by G. K. Brady
“Lean on me all you want. I’ll hold you up. I’ve got hockey legs, remember? And you’re not lame.”
Heaving in a breath, she pulled away and swiped at her cheeks. “Well, you’re right. It was final.”
A jaw muscle jumped, but otherwise Beckett didn’t move. He just watched her. Down went another greedy gulp, and the wine warmed its way to her belly.
She gave him a half-smile. “Is final.”
Cocking his head, he stared at her for a few beats, but she couldn’t read his thoughts. He set his glass down and wrapped his fingers around her arm, his thumb stroking her skin, warming it through the cloth. “And now you move on.”
As she returned his gaze, a flare ignited deep inside her and spread, shooting delicious tremors that fired every nerve in her body. God, he had beautiful eyes. She wanted to lose herself in them.
But I’ll get hurt. Don’t go there, girlfriend. Keep your heart safe.
With a nod, she broke the spell, and his hand fell away. “Thank you, Beck, for always being there. For being a good friend. I’ll be fine.”
Uncertainty had driven her to him. And if she were honest, desire was keeping her there.
CHAPTER 22
(I Just) Died in Your Arms
She shook off aberrant thoughts. “Your place is gorgeous. Why have you never brought lady friends here?”
He shrugged. “It’s my sanctuary, my place to escape and recharge.”
“Won’t I be keeping you from that?” She twisted a hand in her hair.
“No. In fact, you being here only makes it better.” He gave her a warm smile, and her tummy cartwheeled. “Want a tour?”
“Definitely! I’d love one.”
“You got it, pixie. Then we’ll figure out dinner.”
The rest of the interior was as spectacular as the great room and master suite. As he led her through hallways and spaces, she realized the house was evidence, a remnant, of his once lavish lifestyle, and a twinge of sadness pinched her.
“Beck, you were being modest when you called this place a cabin. It should be featured in Mountain Homes Beautiful.”
“Yeah, well, I wanted a family retreat where we could all stay without bumping into each other.”
“A whole hockey team could stay here and not bump into each other!” Too late, she realized her goof. His eyes dimmed as though a cloud blocked the sun, but he quickly masked it.
“I got a call from my agent yesterday.” He didn’t look happy.
“And? Which teams are clamoring to sign the best defenseman of all time?”
“Ha. None. Some advertising company wants me for a men’s line.”
She frowned. “Come again?”
“They want me to model clothes for a Grant Paul ad campaign, and they called Herb to reach me. That was my weird news.”
Paige whistled softly.
“What do you think, pixie?”
“If you get ‘the call,’ will the modeling job interfere with reporting to a team?”
“It shouldn’t. The trade deadline’s a month away, and that’s when teams are setting their rosters for the playoffs. If one still needs a defenseman after all the trades, they’ll be in the market for someone like me. The modeling shoot happens before that.”
“And you’ve been keeping your nose clean.”
“In the most literal of ways. Thanks for noticing, pixie. My tests are up to date, and I’m cleared to play. I’m ready.”
He scrolled his phone screen; soon soft jazz filled the space.
“If you agree to model, do you have to do anything weird, like dye your skin blue?”
He chuckled. “No, just let my hair grow out a little so they can style it their way.”
“The bad-boy underwear look?”
“Ha! That was a loooong time ago, when I was a kid. This is a ‘mature’ men’s line. Way different look.” He sipped his wine. “It’s a boatload of money, but I’m torn. You’re a savvy businesswoman. What would you do?”
I’d tell you to model the underwear! Paige straightened, casting out the dirty thought while warming to Beckett’s compliment. “It sounds like a win-win, Beck. It’s a good paycheck and doesn’t conflict with hockey. Besides, it might put a little shine on your public image—unless you’re posing with scantily clad women.”
Opening the fridge, he shook his head. “No, only fully clothed ones, so I’ve been told.” He pulled out a carton of eggs, milk, cheese, and veggies. “Hungry? I make a mean omelet.”
“I’m starving. Do you need help?”
“Nope, just your company.”
