by Maria Luis
The honest truth is that I can’t bear to see the affection in her eyes be replaced with disappointment—or worse, disgust.
I’ll tell her soon.
I make the vow to myself, repeat it over and over again as she remains curled up against my chest.
When she pulls back, I run my thumb beneath her eyes, catching moisture and dashing it away. “You okay?” It’s a moronic question but it nevertheless needs to be asked.
“My fantasy kiss.”
Traitorous bastard that he is, my cock rises to attention at the thought of kissing Gwen. Be a decent human being and get your mind out of the gutter. “Later,” I mutter, even though my body is screaming hell-fucking-yeah. “I gave you a bit of a shock just now—”
Gwen pulls away from me just far enough to shove her red hair behind her ears. “I’ve always . . . how do I even say this?” Her hands curl into fists that she rests on my thighs. “You said once that you wanted something from me that no one else has ever had, my heart.”
Heart thundering with nerves, I think back to that moment in Faneuil Hall. It feels like ages ago, years even, and yet it’s only been a few weeks. With hesitance dogging my heels, I gently frame Gwen’s face with my hand. “I did say that.”
Her blue eyes burn bright, and I know without her admitting it directly, that I already have her heart. Licking her lips, she says, “I’ve always dreamt of kissing someone who loves me. T-that’s my fantasy. Kissing someone who cares for me, who can see beyond—oh! Marshall, what are you doing?”
“I’m going to collect on that fantasy kiss,” I tell her as I resettle her weight in my arms. And, yeah, maybe I’m a bit of a caveman because there’s nothing I like more than holding Gwen, bridal-style.
“Oh.”
This time, her voice is full of wonder when she speaks and it sets off every bit of fire inside me.
I take the stairs to my bedroom two at a time. And I sure as hell don’t stop until we’re both naked and on my bed. My hands wander everywhere, over the slope of her breast as I suck her nipple into my mouth. Over the lengths of her smooth legs, massaging the muscles there until her legs are pushed wide. She’s a sight for sore eyes.
I don’t actually kiss her, not yet.
But I play—with my lips on her clit, my tongue in her pussy, my fingers tweaking her nipples into hard little peaks. I work her over and over again until she’s shuddering against my mouth and demanding more than just my fingers and my tongue.
“Get on your knees,” I tell her, “and then face the mirror.”
She does as she’s told, moving to the edge of the bed and lifting onto her knees. Her skin is blotchy with lust, a rainbow of peaches and pinks and reds. She’s utterly gorgeous, and she’s all mine.
“Two fingers, Gwen.” I move behind her on the bed, my arms wrapping around her lean frame so that I can cup her breasts. Then I brush her hair back, so that I can kiss her neck. “Two fingers, just the way you like it.”
With my free hand, I tug on her nipple, then roll it between my fingers. Her gasp is audible, and I feel the way her shoulders jerk under my mouth. I flick my gaze to the mirror just as she sinks two fingers inside her pussy. My cock twitches against her back, and I give it one single stroke to tide me off.
Not yet.
This moment, this fantasy, is for Gwen.
My voice rumbles throughout the room, dark and demanding. “Run your thumb over your clit.”
Her hips spasm as she does, jerking forward as though chasing that elusive orgasm that I plan to give her. I watch as the pumps of her fingers turn frantic.
“Marshall,” she whimpers, her blue eyes wide and on me as she watches us in the mirror. “I need you.”
Fuck me, but I’ll never get tired of hearing her say that.
My hand latches onto her wrist, stilling her motions. “My turn.”
I shift her slightly, so that my feet are planted wide on the floor and she’s straddling my hips, her pussy brushing the tip of my cock. I keep her facing the mirror because I want her to see everything—the way I’ll rub her clit and tease her nipple, how I look behind her, how we look together.
“Take what you want, honey,” I whisper against the smooth expanse of her back. “Everything that I am is yours.”
