So Over You

by Kate Meader

  “You look like an angel, Bella. A beautiful green angel.”

  She clamped her lips shut. Vadim’s usually excellent command of the English language sometimes clashed with his absolute sincerity.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “A beautiful green angel sounds like an environmental activist.”

  He winked. Winked! “We have done good things for the environment, you and I. Sharing showers.”

  She gave a solemn nod. “I accept this important role.”

  Smiling, he coasted his hands over her hips and molded them to her ass. “I wish you to do something for me. As I will be unable to spend any time with you this evening because when I’m next to you, my cock has a mind of its own, you will have to give me your panties.”

  She swallowed. “My panties?”

  “Yes, your panties.”

  “You can’t be close to me because of your raging erection, so I’m to give you my panties. Not seeing the logic here, Vad.”

  “This is why the USA is a failing superpower. You do not make the necessary connections.”

  Never get involved with a Russian. “Enlighten me.”

  “If your panties are in my pocket, I will know that you are suffering as much as I. Without that slip of fabric between your thighs, your senses will be heightened.” Each word was a seductive thrust of temptation. “That sensitive little pussy of yours will feel naked. It will get wet. It will think about why and will know that I carry your panties around in my pocket.”

  Her head fell against his shoulder, her breathing quick and shallow. Oh, God, what was he thinking, saying all these wicked, delicious things?

  He wasn’t finished. “Perhaps I will finger them. Perhaps I will slip away to a quiet corner so I can bury my nose in them and smell you.”

  Jesus. “Okay, I get the connections.”

  His tongue traced the shell of her ear. “I’m not sure you do. Perhaps I will take myself in hand and wrap your panties around my cock while I jerk off. I will have to put my fist in my mouth to muffle the sound of your name on my lips.”

  Stop don’t stop. “You’d better dry-clean those puppies before you give ’em back.”

  He laughed, a rasp of appreciation against her ear, then he gave the sensitive lobe a gentle nip. “Panties. Now, Bella.”

  Feeling heavy with sensation, she looked over her shoulder. All clear. “I need to hold your arm.”

  “Better you hold my shoulders.” He fell to his knees, his hands on the backs of her calves. “I like to see you in dresses, Bella. You have beautiful legs.” His hands trailed to the backs of her thighs, and she ransacked her mind, trying to remember what she was wearing.

  Something old and gray?

  Something new and sexy?

  All would be revealed! He hooked a finger in the elastic and pulled. As the panties cleared her thighs, she glanced down. Thank the lingerie gods. A black silk bikini from Addison’s collection.

  They pooled at her ankles. She lifted a kitten-heeled foot, but he held it down. “Wait.”

  With his palms roving inside her thighs, he moved back up, up, up, until—oh, God—both thumbs stroked her.

  She swooned.

  “You are wet, Bella.” He lifted his gaze to meet hers, and everything she adored about him reflected back at her in those crystalline blues.

  With eyes never leaving hers, he lifted her skirt. One inch. Two. Total, wicked exposure. His tongue gave one solitary swipe of pleasure over her dripping center. He knelt back on his haunches, his face in ecstasy.

  Then he picked up the panties, stood, and put them in his pocket. One lascivious lick along his lower lip completed the torture.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, as if what had happened had not just happened.

  “No,” she managed to croak out.

  “Good.”

  He drew back the curtain and sent her out into the crowd.

  For five thousand dollars a table, one would expect the food to be better. But then that was probably the point—spend as little on the food as possible so that all the funds could go to charity.

  Before the meal, Vadim had mingled with the crowd, signing autographs and fending off women who said he would be their first choice during the bachelor auction later. He didn’t care about the auction, but he would do it for Isobel. During this time, whenever their eyes met, he patted his coat pocket and watched her blush.

  Damn, she was beautiful with that color infusing her creamy skin. The taste of her still coated his mouth, and it had taken a Herculean effort on his part to stop after one lick. Tonight they would find a hotel, because when you had relatives in town, it put an unbearable crimp in your sex life.