The counter was L-shaped, and she hopped on the side perpendicular to his workspace, dangling her legs over the edge. “I’ll supervise from here.” She refilled both their wineglasses and took a long gulp. “Storm or not, I’m glad I came.”
A smile lifted his face as he chopped onions and peppers. The music and wine infiltrated her muscles and leisurely uncoiled every taut nerve. They chatted about benign topics, and she studied Beckett as he worked, his knife rising and falling. Chop, chop. The strapping man before her had become less of a mystery as he’d burrowed his way into her heart, and yet so much still lay hidden. Their conversation quietened, allowing a question to bubble up in her brain.
“Beck, what scares you the most?”
Pausing a moment, he darted his eyes to the fireplace. His gaze returned to the cutting board, and he resumed dicing. “That I’ll never play pro again. I’m not ready to be done. Hell, guys who’ve had longer careers than mine aren’t ready to quit, but their bodies give out. I’ve had my share of injuries, but I can still take the punishment, and it kills me not to play.”
“You miss the physical contact.”
His hand stilled, and his unfocused eyes slid to the side.
“I miss the satisfaction of beating my opponent. If I flatten him in the process, even sweeter. But mostly I miss the camaraderie, being part of a team, something bigger than myself. Contributing. Winning.” He spoke as if he was watching a game reel in his head.
He blinked, seeming to awaken. “I just thought I had more time. If I’d been smart, I’d have listened to guys brighter than me and invested my dough wisely. I’ve got nothing to show for all those paychecks.” He washed a handful of mushrooms. His shoulders at ease, he sliced in even strokes.
“So where did your money go?”
He lit a burner under a skillet. “Up my nose. Up my friends’ noses. My money went to drugs and good times, killer bourbon, gambling, bad investments, and crooks lining their pockets. When you’re raking in the cash, people crawl out of the woodwork like fucking cockroaches, claiming to be your BFF or your long lost relative. ‘Sucker’ was scrawled on my forehead. Being coked up turned the letters into all caps. I was too stupid to pay attention where I threw my money. I knew better, but it seemed like the cash would keep coming, and now I’m paying for my stupidity. Signing with the Kings, DeFunked, and hiring you are the only smart decisions I’ve made in the last decade.”
“Because I’m the best broker known to mankind?” she teased.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he chuckled.
“You know, I’ve given what you said about Adrian a lot of thought, and you’re right.”
He shot her a sidelong glance. “About what?”
“For whatever reason, he wasn’t all in—until too late, and maybe not even then.” She shrugged, tamping down the inevitable swell of guilt that accompanied the memory of the night she’d spent with Adrian. “I think my inner goddess deserves someone worthier.”
Beckett arched an eyebrow. “I’d like to meet her.”
She let out a low laugh. “Thanks for that, Beck.”
“Adrian couldn’t see what was in front him. He didn’t deserve either of you, pixie.”
Her toes tingled, and other parts followed.
Beckett scooped the onions, mushrooms, and peppers into the skillet. They sizzled and popped, their aroma filling her nose while steamy sensations registered deep inside her.
> “So what’s the real reason signing me was one of your better decisions?” She didn’t look at him. Just busied herself topping off their wineglasses.
He pushed the frying bits around with a spatula. “It’s because I have this … this great thing with you that’s like nothing I’ve had before,” he said softly. “I often wonder how much better it could be.”
Tingles slithered from her toes up to her scalp, and dragonfly wings beat a tattoo in her stomach. “What do you mean?”
His mouth curled up on one side. “Something more than … well, just more.”
“Beck, I—”
“I get it. You don’t want to rush into anything—especially with a ‘player,’ even a reformed one—so I’m not pushing.” He scraped out the onion scramble, then poured in an egg mixture that made a wet sputtering noise when it hit the skillet.
The fluttering in her stomach became electrified, and she stared at him, but he faced the cooktop and didn’t see her expression. Taking in his angled profile, his strong jaw, his broad back, her knees jellied. “I might not mind you pushing … a little.”
