The Faker: A Marriage of Convenience Hockey Romance (Boston Hawks Hockey)

by Gina Azzi

  I nod, not trusting my voice. I clear my throat. “I like the way that sounds more than I should.” My fingers swipe over her hip, my hand palming her thigh.

  She shifts her weight so she can wrap her arms around my neck. “I shouldn’t like that you like it as much as I do.”

  My eyebrows lift and I smile. Her hands slide down the back of my neck and palm my shoulders. I sit perfectly still as her fingers explore my arms, my upper back, before wrapping back around my neck.

  The space between us hums with awareness that wasn’t there earlier. It’s potent and intense and could be goddamn electrifying if we gave into its pull.

  “How much have you had to drink?”

  She shakes her head, the ends of her hair tickling my hand. “Not nearly enough. I can hold my liquor.”

  “I’m learning that, sweetheart.”

  I watch as her eyelids drop to half-mast. My breathing ticks up a notch. My fingers slide up from her thigh, over her hip, until I can touch the exposed skin of her lower back. I flirt with the waistband of her leggings, dipping the edges beneath the leather until I graze the lace of her thong.

  I need to stop touching her. Right now. Five seconds ago. My hand stills.

  We’re making an agreement. We’re signing a contract.

  Nowhere in it does it include this. An attraction that is gripping in its intensity, desperate in its need.

  Rielle leans forward, her chest colliding with mine. “Rielle.” Her name is a plea on my lips. It comes out protective and concerned, tender and caring, and all the things in between.

  “Are you going to kiss me at the altar?” she asks, her voice so throaty I feel it everywhere.

  “Do you want me to?” My hand slides lower, until my palm molds to her ass. I squeeze and she gasps. “Tell me.”

  Slowly, she nods. And fuck, I want to kiss her at the altar. Right now, I want it to already be our wedding day. So I can meet her at the altar, kiss her senseless, carry her over the goddamn threshold, and give her a proper wedding night. But that’s the kind of dangerous thinking that will set us up for trouble down the road.

  “Then we should practice,” she murmurs.

  “Fuck, sweetheart. You’re making this hard.” My hand not currently down her pants cups the side of her neck and slides up to her cheek. I angle her head with one hand to stare into her eyes. Hunger and need spark with desire and I groan, already hard and thick and pressing into her.

  She shifts closer and reaches for me, her eyes boring into mine, holding me captive.

  I swear and lose my restraint. My mouth arcs down and she closes her eyes just as my lips touch hers. I kiss her hard, with purpose. With intent. Once, twice, and then, my tongue slips inside her mouth and I kiss her with unbridled want.

  Her arms wrap all the way around my neck and she pulls herself up my body, our chests pressed together. My hand resting against her ass grips hard until she twists in my lap and straddles me. Our exchange morphs, turning needy and borderline desperate. My mouth drags from her lips to her neck. My hand slides lower, my fingertips slipping under the material of her thong to tease her core.

  I swear. She’s so fucking wet for me. She wants this as much as I do and yet… “Tell me you want this, Ri.”

  She digs her nails into my back. “I want you, Torsten.” As soon as she says the words, I’m moving us through the kitchen and into my bedroom.

  I drop her in the center of my bed and step back, just to admire her, to remember this moment.

  I hold her gaze as she works her crop top over her head. I rock back on my heels when her breasts bounce free. She’s not even wearing a bra.

  I grip her ankles and pull until she’s lying flat on my bed. Then, I slowly unzip her sexy boots and tug them off her feet. Next, I roll down the leather leggings, inch by inch. They’re so goddamn tight, they could be a second skin.

  My breathing ticks up, my eyes scanning her body and trying to memorize every dip and curve. Trying to track it all like she’s suddenly going to disappear.

  When she’s spread out beneath me in nothing but a black lace thong, I drink her in, knowing it will never be enough. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing, of knowing, Rielle.” The words are quiet but I mean them. I don’t say things like this to women. I never lead them on, never make promises I can’t keep. I just search and hope and wish for more. Now, Rielle is granting me the more and dammit, it means something even though it’s not supposed to. “I mean it. There’s no one like you.”

