Check My Heart

by Christi Barth

  It was fun, sure, but also frustrating. She’d never shopped on someone else’s dime. Kurt had steered her away from the sale racks, but she wouldn’t go near the high-end stuff. What was left wasn’t exactly exciting. The last time he shooed her back in to change, he’d ordered her to stay put. Five minutes later, he tossed a dress over the door for her to try.

  This dress.

  This screaming-red, figure-hugging piece of absolute fabric magic. Strapless. Short, but not in a skanky way. The lined red lace ended just above her knee, but had a slit that went higher up her thigh. It was classy and drop-dead sexy at the same time. Lisette had been terrified to touch it since glimpsing the price tag hanging from the satin ribbon at the waist. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever worn.

  “Show me,” he ordered from the other side of the door.

  “I can’t. I can’t get the zipper all the way up by myself. Will you find a saleswoman to come in and help me?”

  “Yeah.” Less than thirty seconds later, Lisette opened the door after a knock. And saw Kurt standing there with his eyes just about bulged out like a cartoon character. With a squeal, she grabbed at the sides of the bodice. Which only made the gap deeper between her breasts.

  “You can’t be in here, Kurt.”

  “Can’t buy the dress until I see it on, right? Can’t ask you to come out with your back all exposed. This is the simplest solution.” He stepped in, forcing her to retreat into an area that had seemed spacious just a moment ago. It was almost as big as the fancy dressing room where her sister had tried on wedding dresses. It had an overstuffed ottoman in the corner, as well as a little platform to stand on right in front of the mirror.

  But now, filled with Kurt’s shoulders and height and overwhelming masculinity, there seemed to be nowhere for Lisette to go. His gaze shot over her shoulder to where her naked back was visible in the full-length mirror. “Turn around,” he ordered in a husky rasp. Then he shot the bolt on the door.

  Lisette stepped up onto the platform. She started to turn, but his arm fired out, grabbing her wrist. “Wait. Don’t move.”

  The way your fingers burned when pressed into snow? That was the burn Lisette felt when his ice-blue eyes raked across her chest. Instinctively, her arms tightened below her breasts, which pushed the dip in the dress open even wider.

  Kurt traced a single finger along the scalloped neckline. When he hit the center, that finger pulled down and out. Lisette held her breath. Because she’d taken off her bra to try on the strapless dress. One finger turned into all five, curling under to lift her left breast above the material. His touch seared. Maybe it was just the contrast to the air conditioning hitting her back...but Lisette really did think it was all Kurt heating her up.

  Hand still curved beneath, he brushed his thumb against her nipple. The first time made her jump. The second time weakened her knees. One arm went around her waist in an embrace that steadied her. So when Kurt huffed out a warm breath, she didn’t go anywhere. Well, her nipple did. It tightened to attention.

  She didn’t just feel the stiff pull of her skin. No, Lisette couldn’t help but stare down at the man who held her riveted with a single puff of air. The deep tan he’d no doubt gotten from his crazy desert hiking trip looked burnished by the smattering of light brown hair that bridged his hand before cuffing his wrist. It reminded her of the day she’d run into him at the Rage headquarters, and the eyeful of chest hair she’d gotten. It made her crave that soft roughness. Crave it enough that she swayed forward just a little, just to push into his palm a little more.

  Instead, Kurt licked. He licked all along the top curve of her breast in short little laps that drove her absolutely wild. Lisette began to hitch in short breaths in a corresponding rhythm. They fell into sync just that quickly.

  Kurt plumped her breast from below, moved it, molded it. The ease, the sureness of his touch made Lisette shiver with anticipation about how deftly he’d handle the rest of her. Because now that she was half naked in front of him? Right or wrong or epically stupid, she was pretty darned sure that was where this whole thing was headed.

  By the time his mouth made a wet seal around her nipple...her panties were wet, too. By the time her nails scrabbled against his scalp, trying to clutch his head closer, the hand at her waist had splayed down to squeeze her butt again.

