Taming Beckett: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (The Playmakers Series Hockey Romances Book 1)

by G. K. Brady

  She kissed his shoulder and flicked her tongue over it. “I’m sorry I bit you.”

  He raised his head and looked into her exquisite eyes, then traced her brow, her jaw, and brushed his thumb over her swollen lips. “I’m not.” Rolling to his side, he pulled her into his arms. She threw her leg over his, nuzzling his neck, her hand on his chest. He covered it with his and stared at the ceiling.

  Never knew anyone could rock my world like that.

  After his heart rate slowed, he kissed the top of her head. “Be right back.”

  In the bathroom, he disposed of the condom and cleaned up. When he returned, she was seated on the bed, facing away from him, her tangled hair brushing her shoulders. The light bathed her back in gold, and he ran his eyes over her—until they snagged on that small tattoo low on her hip. He slid in behind her, wrapping an arm around her middle, and kissed her neck. She shivered and craned her head to peck his cheek.

  He traced the tattoo. “What’s this?”

  “What’s it look like?”

  “Like the letter A in a heart. When did you get it?” He squelched his irritation, or at least tried to keep it from his voice.

  She shrugged. “A few years ago.”

  “I don’t understand why people get tattoos of other people’s names or initials. Then you’re stuck with it,” he growled.

  She glanced back at him, a little smile hitching her lips. “Did you look at it closely?”

  “I can’t see anything in this damn light.” Without the damn glasses.

  She settled against him and folded one arm over his. Her other hand reached back and twiddled his hair, shooting warm tingles through his scalp. “Well, Mr. Growly Bear, it’s an A and an H for Anderson Homes; it also matches my grandma’s maiden name, Audrey Hamilton.”

  He ran his hand along her arm and nibbled her neck, mumbling, “Oh. I thought I’d be hating on Adrian more than I do. Now I just hate the guy who gave you the tattoo.”

  “Why?” she laughed.

  “Because he got to see your ass.” He fondled said ass. “And a damn fine one it is too.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous. It was a woman tattoo artist, by the way.”

  Relief spiked in him. Was he jealous? He swept his hand over her hip, her ribs, and cupped her breast, the word mine dancing a jig in his head. He brought the other hand up and kneaded her breasts as he trailed lingering kisses along her neck. With a sigh, she dropped her head on his shoulder and burrowed her fingers deeper in his hair.

  She bit her lower lip and closed her eyes. “Mmmmm.”

  His cock stirred and pushed against her back. “Oh, hello,” she purred.

  He pulled away. “Nothing I’d like better, Andie.” Nowhere I’d rather be than buried deep inside you. “But that was my only condom.” And normally I use two. Broke that rule too. He kissed her cheek, laughing inside at her pouty face. “How about I feed you instead?”

  “Not having condoms doesn’t mean we can’t … have fun.” She arched her eyebrows.

  Oh yeah. He mirrored her arch. “I definitely need to refuel.”

  “I could stand to eat.” She scooted to the edge of the mattress and rose.

  Averting his gaze, he pulled on his boxers and pants, trying to dampen his growing desire. “Maybe I can call CDOT and tell them I have an emergency. They might send a plow.”

  She picked up her clothes and held them against her body, but they didn’t cover enough. Probably nothing could cover her enough to keep his thoughts from wandering where they were wandering. Damn!

  “A condom emergency?” she laughed.

  “Hey, any guy would understand. They can bust me out and get me to the nearest convenience store.”

  “Which will be closed.” She smirked. “Is it okay to use your bathroom?”

  “Use whatever you want.” Especially me. He pulled on his T-shirt as she pivoted. He watched her gorgeous hips and perfect naked ass sway, her cute little logo winking at him. He sighed. Wonder if they’d do an airdrop?

  CHAPTER 23

  Up All Night

  Paige stared in the mirror at the telltale rosy stains on her chest and cheeks, unable to wipe the smile from her face. Wow! That was so … Wow. Toe-curling.

  She still couldn’t believe she’d stood unflinching when he’d taken off her clothes. Maybe because she didn’t know what else to do, frozen with fear that he was flipping through his mental catalog of every other woman he’d seen naked. Getting through a catalog that big would be time-consuming, and measuring up to their perfection was unfathomable to her. But he hadn’t looked at her that way. No, his look had been one of delight—wonder, even. And he’d called her gorgeous. It had reassured her, emboldened her.

  Being with Beckett was so different … from anyone. Ever. It was as if their two bodies combusted when they joined, and the result was uncontrollable, explosive. Brief but torrid, and brevity was probably a good thing, or they’d have incinerated each other. Was this how it was with every woman he bedded, or was she a special case? Please let me be special.