  Tenderness blazes through her eyes, intense and heady and sincere. She reaches out, her fingertips brushing against the tops my shoulders but I step back. “I have something for you.”

  She frowns, leaning up onto her elbows. Nervous energy zips through my body. Rielle is practically naked in my bed and I’m the one who feels vulnerable, whose heart is about to beat out of my chest. I reach into the top drawer of my dresser and remove the small pouch containing her ring.

  She watches me, mesmerized, as my big fingers fumble with the strings. I laugh again. “I tied it too tightly. I was nervous I’d lose it before I had a chance to give it to you.”

  She sits straight up, her eyes wide, her mouth dropping open.

  I drop to my knees for the second time in her presence and take her hand in mine. “We’re doing this all backwards. But I don’t care because our story is quickly becoming my favorite.”

  She draws in a sharp inhale, her fingers trembling in mine.

  I wish I knew what she’s thinking. I wish I knew if I was scaring the hell out of her or if she was pleased or pitying me for being so goddamn emotional over a contract. But when I gaze into Rielle’s eyes, everything that passes between us feels like more than just an agreement. Fine, it may not be happily-ever-after and stars and rainbows, but it’s real.

  It’s mine and hers.

  I work a swallow and forge ahead. “Rielle Carter, I know this isn’t a traditional love story. I know we have an expiration date and are jumping into this for less than honest reasons.” The corner of her mouth tugs up and for one blink, she looks more like a wishful girl than a fierce woman. “But I swear to you, I will respect and cherish you always, even when you’re no longer mine. I admire your strength, am in awe of your courage, and feel both small and tall in your presence. Thank you for agreeing to marry me.” I slip the ring on her finger.

  She gasps as she holds out her hand and admires the diamond on the ring finger of her left hand. It’s elegant—a two-carat diamond in a princess cut, with a thin platinum band. I hold my breath, waiting for her reaction, hoping like hell she likes it.

  “I love it. It’s beautiful,” she says, looking up at me. “You picked the perfect ring.”

  I smile, relief unspooling through my limbs. “I picked the perfect girl.”

  She wrinkles her nose at my being so corny and I laugh. But I still mean it. I’ve dated scores of women and none of them have come close to Ri. “Now…” I shift until I’m hovering over her. She lays back against the mattress as I crawl up her body. “I’m going to make you scream my name, sweetheart. But I’m saving sex for our wedding night.” I drop a kiss to her forehead, then her nose, her lips.

  “What?” she snorts, her thighs clenching together. “After that speech and this ring”—she holds up her hand—“you’re going to make me wait for it?”

  “Promise, I’ll make it so good for you,” I swear, dragging the tip of my nose along her jawline. I nip at her earlobe and my hand finds her breast, massaging it.

  She whimpers, arching into me.

  “And after you say ‘I do,’ if you still want this, with me, I’ll light you up, babe. But if we get one thing right, it’s going to be our wedding night.” I pull back to look at her and note the vulnerability in her expression. I feel it reflected in mine and admit the truth. “You’re the only woman I’ll ever marry, Rielle. And call me old-fashioned but the wedding night…”

  “You want a traditional one?” s
he whispers.

  I nod, feeling a blush work over my cheeks. Jesus, I’m the goddamn blushing bride in this arrangement.

  She laughs but then shakes her head. “Your logic is endearing, Torsten.” She bites her bottom lip. “You’re much more romantic than I thought you’d be.”

  I chuckle and slide my palm down her body. “But we can still play tonight. If you want.”

  She slips her hand up my arm and around my back, bringing my lips to hers. She kisses me hard. Deep. “I’d like that,” she whispers, right as my fingers dip under the material of the scrap of lace between her legs.

  I breathe out a tortured sigh. “How long have you been this wet for me, Ri?”

  “Since I was getting ready to go out tonight,” she admits, her words unleashing a torrent of lust through my veins. I push one, then two, fingers inside of her and swear.

