polish her knuckles on her chest. “Forrest Gump has nothing on me.”
“That’s a fact. He’d eat your dust.”
They found their table in the back corner of the room. Well away from the wedding-party dais, and that was fine by them.
The candelabra on the table softly flickered and there were silver snowflakes strewn above the ceiling with fairy lights. She watched the dappled brightness cut across Tor’s face, highlighting everything from his bold nose to his wide, sensual mouth, Scandinavian bone structure and ash-blond hair. Every time she looked at him, it was a surprise, and not a little disorienting. Tor Gunnar wasn’t her enemy anymore. He was her . . . lover. And more importantly, her friend. And when he returned her gaze, it wasn’t with cool aloofness, or a slight sneer, but a smolder that took her breath away.
It had been a good call not to mention Scott Miller’s request to him. She could take that fact to the bank and cash it. He’d let the worst-coach article slide without much drama, and accepted blame for his part in the lead up . . . but . . . he had been a little hurt.
She smoothed her linen napkin over her lap. The strangest thing of all was realizing her power, not simply to hurt him but also to give happiness. It was like she was Peter Parker talking to Uncle Ben, being told that “with great power comes great responsibility.”
But her superpower wasn’t shooting spiderwebs from her wrists. It was melting this god of snow and ice and finding the man who’d been frozen for so long inside.
The dinner was tempting: roasted peppers stuffed with risotto, filet mignon, whipped potatoes and roasted-root soup. Once the five-piece jazz band struck up the music for dancing, waitstaff appeared with trays covered in miniature molten lava cakes and flutes bubbling with pink champagne.
Dabbing the corner of his mouth, he leaned over. “You want to stay for dessert or be mine?” He stared at her mouth as if he wanted to devour it in slow, delicious licks, then let his gaze travel to other parts of her body with obvious hunger, an invitation to feast.
She’d always said there was nothing better than chocolate. Looked like she might as well admit that there was a lot she’d gotten wrong in life.
“Can we go?” she whispered, her throat tight with anticipation.
“Sure. Olive’s having a ball.” He jutted a chin to where his daughter was skipping around the dance floor with her older cousins. “I already gave her permission to drive back to Denver in the morning with my former sister-in-law and her cousins. I’ve put in my appearance. Maddy already thanked me. The way I see it, it’s time we have our own fun.”
Her sex clenched with such force she almost moaned aloud. That would be embarrassing. She wouldn’t even be able to blame the reaction on the untouched cake the waitress had just placed before her.
“What are we waiting for?” she asked, sliding back her chair.
“Nothing.” He rose and extended her a hand. “We’ve waited long enough.”
Chapter Sixteen
“How long does the gondola take to go from Solitude to Telluride village?” Neve asked the bearded liftie, her brown eyes wide with innocent curiosity.
“Thirteen minutes door to door,” the liftie replied automatically, extending a wool wrap. “Blanket for the ride down?”
“We’ll pass.” Tor shook his head.
“Hah!” The guy’s broad shoulders shook in laugher. “That’s usually a locals-only secret. Never accept a gondola blanket.”
They stepped inside and Tor turned as the doors shut. “Don’t worry, I’m planning on keeping you warm for the ride down.”
She grabbed his tie. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Moaning, she opened her mouth, allowing him to sweep his tongue inside, tasting peppermint from the hard candy she’d popped on her way out the door, Merlot and a flavor that could only be described as Neve.
In other words, heaven.
He brushed her cheek, then slid his fingers along her jaw and down her neck in a possessive caress. “I want to fuck you.”
“What a coincidence, I was going to say the exact same thing.” Her grin turned naughty. “But we don’t have long.”
“With you, that’s never a problem.”
“Let me guess. You have a thing for women in formal wear and tennis shoes.”
“Get over here, Angel.” He sat on the bench and pulled her on top. Sliding both hands up over her muscular inner thighs, he bunched her dress up around her hips. Fucking Christ. She was wearing see-through black panties connected by two flimsy pieces of string. It would take nothing but a flick of the wrist to have her bare, but if they were going for a quick-and-dirty fuck, he’d go all the way.
“Slide those to the side and spread yourself for me.”
Her hand shook but she did as he commanded. Wind from the snowstorm rocked the gondola, setting the tempo for the slow rock of her hips.
“You’re wet.”
“It seems to be a side effect of the trip.”
“Slide your fingers inside. I want you drenched.”
“Not going to be a problem.”
He tore his cock from his suit pants, the thick tip gleaming. She inched forward and he shook his head. “Not yet. Work your clit.”
“I don’t want to come first,” she whimpered.
“You’re not going to come until I say so.”
Her head rocked forward. “Always so bossy.”
“And you always fucking love it.”
Her moan was one of assent.