  “Not gonna eat the chicken, Vaddy?” Erik, who had the appetite of a woolly mammoth, eyed Vadim’s barely touched meal. Their goaltender had already eaten Cade’s, not that the usually amiable Texan noticed or cared. He was in a strangely foul mood tonight, barely grunting when spoken to.

  Vadim pushed his plate toward Erik. “It’s all yours.”

  “Awesome!”

  Bren was on his other side, a finger tracing the rim of his water glass, his expression contemplative.

  “Okay, there, Captain?”

  “Yeah. Just not a big fan of these kinds of events. Reminds me of my ex. She was big on parties and glitz.”

  “How are your girls?” Bren had two beautiful daughters who visited once a month from Atlanta for a few days. It was hard on him to be separated from them.

  Bren’s face brightened. “Amazing. Though my youngest doesn’t really like her mom’s new boyfriend. Says he’s a Philistine.”

  “That’s a big word. How old is your youngest?”

  “Almost nine,” he said proudly. “Smart as a whip, and she doesn’t suffer fools gladly. My ex is shacking up with Drew Cassidy. You heard of him?”

  The wide receiver for the Atlanta NFL team. “Your wife has a type, then.”

  “Ex-wife. And yeah, she does. But she likes a once-a-week athlete versus the NHL schedule. The girls want to live with me, but I’d have to find a nanny, and how is that any better than what they’ve got now?”

  Some women were not cut out to be mothers. “A nanny might be an improvement.”

  Bren smiled knowingly. “Heard your mom’s in town, along with your sister.”

  Vadim sought out Isobel, two tables over. “Yes, it’s not the most ideal situation.”

  “It never is. So, you and Isobel, huh?”

  “What?” His protective instincts surged. “She is my—” Mine. “—my coach.”

  The Scot rubbed his beard. “Sure she is.”

  Denial was on the tip of his tongue, but he was saved from having to do so when someone tapped the microphone. A white-haired man on the stage thanked them for their attendance and launched into a spiel about the charity.

  “We’ve raised over $420,000 for Hockey for Everyone tonight, including one single donation of $100,000 from the Rebels’ Vadim Petrov.” The crowd erupted in appreciation while Erik elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Good work, Vaddy!”

  The rest of the table congratulated him, but when Vadim caught Bren’s eye, he saw sly humor.

  “Yeah, good work, Vaddy,” the Scotsman said softly.

  Unable to resist, Vadim looked over to Isobel, who had an eyebrow raised and a smile on her face. This charity meant a lot to her, so of course he would help, especially as he had wealth beyond what he earned on the ice. One hundred thousand dollars was a drop in the bucket of his millions, but he didn’t want to overdo it in case people would gossip. Which is why he had asked that his name not be mentioned.

  In for a ruble . . . He stood to accept the applause and shouted out, “The rest of my teammates will match my donation.” The players might be here to mingle and lend some star power, but there was no reason why they shouldn’t also put their hands in their pockets. They could well afford it.

  The room broke into louder applause, even his teammates, who shook their hea
ds at his audaciousness in volunteering their hard-earned cash.

  “I will pay out for any of you who are cheapskates,” he said as he retook his seat.

  “Before we start the fun with the bachelor auction,” the man on the stage said, prompting several women near the bar to scream their appreciation, “we’d like to take a moment to honor one of Hockey for Everyone’s founding members and an unstinting advocate for the cause of bringing hockey and sports to anyone who wants to play. First, let’s give you a brief recap of her great career.”

  A video started up, beginning with footage of Isobel playing as a five-year-old, fearless even then while her father passed pucks to her. Her childhood and teen exploits on the ice were well documented, and the rest Vadim knew because once he had met her, he’d followed every step of her professional life: the glory in NCAA, the silver medal in the Games, the one and only night fulfilling her dream as a hockey pro.