When she sinks down onto my cock a second later, she is hands-down the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Through the mirror, I watch her neck elongate as she throws her head back. Her tits bounce with each upward drag and downward thrust. Her flat belly tightens, her core working to keep herself moving in a hypnotic rhythm. And her pussy . . . Jesus Christ, but watching her take me, seeing the slip and slide of my cock moving in and out of her, is almost enough to send me over the edge.
I fist her hair in one hand, pulling her back just slightly, so that she’s cradled against my chest.
And then I take over.
My hands grip her hips as I lift her up and bring her back down.
“Yes,” she whimpers, “oh my God, yes.”
It’s the only encouragement I need. Her hands lock down on my forearms, using me as leverage to move even faster.
She cries out my name when I touch her clit and press down on the sensitive nub.
It’s all she needs to tip over the edge. She comes, whispering my name, begging me to never stop.
Three more hard thrusts, and I follow her into the abyss. I roar out her name, and spill everything that I am within her.
A no-good kid from Southie with a dirty-talking mouth and an obsession with hockey.
“My legs,” she whispers after a moment, “my legs are going to die.”
“Was it worth it?” I change our positions, rolling her over onto her back so my body covers hers.
Her smile is beautiful. “So worth it.”
I grin back down at her. “I saved the best for last.”
“What’s that?”
“This,” I tell her, and then I lower my face to hers. Gwen meets me in the middle for a kiss that steals my soul. It’s soft and languid, and nothing like the sex we just had—and it’s just another reason to love this woman.
She sighs against my mouth. “Best fantasy kiss I’ve ever had.”
“I know.”
Her hands drift up my back. “You know the only thing that would make this better? Pie.”
Laughter clogs my throat as I stare down at her. “I’m done with the pie. Hell, my ass is done with all things pie too.”
Beautiful blue eyes meet mine. “I guess I’d be willing to trade the pie for another kiss.”
I sink down into her, grazing my lips over hers. “Now, that I can do . . .”
28
Hunt
I’m hot tonight on the ice.
It’s our last game before Christmas in two days, and TD Garden is full of holiday cheer.
And by that, I mean, the Tampa Bay Lightning fans are losing their shit after I nail the net with my second goal in the last period.
Carter grabs me around the neck and touches our helmets together. “That’s what I’m talking about, Hunt,” he shouts over the din in the arena, “that’s what I’m fucking talking about!”
I don’t know whether I’m riding on the euphoria of being with Gwen or the fact that me and my boys are taking names and kicking ass tonight, but I don’t want it to stop.
It’s games like these that remind me I’m on the right path, that I spent months collecting dirty towels for a reason before Mark James ever let me step foot on the ice.
Gwen’s father taught me to respect the hard work hockey requires.
He also taught me to keep my head out of my ass and recognize that I won’t always be the best.
Tonight, though, I am the best and I plan to milk it for all its worth.
Coach Hall calls us to the bench for the second line to take over. Our shift swap is fast, efficient, and the next thing I know, I’m guzzling Gatorade from the sidelines and watching my teammates defend our two-goal lead against Tampa Bay.
We’ll have maybe one or two plays to get a breather, and like always, I do my best to keep my mind in the game.
“Hunt! Hunt!”
I’m used to hearing fans chant my name, and I’m not one of those pricks who won’t pause for a half-second to appreciate that the people in this stadium are the reason I play hockey for a career.
I twist my head, glancing to my right toward the line of folks seated on the other side of the Plexiglas. The two dudes closest to the barrier bump arms and then point at me. Nothing new, even though I’d prefer it if they didn’t look at me like I’m some weird-ass animal in a zoo.
Bringing my bottle up to my mouth again, I squeeze my hand to squirt out more energy drink. Time to get my head back in the game before I lose focus and shit hits the fan.
Persistent knocking on the Plexiglas has me looking at the dudes again, only this time they’re holding a cell phone against the divider. My gaze catches the headline, and my stomach roils with nausea.