He pumped his cock and gazed at her, eye to eye, the head mere inches from her heat. His erection pressed into the soft curls where her thighs joined her pelvis. The slow tickle on his sensitive cock heated his sac. His stomach muscles flexed.
“Now.” He grabbed his shaft at the root and angled it up. “On me.”
She braced one of her hands on his shoulder, easing herself down, slowing his thick length to stretch her slowly, drive her open, allow him to go deeper, and deeper, and—fuck—even deeper still.
When she was full of him, he grabbed the hand that had worked her pussy by the wrist, sucked her fingers in, lapping all her flavor. Her heat contracted around him on instinct.
“You fill me so good.” Her moan was a delighted agony.
“Love it.” His chest filled with rasping breaths. Fuck, he almost said the words. The words. It had to be the sex talking. No way could he say he loved her. It was the weekend talking. That and breaking the seal on his seven-year dry spell. The fact he liked her. That for as long as he had known her, he had liked her even if he wouldn’t admit it.
Shit. For yea
rs he’d noticed her every time she walked into a room? He’d thought about her whenever she wasn’t there?
Was it possible? His body temperature cranked. Was he in love with Neve Angel?
He grabbed her hips, hauling her against him, claiming her mouth, sucking her skin as if he could draw out the truth.
They were fully clothed except in their most intimate places. Fitting. They’d always guarded themselves around each other. Threw up armor. But there was no lie in the slick wet saturating his cock, slicking his sac. And none in the aching thickness of his cock.
She rode him with a grinding hunger. The wind screamed against the gondola windows, steaming from their heat and breath.
He grabbed her by the neck and took over the rhythm. She hung on, practically sobbing as he drove into her center, true and hard. He didn’t even have to touch her clit. From the way she trembled, he could tell she was about to come from this and this alone.
Her velvet softness was tight, so tight, and yet she had just enough room to give him full access, bury himself to the hilt.
Her hips churned, her greedy body not yet satisfied. Needing everything. “Fuck, fuck, oh God, fuck.”
He slowed until his lunges were brutally tender, gently punishing. Her flesh swelled, plumped up and primed. Ready to take every inch of his plunging cock.
“Neve. I want you. I’ve wanted you since the day I met you. Want to know why I haven’t been with anyone in so long? Because I’ve only craved you.”
She closed her eyes as he groaned her name again and fell quietly apart, lips parted, mouth drawn in ecstasy. He couldn’t stop watching as his own orgasm bore down.
At the peak of the build she opened her eyes and looked right into his. “Tor.”
She didn’t say anything else, and didn’t have to.
They were on the precipice of something big.
As they teetered they held each other close. Amazed. Awestricken and humbled. They might both be coming but he didn’t have a fucking clue where they were going.
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning Neve watched the snow fall as Tor drove around the roundabout on the way out of Telluride’s box canyon. Two elk bent near the shoulder, stoically chewing a few dried brown blades of grass. She hadn’t managed to catch a wink last night and was jittery from sleeplessness and the triple-shot latte she’d guzzled before departing.
After the gondola lift, they’d gone back to their room and made love two more times, each more intense than the last. When it was finally over, she hadn’t wanted the magical night to end so instead watched him sleep, feeling a little bit creepy but not all that sorry.
Not even the ghosts of feuding lovers dared haunt her peace.
So this was what it felt like to be cherished by a man. Her body was sore with it.
Praying the two Dramamine she’d popped with breakfast did the job, she flicked on her phone to text Scott the news that he’d have to learn to live with disappointment. Her job was to write assigned stories, but she was nothing if she didn’t have integrity behind her. This trip was on her private time, in her private life.
She wasn’t going to use it as material.
“You won’t get clear reception again for another forty minutes,” Tor said as they took a sharp turn. “Once we get down to the town of Ridgeway.”
“Imagine living somewhere like this.” Neve traced her fingers over the passenger window, regarding a log cabin up on the hillside. “Nestled away from the hustle and bustle of constant connection. Sounds peaceful.”
He chuckled. “I’d give you a week until you’d be scaling the closest peak trying to get faster Wi-Fi.”
“Guilty as charged.” She joined in his laugh. “I like the fantasy, but I’m not sure life is worth living without HBO GO. The silence might send me stir-crazy.”
“Can’t have that.” He flicked on the radio. It was an AM sports talk show, old-school but still considered classic. It only took a few words until she realized they were talking about the Hellions.
Tor turned it up.
“Hellions goalie Patch Donnelly found himself in hot water last night, charged with misdemeanor assault after an incident in Lower Denver. The victim, who has not been identified, was taken to hospital and released. No official word yet on what prompted the incident, but eyewitnesses have stated there had been a fight over a woman. Not sure what impact this will have on Donnelly or his future with the Hellions. The local champs have had a rough time since ending last season on a high note and—”
“Do you have any bars on your phone?” Tor glanced over, jaw tense. “It’s a long shot but . . . Shit. What the hell did Donnelly do this time?”