  While everyone watched the screen, he watched her as the lights flickered over her face with each milestone. The winning goal against Russia in the semifinals in Sochi (the one time he had actually cheered against his country) right up until the first few minutes of the game in Buffalo.

  He had stood in the stands that night, covered with a winter cap, seeking and embracing anonymity. It was her night, and he didn’t want to take away from that.

  Lightning fast, she feints left and whips by the Montreal defender, her skates on fire, the puck hers to command. She’s already scored two goals and her team, the Buffalo Betties, is ahead by one. With four minutes left to the second period, another goal would place them in a commanding position. The first win in the new National Women’s Hockey League will likely be hers.

  The goaltender spreads, filling the crease, leaving no gaps, except Isobel sees a chink of light. Her hockey IQ is nothing short of phenomenal. She passes left to her winger, moves into position, and when the puck is back on her blade, snipers to the top shelf. A drive of beauty, it will win the game, though she won’t be on the ice when the final buzzer sounds.

  This was where the highlight reel ended, but Vadim’s brain picked up the next frames of that fateful night two years ago. Each move, stride, and hit was stamped into his memory.

  A minute after that beautiful goal, she’s checked hard by a defender and falls to the unforgiving ice. Her helmet slips off—she’s always liked to wear it loose—and an opposing player is unable to brake in time.

  A skate slices through Isobel’s skull like it’s the softest butter.

  Blood pools on the ice, and I know. I know this is not a typical rink injury. I know this will end her career.

  Possibly her life.

  The crowd shoots to its collective feet, everyone in a horrified hush as her teammates and game officials huddle around her.

  Too long. She’s been down too long.

  I start out of my seat, pushing past the rubbernecking crowd, my mind racing as fast as my heart. If it’s a minor injury, they will bring her through the tunnel, back to the locker rooms, but if it’s as bad as I suspect, she will be in an ambulance before I can make it to the arena’s back area . . .

  “You all right, Petrov?”

  Vadim took a moment to haul himself back to the present. Bren was eyeing him as if he’d been speaking in his sleep.

  “Ya ne znayu.” I do not know.

  Thankfully, this video recap ended before the worst moment of her life. But just like him, she was thinking about it. Stark paleness blanked her face as she headed up to the stage. He knew it was the one moment uppermost in her mind.

  The moment she lost it all.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Vadim shook hands with Lenny, the Rebels’ HQ head of security.

  “Sorry ’bout this, Mr. Petrov. I could have called Ms. Chase or Mr. Moretti, but I figured you might be the best person to handle it, seeing as how you’re no stranger to night skates yourself.”

  “You did the right thing.”

  Lenny shuffled alongside Vadim as he headed toward the practice rink.

  “I thought about shutting the lights out, force the issue, so to speak, but I didn’t want her to have an accident. She wouldn’t listen to me when I told her she should take it easy and come off the ice.”

  That sounded like Isobel. “How long?”

  “Going on ninety minutes now.”

  Vadim mentally kicked himself. After the fund-raiser, she had disappeared, not even telling Violet where she had gone. No answers to his texts, either.

  That video.

  He should have known when he couldn’t find her that she would come here. The rink was her cathedral, the ice her touchstone. It was where she would always return.

  But ninety minutes? That was more than any set of legs, even those of a powerhouse like Isobel Chase, could endure.

  “I will take care of it, Lenny. Thank you.”

  “All right, Mr. Petrov.” Lenny turned and walked back to his post near the entrance.

  Should Vadim go back and grab skates from the equipment room? Deciding against it, he continued to rinkside, the sound of ice being crisscrossed and shredded getting louder with each step.

  His heart stuttered, stalled, and crashed at the sight before him.

  Bella on the ice, the green fabric of that sexy dress flapping behind her. Her dark hair flew like the wind, her silhouette that of a Valkyrie as she corralled the puck and shot it into the net.

  But even a Valkyrie needed armor. On her body, no pads. On her head, no helmet.