Fuck.
“Hunt!” Coach Hall from my left. “You’re in!”
I can’t stop looking at the article on the phone. He did it. My motherfucker of a brother turned that shit in like I’m nothing to him.
Fury burns in my veins as Hall shouts my name again. “Hunt! Get on the fucking ice!”
I don’t remember skating back to my position. I don’t remember making pass after pass at the net, to my teammates. I don’t remember making an assist that wins the game or doing anything remotely worthy of landing on ESPN’s top ten plays for the next morning.
Betrayal clouds my vision and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
By the time we make it to the locker-room, I’m already steamrolling toward my locker where all my shit is. My hands tear at my duffel bag as I search for my phone.
I need to call my lawyer, my agent, my publicist.
Dave Hunt has risen from the dead, and he’s determined to drag me down into hell.
29
Gwen
“That one,” I say, pointing to a beautiful mermaid-silhouette wedding gown on one of the mannequins. “That one is totally yours.”
Next to me, Charlie sips the champagne Nina, the wedding consultant, brought us when we arrived for Zoe’s appointment.
“I feel fancy,” Charlie mutters out of the corner of her mouth. “Whenever Duke and I get married, I want only champagne at our wedding.”
“I have a feeling that’ll be sooner rather than later,” Zoe says, sipping her own champagne while we wait for Nina to return with the next round of dresses. “Duke can barely keep his hands off you.”
Charlie flicks back her blond hair with flair. “Do you know something I don’t know?”
Zoe and I exchange looks over our friend’s head. If we knew Morse code, our blinking would probably say something like this:
Do you know anything?
Nope. Do you?
Nada. Dammit, the men don’t tell us anything.
I pat Charlie’s knee. “I bet he’s planning a proposal as we speak. I mean, realistically speaking, you two are definitely the couple who would wake up one morning and decide to go to the courthouse and get hitched.”
Charlie grins into her champagne glass. “You know us so well.”
I don’t know why I do it, because it’s certainly not the time or the place, but I nudge my friend in the arm. In a low voice, I murmur, “I’m sorry, you know. For how I was in college and then . . . everything with Duke when the two of you started dating.”
She blinks back at me. Stunned, maybe? Tossing back the rest of her bubbly, she sets the glass on the table beside her. “Gwen, I forgave you a while ago. What brought this on now?”
Clearly, I’m getting sentimental in my old age.
I motion toward Zoe, who’s standing on the little elevated platform in a dress she described as “eh” but nothing to write home about. If it takes her another forty-eight tries, I know I’d sit here and pound back champagne with Charlie until Zoe found the perfect gown. “I guess I’m just saying thank you—for not writing me off when you could have. For giving me the chance to prove to you that I’m not a total Regina George.”
From the platform, Zoe laughs. “You kinda are a Regina, though.”
“I hate you,” I tell her, knowing she knows what I’m really trying to say: You’re the bestest friends ever, and I love you both to pieces. “I’ve done a lot of soul-searching recently, and I realized . . . sometimes your family are the people you choose.” I think of Charlie, Zoe, Manuel. “I don’t know. Not to be sappy or anything like that, but I love you guys. That’s all.”
Charlie throws a hand to her forehead in a fake swoon. Not to be outdone, Zoe pretends to collapse on the platform, but considering she’s wrapped up in a tight dress, she nearly stumbles and goes down face-first.
Laughter bubbles up within me. My girlfriends are sarcastic and ridiculous and I wouldn’t have them any other way.
“Are we ready for the next round?” Nina asks, coming back into the massive dressing room with an armful of gowns. “I know we’ll have the perfect one in the mix.”
“You need something that’s going to give Beaumont a hard-on the minute he sees you at the end of the aisle,” Charlie announces with a flamboyant wink. She points at her crotch as though to further elaborate her point.