  The sound of her arousal mixed with our panting is the only sound in the room for several long seconds. It turns her on even more and I’m painfully hard, more desperate for her touch than for my next breath.

  “Lie back, baby. Let me take care of you,” I murmur.

  She does as I say but shakes her head. “Let me see you, Torsten.”

  My eyes are already sinking closed. Slowly, I drag my fingers away from her and shed my sweatpants. My cock springs free, ready to fucking burst. She draws in a sharp inhale and licks her lips.

  Fuck. I hold her eyes as I pump my hand over my shaft, using her arousal as lube. Her eyes are hooded, the tip of her tongue swiping over her bottom lip. She’s so goddamn sexy, such a fucking temptress.

  I can’t tear my eyes away as she brings her hands up to her bare breasts and touches herself, never dragging her gaze away from my hand wrapped around myself.

  “Fuck,” I murmur. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

  “No pun intended,” she breathes out.

  I snort and move back to the bed. I pull her body to the edge of the mattress and dip down to my knees. Then, I hook her thighs over my shoulders and push her thong to the side.

  She arches off the bed, her eyes closing in anticipation of what’s coming.

  She shivers as I blow on her sensitive flesh. Right before my mouth pleasures her, I admit, “If we’re not careful, I’m going to think this is for real, Rielle.”

  Then my mouth covers her and she bucks off the bed.

  She never responds to my confession and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed by her silence.

  7

  Torsten

  I wake up early the morning of my wedding day. Pale light filters in through the window of my bedroom. I never pulled the blackout shades down last night.

  My sheets are twisted around my legs and instinctively, I reach for Rielle even though she’s sleeping in the guest room. Two nights ago, we crossed every single boundary but one. Yesterday, we signed all the formal paperwork. Today, we’re getting married. And I’m desperate to finally be inside of her tonight, when she’s mine, with a wedding band on her finger.

  An ache throbs behind my ribs. While I know today is a sham, in many ways it feels so real. Too real. Especially after the other night. Hearing Rielle moan my name, watching her break apart under my fingers, my mouth, changes things. There’s no way I can keep my distance for two goddamn years. It scares me to think that even now, I already don’t want to let her go when our agreement comes to an end.

  My phone buzzes on my nightstand and I frown when I see Farmor’s name on the screen. Swiping to answer, I relocate to the living room.

  “Farmor? Everything okay?” I ask.

  Her breathy laugh floats through the line. “Does something have to be wrong for me to call my favorite grandson?” she responds, her Norwegian crisp and rapid. Even though she’s nearly ninety and in poor health, she’d never intentionally let you know it.

  “Of course not. How are you?” I flip on the coffee pot. Last year, I bought one of those fancy, overpriced espresso machines but I still haven’t figured out how to use it. While I wait for the coffee to brew, I slide onto a barstool. “Farmor?”

  “I’m still here, Torsten. And I’m fine. Getting up there in years, but fine.”

  I smile. “What would you like to chat about?”

  She stalls and worry runs through my veins. Is it cancer? Did something happen to my father? Anders? What—

  “I’ve been doing some thinking,” she says finally.

  “Okay.”

  “About the promise you made me.”

  I close my eyes and let out a shaky breath. The day I left for America, barely nineteen and with a chip the size of Asia on my shoulder, I made Farmor a promise that has kept me awake on multiple occasions. “I remember.”

  “It’s time, Torsten,” she says gently. Tears prick the corners of my eyes because if it’s time, that means Farmor knows she doesn’t have much time left with us. She’s dying and she knows it.

  “I’m getting married today,” I tell her.

  She sputters for a moment and then, laughter. Real, genuine laughter that causes me to chuckle even though a tear drops to my cheek at the same time. I scrub it away with the back of my hand.

  “You didn’t tell me you were serious with someone,” she prods.

  “It happened quickly,” I say, sticking to as much of the truth as possible.