He swiveled his head and speared her eyes with his. Amusement had gleamed there, but it shifted as realization seemed to dawn on him, supplanted by something far different. Blatant hunger.
The spatula hit the counter. His hands reached out, cradling her face.
“I’ve wanted to do this since New Year’s,” he murmured right before his mouth closed on hers. The kiss started slow, his thumbs feathering her cheeks while he softly sucked each lip. Just as softly, his tongue danced its way to hers. He wedged his body against the counter beside her and leaned in.
She snaked her hands around his neck, her fingers burrowing in his downy hair as she wordlessly invited him to explore her mouth. He tasted like bourbon and wine and green pepper. Starving for more, she traced his tongue with hers—tasting, savoring—then parried with him before sweeping into the moist depths of his mouth. A groan rose in his throat, and he splayed his hands across her back, drawing her against him. The kiss heated, their breathing accelerating, their lips fusing, their tongues rolling over one other’s. While he tangled one hand in her hair, the other roved over her back, leaving a trail of heat wherever it touched. She dug her fingers into the muscles spanning his shoulders, and he tightened his grasp on her.
Little mewling noises escaped her despite her efforts to cage them, answered by his deepening growls. Lost in his mouth on hers, in the heady scent of him, she cast her mind adrift and let her body do what it had craved doing for so long as she pressed herself to him.
An unpleasant smell, sharp and acrid, hit her, and her eyes flew open. A cloud of smoke billowed from the cooktop.
Breathing heavily, she jerked away. “Beck! The omelet!”
“Shit!” He cranked off the gas and recovered the spatula, flipping a smoking, charred mass onto a plate which he promptly dumped into the sink and doused. She pressed her lips together to keep from giggling—and to catch her breath. His chest heaving, he looked at her through the steam and grinned. “Smokin’ hot kiss!”
“There goes dinner.”
The grin slipped from his face. He stepped back to her and nudged her thighs apart, planting his body between them, a glacial fire kindling in his eyes as they zeroed in on her lips. He drew her to him and lowered his mouth to her throat, whispering, “I’m not hungry for food.”
Chills danced along her spine. She dropped her head back to give him a bigger target and glided her hands up his arms, relishing the ropes of muscle beneath her fingertips. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he slid her off the counter and into his grasp.
He pulled back, his eyes scanning her face until they fixed on hers. “Should I stop?”
“God, no.”
A sultry sax melody floated around them as he angled toward the bedroom. She nibbled his neck, tasting his sweetly salty skin, breathing in the scent of spice and him—laced with a hint of smoke.
She was stepping from solid ground into quicksand. And she didn’t care.
.~ * * * ~.
His stomach dancing in knots, Beckett rid Andie of her baggy clothes, unveiling a lacy white bra and panties. Despite the desire simmering in his veins, he held himself in check. But then she undressed him, skimming her hands and lips over him as she went, treating his clothes as though they were a gold wrapper she peeled off a forbidden confection. Slowly. Sensually. Tasting, savoring what she uncovered. It made him hard as a brick, and he liked her seeing how she affected him. What she did, and the way she did it, almost had him getting dressed so she’d strip him again. It was the most erotic disrobing he’d ever experienced.
“My turn.” He unfastened her bra, sliding the straps off her shoulders, letting it fall at their feet. He caressed her breasts in wonder, cupping them, weighing them, tracing her pearled peaks with his thumbs. Her breath hitched as he delighted in exploring her. Then he skimmed his hands over her sides, pulling her panties down her smooth legs. Balancing against him, she stepped out of them.
He studied every beautiful inch of her in the glow of a bedside lamp. She didn’t flinch under his scrutiny. She was shameless perfection.
Hello, inner goddess.
“Jesus, Andie. You are absolutely gorgeous.”
His heart had been hammering since she’d invited him to push things “a little,” and now it sped up, threatening to burst free of his ribcage.
She stepped closer and took him in her hand, stroking him, just about undoing him. What had begun as a pulsing fire caught and flared into white heat. He pulled her to him, relishing her silky flesh pressed against his, and kissed her hard. Laying her on the bed beneath him, his eyes locked on hers as he entwined his fingers in her thick tresses. Her small frame fit him perfectly, as though they’d been cast from complementary molds.