  With a slight popping noise, his mouth unsealed. “I love this dress,” Kurt said, grinning up at her with an unfettered joy she’d never once seen on his face before.

  That did it.

  That ended all of Lisette’s flip-flopping. It made her realize how selfish she was for not moving forward just because they had no shot at a real relationship.

  One of the things she used to tell her dying patients was to be in the moment. Not to concentrate on what couldn’t be, but on what was. Right this second, Lisette’s moment was a sexy make-out session in a dressing room—a fantasy that literally thousands of female hockey fans would kill to be experiencing.

  She’d keep going to make sure that smile on his face stayed put. And the undoubtedly awesome orgasm Lisette expected to receive from Kurt? She’d call it her reward for finishing this second round of schooling. Better than a celebratory night out at a martini bar by a long shot.

  Most important, the moment she could tell Kurt was ready to move on, she’d let him.

  No matter how hard, no matter how much it hurt.

  Starting right now. Because it would be a PR nightmare if he was discovered in here. So Lisette ignored the tingling desire flooding through her body. She pushed aside her want. And used the fingers threaded through his hair to push him gently away.

  “You’re looking at me out of the dress, not in it,” she said on a laugh.

  With a devilish quirk of his eyebrows, Kurt promised, “I’m getting there.” Then he spun her with quick, strong hands at her waist. He smoothed the red lace back up the front of her body. Watching him do so now that she faced the mirror, watching those wide-splayed hands slowly caress her, turned Lisette on almost as much as the actual touching.

  Kurt caught her watching. It simply turned his grin even more wicked. “You can’t just watch. You have to help.”

  “I’m happy to,” she quickly assented, reaching back for his thighs, his side, whatever she could grab first.

  But he was faster. Kurt seized her hands before they landed on a single inch of him. “You don’t get to stray from the playbook. We’re getting you dressed, remember? Here”—he guided one hand to hold the dress over her breast—“and here,” and then mirrored the motion with the other. Kurt’s hands squeezed Lisette’s, made her stimulate herself by rubbing in wide circles.

  The double layer of heat scorched through the lace.

  The eroticism of it scorched her mind.

  “Don’t stop,” he ordered. As she kept up the slow, teasing circles, Kurt’s head slipped from view. His hands grasped both sides of the zipper. And his lips and that agile tongue settled on her back just above the zipper’s tab. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, he licked and kissed his way up her spine, staying just ahead of the zipper as he brought its two sides together. Once at the top, Kurt kept going. His lips skimmed up the sensitive skin of her nape until she saw him peer around her head into the mirror.

  “I was right the first time. I love this dress.”

  “Me, too,” she exhaled on a sigh.

  Chapter Five

  Arms thrown wide and with an exaggerated French accent—and zero concern for the other people strolling down the hotel hallway—Kurt loudly announced, “Les bon temps roulez!”

  Lisette giggled. She also batted one arm back to his side. “Are you trying to say ‘let the good times roll’?”

  “Of course.” The giggle threw him a little. It wasn’t the reaction he’d been going for. Not with a grand and sort of embarrassing gesture like that one. “Isn’t that the unofficial motto of partying in the Big Easy?”

  Another giggle, along with two red-tipped fingers poking into
the center of his crisply starched blue shirt. “It is...if you get all the words in. The actual phrase is Laissez les bon temps roulez.” The French words rolled softly off her tongue like rainwater dripping off the waxy green magnolia leaves that were everywhere down here.

  Whoa.

  Kurt didn’t spend any days—or any minutes—thinking about flowers. Or comparing women to flowers like freaking Shakespeare. What was wrong with him? Skates and sticks—hard, sharp, manly objects—those were his thing. Teasing a woman into breathless, screaming pleasure—that was his thing. Poetic imagery was not his thing.

  No matter how amazing Lisette looked in that red dress. It was all lacy so that it looked like lingerie—but classy. And the way her hair was swept back to expose her neck just begged for Kurt to—

  No. He wouldn’t turn into some geeky, love-struck poet. He also didn’t intend to let his dick take over and march her upstairs to a hotel room. Tonight would be a real date. Drinks. Dinner. Conversation. Because it was the fucking least he could do for her.