  “She’s American?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re planning to stay?” I hear the hurt in her tone and I have to swallow past the lump in my throat. Deep down, I know Farmor truly believed that if I come home to Norway, make amends with my father, he’ll bring me back into our family business. She’s always thought of my time in America as a phase, as an exploration of sorts, but never my future.

  Never my legacy.

  And now, as much as it pains me, I admit, “Yes. I’m planning to stay.”

  She’s quiet for a long minute. She clears her throat and when she speaks, her words are devoid of judgement. “But you’ll still come?”

  “I’ll come,” I agree, relieved that I made the right decision in marrying Rielle. I knew at some point, Farmor would call and I’d need to go home. Because while my entire family has forsaken me and in many ways, I’ve turned my back on them, it never applied to Farmor and me. Our relationship is the most consistent, stable one in my life. Whatever she asks, I’ll do. She knows it which is why she never asks the impossible of me, always just shy of it.

  “Bring your bride, Torsten.”

  Surprise rocks through me at the request. “You want to meet Rielle?”

  “Of course. She’s becoming a Hansen, isn’t she?”

  The lump in my throat expands until it nearly chokes me. “Yeah,” I manage.

  “Okay. I’ll see you soon, then. Bryllupskort!” She adds her congratulations to the happy couple and ends the call.

  “Shit,” I mutter, standing from the barstool. Before I can turn toward the coffee pot, Rielle steps into the kitchen.

  Dressed in sleep shorts that barely cover her ass and a baggy T-shirt, with her hair tangled and trailing down her back, she looks exquisite. I drink her in greedily, wishing I could escort her to my bed to finish everything we started the other night. Soon enough.

  Instead, I grin. “Coffee?”

  She nods, her eyes still heavy with sleep. She steps toward the kitchen island, her bare legs calling to me like a siren I can’t tear my eyes away from. Eventually, after an awkward amount of time passes, I succeed and pour two cups of coffee.

  Rielle leans over the kitchen island and blows on her coffee.

  “What’re you thinking, Ri?” I stand on the opposite side of the island and watch her. Does she regret the other night? Signing all the papers yesterday? Coming to my game and sitting with the WAGs last night? Does she not want to marry me today? If she does, would she want to go to Norway?

  She looks up and a grin lifts one side of her mouth. “It’s our wedding day.” Her voice is calm and strong. Not filled with nerves or second
thoughts.

  It settles me some and I smile back. “You’re going to make a beautiful bride.”

  She wrinkles her nose and laughs. “Does it all feel a little too…real?”

  I nod, reaching across the island to wrap the ends of her hair around my fingers. It’s hard to be near Rielle and not touch her. Is this normal? “I like it though.”

  “Me too. Who were you on the phone with?”

  I glance at my phone on the island. “My grandmother. Farmor.”

  “Oh.” Surprise colors her tone as she lifts her mug and takes a sip of coffee. Her eyes flutter closed. “Caffeine is my drug of choice.”

  I snort.

  “How’s your grandma?” She opens her eyes.

  “I know this is a lot considering we’re getting married in a few hours—”

  “Is she coming?” Horror washes over Rielle’s face.

  “No, not at all. She’s in Norway,” I reassure her, wondering why it would be so terrible if Farmor crashed our wedding.

  “Thank God,” Rielle murmurs. “I know this”—she gestures between us—“is a massive lie. And I’m okay with it. But to have to lie to a sweet, little old lady just feels…wrong.”

  My stomach sinks at the conviction in her voice. There’s no way she’s going to want to go to Norway. But how the hell would I explain her absence to Farmor? She’d see through any bullshit reason I gave.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Rielle asks.

  I lean back, startled. Did she read me that easily? “Nothing.”

  “Nope.” She shakes her head. “You smushed your lips together.”

  I snort. “I did not.”

  “You did.” She nods vigorously. “It’s your tell.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “I don’t have a tell.”

  “You do. Now, tell me what’s wrong. We’re getting married at noon and hair and makeup and Claire are going to be here any minute. If there’s something you need to say, then—”

  “Do you have a passport?”

  “What? Yes.”

  “Have you ever been to Norway?”