  Fury reared up in his blood, chasing away his admiration. If she fell and struck her skull—that would not happen.

  “Isobel!”

  She spun on her blades to face him, a glare already daggered his way. Then she pivoted and skated back to the center, where she had lined up several pucks.

  Fine. He would play her game.

  Two minutes later, he was out on the ice. He’d left his jacket and tie behind and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Skating in suit pants and a dress shirt felt odd, but maybe the moment deserved oddness. He would give her this.

  And then he would put her over his knee and give her the spanking she deserved.

  “Ready?” he asked, thrusting a helmet toward her. A foolish question. This woman was born ready. She was the daughter of greatness, the child of Clifford Chase’s destiny.

  “I don’t need that.”

  “Then I will be forced to take it easy on you. No checks. Hockey for toddlers.”

  Growling, she grabbed the helmet and forced it over her head. He grasped the chin straps, absorbing her ire while he took care of securing her safety. As soon as it was tight, she shoved him in the chest.

  “Don’t spare me.”

  “Never.”

  It took him a few minutes to catch up, to warm to the rhythm of the ice. The rhythm of her. His clothes restricted his movement and he would not be surprised if his pants split right down the center on his first lunge. Perhaps that’s why she was able to whip the puck away from him twice in a row.

  “Come on, Russian, you’re going easy on me.” The words were a tease, the tone was disgust.

  She floated the puck in front of him, inviting him to slap at it. Instead he circled so he hovered behind her, a predatory move.

  “It is colder than I expected,” he said against her ear.

  “You’ve gotten soft since you moved to the NHL. What would your countrymen think of poor little Vadim who can’t handle a little chill?”

  “They would think I should find a woman to warm me.”

  She turned and passed the puck to him. “Try to score.”

  He moved until he was close enough to kiss her. The temptation was almost unbearable, but he resisted. “Try to stop me.” Then he struck the puck so it hit the board behind the net and ricocheted back.

  The next ten minutes were spent in a game of wits and hits. He was careful not to check too hard. She didn’t give him the same consideration.

  At the third slam of his body into the Plexi—a
nd der’mo, he did not enjoy playing without padding—he dropped his stick and flipped their positions. Covering her body with his, he held her securely against the plastic.

  Skating with her turned him on. Isobel had always excited him, but watching her talent as she danced rings around him, the balletic ice moves of a master—this made him feel alive. And with that life, that zest spiking his blood, he knew he was back to where he had started.

  In love with Isobel Chase.

  Had he ever not been in love with her? He could barely remember a time he did not want her. Did not need her. Did not adore her with every part of his body and soul.

  “Why are you here, Bella?”

  “On this earth?”

  “Tell me.”

  Her eyes flamed behind her mask and he released the strap, pulling it off her head. He needed to see her properly. See her pain. He lifted her chin to look her in the eye.

  “Lindhoff called. I didn’t make Team USA.”

  He stared hard at her, stripping her more bare than that phone call two hours ago. Coach had called while she was in the bathroom at the Drake, where she’d holed up so she wouldn’t be tempted to raise a hand when some Lincoln Park socialite made a bid for Vadim during the dumb auction.

  She shouldn’t have answered the phone. She should have let it go to voice mail, so she would have one more night of hope.

  “What did he say?” Vadim’s tone was careful. Of course it was; he was dealing with a time bomb.

  “What you said. What everyone has been saying. He was clear this wasn’t an indictment of my talent.” The words were choked out, dripping with bitter understanding of the position Lindhoff was in. “But he ran it by the lawyers, and they can’t risk the liability. One minute winning gold, the next their center bleeding out on the ice. Think of the optics.”

  She dropped her stick, the clatter of it against the ice loud and final. It was over. She was done.

  “Bella,” he whispered, his voice soft with pity she neither needed nor wanted.

  She pushed him away, but he crowded her back, all brute Russian strength. His power mocked her weakness. His health scorned her failure. Nothing was stopping him from reaching the pinnacle of his sport. Their sport.