  Hearing that she’d sold her stuff to finish paying for school? It gutted him. Kurt’s fans and the press called him brave and strong for continuing the season after Jasper died. Like he had a choice. It wasn’t brave. He’d promised Jasper that he’d win the Cup. Kurt skated every game with an equal mix of determination and desperation.

  But Lisette? She personified strength. And bravery, with the giving up everything to forge a new path. It had to be hard. Scary, too. God, he admired the hell out of her for doing it. So many unhappy people didn’t have the balls to make a change. Not even a small one. Kurt was sitting here, protected by a buffer of literally millions of dollars, and couldn’t stop waffling over that possibility for himself.

  So yeah, he’d treat her to a fun night out. And he’d say it was just for Lisette’s benefit. A treat for her. That’s what he’d told the F-Bombs, Finn and Flynn, when they’d given him shit for walking out of the Rage’s locker room sporting cologne and a fresh shave at seven o’clock at night.

  This night was not at all for Kurt. That’d make him a selfish jerk. He refused to admit that he’d worked out a way to spend the evening with her because he wanted to. Because being with Lisette—even shopping for balloons and streamers, for fuck’s sake—made him feel better than he had in a hell of a long time. Because he couldn’t stop smiling when he thought about her. Because his dick sprang to attention when he thought about her. Because she made him laugh and didn’t treat him like a pathetic sap. Because Lisette’s smiles and tenderness were the emotional balm his ragged heart craved.

  Fuck a duck backward.

  Had he really just thought that? Kurt didn’t just want a drink now. He figured he needed to douse his brain in rubbing alcohol to wash out these stupid, flowery notions flitting through it like an annoying swarm of mosquitos.

  Swallowing his irritation with himself, his dick and his traitorous brain, Kurt said, “Whatever happened to giving out an A for effort? Especially since I’m a transplant?”

  “Well, that’s not an excuse. It’s the reason you need to buckle down and bone up on all things New Orleans. We don’t take ourselves seriously, but we do take our traditions seriously.”

  “Then you should appreciate me bringing you here to kick off the night.” Kurt guided Lisette into the famous bar with a hand at the small of her back.

  The back he’d tasted.

  She gasped in what looked like surprise and pleasure—and God help him, he remembered hearing exactly that when he’d had his tongue on her nipple. Yeah, this night might be a treat for Lisette, but it promised to be torture for Kurt.

  “The Carousel Bar! I haven’t been here since my twenty-first birthday.”

  “Never, for me.”

  “Why not?”

  Kurt took in the angled mirrors edged in gold that spoked up from the also-mirrored column holding an array of bottles and glasses. Lights circled the mirrors, the hand-painted jester faces in between each, and the underside of the carousel roof. The circular bar and the fancy stools with exotic animal scenes brightly stitched onto their backs slowly rotated in the middle of the high-ceilinged room. “Seems like a date place. Not where you’d come after practice to grab a beer and shoot the shit.”

  “Don’t ever discount a chance for a good time.” Her voice dropped. So did her gaze, right to his lips. “This is New Orleans, cher. We’re all about taking pleasure however and whenever we can.”

  Shit. He was only human. If that wasn’t an invitation to the kiss the girl, Kurt didn’t know what was. So he did. Just stopped right in the doorway of the historic hotel and kissed her. Not hard enough to smear her deep-red lipstick—this wasn’t his first rodeo. But firm enough to let her know that he was glad to be there with her, not the guys. Glad to take his pleasure and swallow her moans of it.

  When Kurt felt her wobble in the shiny, sky-high red pumps he’d also picked out, he ended the kiss. As he dragged in a deep breath, he caught a whiff of her perfume. Something different than what he was used to—dark and sweet. Like magnolias crushed beneath two naked, thrusting bodies. At least, that’s what it made him think of.

  Jesus. Not that he’d ever say that out loud.

  To anyone.

  Ever.

  “Too bad we can’t sit at the bar,” Lisette said wistfully.