“Deep breaths. Patch has a notorious temper.” She put her hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t move, didn’t look at her. Just remained stiff and frozen as a block of ice. “Hey, remember last season, that time with the ref in the game against the Ducks? He left the penalty box to go after him. That was crazy town. I know you’ve tried to help him, but you can only lead a horse to water so much. You can’t make him—”
“Be quiet a second, please. I’m sorry to cut you off, but I need to think,” he muttered. “There’s an explanation. I know it. This isn’t like him.”
“Of course it is. You have a hothead goalie who uses his big fists instead of his big-boy words.”
“Patch isn’t that simple to explain.”
“Look, it’s sweet you are going all Papa Bear for one of your players, but face it. He’s a liability. Remember the article I wrote where—”
She must have picked up a bar because her phone started ringing. Surprise, surprise, it was Scott. Impeccable timing. And crap, she’d have to take it. If she ignored him he’d keep calling, getting more and more angry.
“Hey.”
“Change of plans. Forget that puff-piece profile. You hear about this Donnelly situation? What a mess.”
“A little.”
“It’s blowing up. I love it. He snapped the guy’s arm like it was nothing but a twig. That’s a big deal. Get a meaty quote from Tor Gunnar. You’ve got half an hour.”
“Hey, wait.”
“You mean ‘Hey, great, Scott. Sounds good. Report back soon,’” he mimicked in a high voice before clicking off.
She glared at her screen. Talk about being out of the frying pan and into the fire.
But this time Scott had a point. This Donnelly story was in the public interest and she was sitting in a sports car with the head coach of the Hellions.
“If you got a call in, I can make a call out. I’ll pull over at the next lookout and try,” he muttered. “You can take the opportunity to get some fresh air too. You took a Dramamine I grabbed for you, right?”
“I did.” She paused, struck by his kindness despite the turmoil. She crossed her toes that he’d understand that she had no choice. She had to do this; it was her job. She had to ask.
“Hey, so that call was my boss. Scott Miller.”
“Okay.” Tor didn’t take his eyes off the road. “What does my favorite person want?”
She bit her cheek at his sarcasm. “He’s working on an article about Patch with quick turnaround. You’re the coach, Tor. He needs a quote.”
“No. No fucking way.” Muscles worked in his jaw. The Angel anger muscles. “You’re getting no comment on Donnelly.”
“Tor, be reasonable. This is a story that the public is going to care about. They should care about it. Scott said your goalie broke someone’s arm.”
“I don’t know the full story. Screw Scott.”
“This isn’t just about Scott. This is me too. You know this is my job. I understand that you have an insight about Patch. Maybe you see something different than a big angry dude that beats on people, I don’t know. But neither will anyone else unless you say so.”
“This is exactly what I hate about the press.” He gave a disgusted-sounding snort. “They swoop in like vultures—like jackals—at the first sign of drama. There isn’t even a full
picture of the situation and already they are chewing on the meat, cracking into the bones.”
“I admit that the media moves fast, and sometimes too fast for its own good. But I am the media too, Tor, and you have to accept that or else—”
“Or else what? Is it time to make a threat?”
“No!” She startled, taken aback that somehow they’d gotten here, to this familiar place of animosity, so quickly. “Not at all. Just that otherwise I go back to being your enemy. And I don’t want that.”
“I don’t either.” He was quiet a moment. “But tell me something, Angel. Scott Miller just called wanting a quote. How do you suppose he knew that we’re together?”
Oh fudge.
“Aren’t there bigger fish to fry right now?” Her blood froze in her veins.
“Answer the question.” Permafrost coated his tone.
“I might have mentioned it.” She sighed.
“I see.”
The silence was excruciating. They had dropped down into a heavy cloud layer. The flurries had stopped but the wind was blowing drifts onto the side of the road over the asphalt.
“You need to slow down,” she piped up. “You don’t have snow tires and the conditions aren’t safe.”
“At any point did Scott Miller also ask you to do a story on me?”
Fog swirled by the windows, adding to the sense of claustrophobia. She could lie. Maybe she should lie. That would be better for everyone. But evading was easier. “Yes. But I decided that I don’t want to mix my work with . . . you.”
“Uh-huh. Nice sound bite. Except for that whole part where I happen to be your work.” The Porsche wheels skidded on the next corner. Neve shrieked as the back of the car fishtailed, but with a muffled curse, Tor had the car back under expert control.
“Tor, please—”
The fog broke and she flew forward as he slammed on the brakes, just as she registered the scene.
A silver minivan had spun out, hit the side of the mountain. The front was crumpled in like an accordion, glass scattered across the road.