“Really?” I ask, settling back in my seat with my own champagne flute in hand. “I was thinking something romantic. Andre is always trying to make you swoon.”
“Andre Beaumont?” Nina murmurs, and I can tell she’s a Blades fan just by the high pitch of her voice. “Do you all know Marshall Hunt?”
I sit up a little straighter at the mention of Marshall.
Charlie lays a hand on my leg. Down, girl, that hand says. Over the last year, both Zoe and Charlie have learned to deal with puck bunnies galore. Me, on the other hand? I’m brand new at the game and am not enjoying the lick of jealousy weighing down my limbs.
“We do,” Charlie says evenly. “He’s a good friend of ours, as is his girlfriend.”
Her words smooth my ruffled feathers—somewhat.
“Poor girl,” the consultant tells us as she unlaces Zoe from her current dress and sweeps it off to the side. “I hate to be her when she realizes that her boyfriend is about to be kicked off the team. Terrible stuff. The Blades aren’t going to be the same without him.”
What in the world is she talking about?
I yank my phone out of my purse and switch off Airplane Mode. I’d sent Marshall a text earlier in the day to let him know I’d be out with the girls wedding shopping. My leg jiggles with nerves as the internet comes back to life on my phone.
Like a scroll out of a nightmare, text after text after text pops up on the screen.
All from Marshall.
I close them out, hand trembling, as I open the internet browser and type in his name.
Hit ENTER.
Deep breath.
One by one, articles flood the Google search.
Marshall Hunt Discovered in Illegal Fighting Ring in Brockton, MA: What Witnesses Are Saying.
NHL Star Marshall Hunt Caught Dealing Drugs: Will The Boston Blades Cut Him Now?
Uncovered Secrets: Boston Blades Forward Marshall Hunt Nearly Murders Father In Youth
My hand closes over my mouth. “I’m going to be sick.”
Charlie snatches the phone from me, her gaze skimming the headlines. “You need to go to him.”
“I-I . . .” I don’t have any words to say. None at all.
“Ow!” Zoe shrieks, and it’s not until I lift my eyes to her face that I realize she’s trying to distract Nina. “Careful with that pin. I bleed like crazy. Trust me when I say you don’t want this gown turning red.”
“Charlie,” I whisper frantically, “what do I do?”
With a hand to my face, she forces me to look at her. “Do you remember when you were all upset about him turning you down? And Zoe asked if you would give Hunt your kidney if it ever came to pass?”
“Well, yeah. But what does this—”
My best friend taps me on the forehead. “This is the kidney moment, Gwen. Don’t think the worst of him, not yet. Go, listen, be there for him.”
She’s right. She’s so right.
I stand. “I have to go.”
Charlie gives me a little slap on the ass. “Go get ‘em, girl. Protect what’s yours.”
She’s right, again. Marshall is mine and I’ll be damned if I let someone bring him down. We’ll figure it out. We’ll tackle it together.
I just have to figure out where the hell he is first.
30
Hunt
Like the rat he is, Dave decided to miraculously “appear” in my house when I got back from dealing with the Blades’ head staff.
I knew I made the right decision in going to them when this shit all went down. The tabloids may be having a field day but my coaches, the authorities, and the NHL all know that it’s a load of crap.
Best decision of my professional career? Turning on the recording app on my phone just before entering that warehouse in Brockton. When the cops showed up a few days later, asking for me to turn my cell phone in for evidence, I did so without question, even if I did have to lie about breaking it at the gym to Gwen.
If there’s one thing my childhood taught me, it’s always being prepared for the worst.
Optimism will get you far, but pessimism will ensure that you get out alive.
Not everyone has your best interests in mind, and Dave definitely doesn’t have mine.
I stare at my older brother, waiting for him to speak first.
“You think you’re so smart, bro,” he spits out. He wavers in place, and I can smell the alcohol seeping out from his pores even from here. “You think”—he throws a hand on the kitchen island to keep himself steady—“that you know everything.”