He kissed his way over her body, pausing to lick and suck and taste, cataloging every contour and crease and freckle—and tattoo. Wait. What? He pushed the thought away, lulled by her moans. They were music, their pitch rising and falling as his hands and mouth feasted on her.
He wasn’t high and he wasn’t drunk, yet every sensation electrified him.
Shallow and ragged, his breathing echoed hers, and when she murmured his name, he tautened to an unbearable breaking point. Thoughts became disjointed images swirling in his head. He’d never wanted anyone as desperately as he wanted her, and his focus narrowed to one pinpoint of pleasure.
The pulse of her hips, the arch of her back, the smell of her arousal told him she was ready for him. Her body seemed to hum in tune with his. Bracing himself above her, he teased her slick seam, aching to plunge inside her.
And she brought him to a crashing halt with two words.
“Beck. Condom?” She was breathless, her smoldering eyes fixed on him.
His mind blanked for a beat, two, three. Shit!
“Are you on birth control?” he panted.
Her brows wrinkled. “IUD, but …”
Realization doused some of the desire clouding his mind. Duh! Why the hell would she trust you to be clean? And what the hell had come over him anyway? Using protection was a cardinal rule he never broke. Until right now.
“Don’t move.” He pulled himself off her with a groan and set off on a quest as she tracked him with her gaze. Bounding into the closet, he found his jeans, snatched his wallet from a pocket, yanked out a foil packet, and tore so hard he ripped the condom. Fuck! Another rookie mistake. He fished out a second one. Then he glanced down at himself. Shit!
“I might need more, uh, encouragement,” he croaked.
“Then get back in bed. I can’t encourage you when you’re hiding in the closet.”
You just did.
He trotted to the bed, dropped the condom on the nightstand, and sank into her embrace, covering her body with his, cradling her head in his hands. Jesus, she felt so good. “Sorry,” he murmured into her hair. “You short-circuited my brain.” Never been so turned on.
She ran her hands over his back and let out a throaty laugh. “Goes both ways.”
Jesus. Her skin was warm, silky, and it charged his, stippling it, dissolving his embarrassment as he kissed a trail from her ear to her collarbone. Sighs flowed over her lips and tongue, tickling his ear. Her fingers danced between them and stroked his length.
Fuck. He kissed her deep and desperate and long and wet, losing himself in her supple mouth, the feel of her beneath him, and her hand teasing him until he couldn’t take any more. He sat up and gave her a sidelong glance as he reached for the condom. Christ, could she be any more enticing?
With a coy grin, she lifted herself on an elbow. “Can I help?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ll unman me.”
She fastened her eyes on him sheathing himself. God, she was sexy. The way she looked, all tousle-haired and plump-lipped, the way she shifted her luscious body, the way her foot languidly caressed his flank, was off-the-charts fucking hot, and he nearly fumbled. Christ almighty!
He got the damn thing on and climbed up her body, easing himself between her parted legs. You’re not sixteen, Beck. Make it last. Eyes locked on his, she guided him, and he entered her, a groan rumbling through his chest, drowning out her gasp. He began moving inside her, willing himself to take it slow, but as her hips rose to take him in, as she hooked her legs over his hips, as she roamed her hands over his ass and up his back, digging her fingernails in his flesh, he drove in harder, faster, plunging to the hilt on each thrust. His mind was lost. One primal sensation ruled. He pounded into her center, and she matched his rhythm, her moans building to guttural crescendos. Her muscles tightened around him. She nipped his shoulder and shuddered to a stop, uttering his name in a breathless cry. Unable to hold back, he followed her over the edge with his own explosive release.
What could have been seconds or hours later, he lay breathing heavily against her neck as awareness drifted back to him. One hand palmed her hip, and the other was twisted in her hair. Her heart hammered against his chest. Flitting up and down his back, her fingers left swaths of goosebumps as her breathing evened.