  “Why can’t we?”

  “The stools are full. People plant on them early and don’t leave. I’ve heard the bartenders here make more in bribes for stool space than in tips.” She waved beyond the wide gray pillar. “But I’m sure we can find a table in one of the back rooms.”

  Like he’d let her big night out get derailed by something so easy to fix. Kurt never ever used his celebrity status to benefit himself. He got the fun, the tight-knit team, the oversized paycheck and all the glory. Those were more than enough perks.

  But for Lisette’s sake? Yeah, he’d cash in on his status as what the press called the guy who brought the Cup to New Orleans.

  “It’s not called the Back Room Bar. It’s the Carousel Bar, and if you want to sit at it, then we will. Simple as.”

  Kurt strode forward. Lifted his chin at the muscled bartender with the salt-and-pepper beard. Waited for the nod of recognition, the assessing sweep of the laughing, toasting couples ringing him. Kurt turned back to Lisette. Stroked the backs of his knuckles down her cheek to a smooth slide that ended with a brush along the swell of her breasts that lifted up to meet him as she sucked in a breath. Dusky heat rose to her cheeks, along with a sort of dazed smile. It basically made Kurt feel like he could move mountains. Invent the cure for cancer. Do two back-to-back Ironmans. Making Lisette feel good was something he wanted to do as often and compulsively as breathing.

  Taking her hand, he led her to the bar where—no surprise—two seats had suddenly opened up. “Give us a couple of whatever you’re famous for,” he said, palming a fifty to the bartender as thanks for the seats. Lisette, craning backward to see what animal was on her seat, didn’t notice. Good. She didn’t strike him as the type of woman who cared about status and bankrolls. Probably why he liked her so much.

  Propping her chin on her palm, Lisette pursed her deep-red lips. “I’m shocked you didn’t order a hurricane.”

  “I’m a transplant, not a tourist.” The word came out of his mouth as though it’d been wrapped in day-old, stinky crawfish shells. Kurt knew, no matter where he got traded or chose to move, that acting like a tourist was the quickest way to turn off the fan base. It made the locals feel like you didn’t want to be one of them. Like you weren’t adopting the new city with open arms.

  And honestly, Kurt loved New Orleans. Not just because his mom, step-dad and Jasper had moved here two years ahead of him, giving him added incentive to join the Rage. He loved the culture, the history, the food, the music... Everything about the Big Easy fit Kurt as well as his custom-molded team helmet. “I leave it up to the bartenders wherever I go. Gets you a fun drink and a local experience.”

 
“What was your favorite drink in New York, after you won the Cup there?”

  “Not champagne. They shot off so many bottles it felt like we’d showered in the stuff. Sticky and sweet and glued onto our sweat. We did so much press afterward we stayed like that for hours.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “I never imagined champagne could be in any way disgusting, but I think you just made that way.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize.” Lisette’s hand dropped to his forearm. “I asked. I wanted to know. I want to know lots about you, Kurt.”

  It shocked him. Women wanted to hang out with him. Be seen with him. They wanted the muscles he worked so hard on wrapped around them. But he’d never gotten the impression that they wanted to know things about him. Especially not once Jasper died. Everyone seemed too scared that he was a powder keg about to go off if they probed even a little beneath the surface.

  “Like what? My favorite hot-dog topping? If I prefer a stick or automatic? If I dress to the left or right?”

  Her fingers swayed up and down his arm as lazily as he chased the puck during warm-ups. “I’d rather discover that last one for myself. Instead of you telling me.”

  Whoa.

  Something had happened to Lisette ever since the dressing room. She was flirting. Being suggestive. Well, being a dream date, when you got right down to it. Kurt couldn’t keep his eyes off her or the metaphorical drool in his mouth.

  And the thing was, it didn’t seem like she was taking pity on him. Not like she was trying to cheer him up. Simply nursing him back to emotional health. No, Lisette wanted him.

  This night was supposed to be all about giving her a treat. Making her happy.

  If Kurt Lundquist was what she wanted, who was he to say no?