  Pushing the thought away, she splashed water on her face and slicked her cavewoman curls. She’d lost all sense of the storm outside in the storm of their lovemaking, but now it howled at every window and door.

  A mouthwatering aroma wafted in, and her stomach growled in appreciation. She pulled on panties and socks, and substituted a striped button-down hanging on the back of the door for the baggy outfit. She hugged the smell of Beckett around herself.

  A familiar melody floated from the great room, and she tiptoed in to observe him at an upright piano, his back to her as his hands moved deftly over the keys. He was humming. With a glance over his shoulder, he jerked his head in invitation. As she came toward him, he scooted over; she slid beside him on the polished bench.

  “Time for a hmm, hmm,” he sang softly.

  “I recognize that tune. ‘Cool Change,’ right?” She began to hum, and the words bubbled up in her brain, so she sang them under her breath. Beckett joined in, and they upped their volume as they blended their voices.

  They paused for breath, then resumed. They’d gone a few bars when Beckett’s voice cracked and he stopped, but his fingers continued working the keys, so Paige kept singing, expecting him to jump back in. His hands slipped off and came to rest in his lap. He turned his head from her.

  She laid a hand on his arm. “Beck?”

  Was that a sniffle?

  Straightening, he shook his head and scrubbed a hand over his cheek.

  “What’s wrong, Beck?”

  He turned and faced her, tears swimming in his eyes, spilling over. Alarmed, she brushed her fingertips over his cheeks and wiped them away.

  His head dropped. “I, ah, I’m sorry. It’s … That song gets me. Every. Time.”

  Her heart ached for him. “Then why play it?”

  He pulled her hand from his face and held it between his, skimming his thumb over her wrist. “Mom. We used to sing it together.” He brought his head up, more tears pooling in his eyes. Paige fought down her own.

  With a shuddering breath, he said, “Every once in a while, I get blindsided.”

  Her brows knotted together. What happened?

  As if he’d read her mind, he let out a mirthless laugh. “Mom and I sang together. A lot. She was always goofing. She had this … this way of looking at everything with pure joy. That song was her favorite. She’d warble parts, I’d croon parts, but we’d always belt out the chorus together. She’d hold a wooden spoon in front of her mouth like a damn microphone. God, I miss that. So much.” His face crumpled.

  Paige threw her arms around him and pulled him close. He clutched her.

  “Oh, Beck,” she murmured, her heart constricting.

  His big shoulders shook. She stroked his hair, her own tears falling in earnest, and held him, rocked him while sobs tore through his body.

  Time was suspended on that piano bench. Eventually, he pulled away and covered his fa
ce. “Jesus, what a fucking wuss.”

  She swept the backs of her hands over her cheeks. “You’re no wuss, Beck. You love your mom. Being sad she’s gone is normal.”

  He dropped his hands and pinned her eyes. “Everyone tells me I need to talk about it, but they don’t know jack.”

  “You’re right; they don’t. And neither do I, but I’m here.”

  He ran a finger along her cheek. “I’d rather talk to you than some head doctor. Or anyone else I can think of.”

  She nodded, expecting him to close off as he’d done before. But he surprised her.

  “I found her on the floor, by the dishwasher, when I got home from school one day. Walked in griping about some stupid kid crap, and there she was, staring at the ceiling slack-jawed. I thought she was pulling my leg at first, but when I begged her to get up, she didn’t. Some inner part of me screamed that she just needed to wake up. I grabbed her shoulders and hauled her to me. Air rushed out of her, and her head flopped back and made this sickening crunch. Cooper found me later, sitting on the floor with Mom’s head in my lap. I don’t remember it, but he says I kept patting her face and pleading with her to get up. He’s the one who called Dad. To this day, I can see the pattern on that floor. Vividly. And Mom’s skin, cold and gray. And her blank stare.”

  “Oh, Beck.”

  “Heart attack. No warning. She was young, Andie, barely older than you are now. Way too young to go. Just like that girl in Minneapolis—except she didn’t die, thank God.” Fresh tears rimmed and spilled down his cheeks.

  “The girl’s heart defect wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known. She chose to party with you—she could just as easily have gotten high with a girlfriend. Her fiancé, even. And your mom dying wasn’t your fault either.”

  He pulled up the hem of his shirt and blotted his eyes. “Mom was definitely my fault.”

  “How?” She grasped his arms and scanned his face.

  His breath hitched. “Because she worried about money, about how to make ends meet and still pay for my hockey. Worried about getting me the best opportunities, the best equipment. She worried they couldn’t put Coop and me both through hockey programs and that she wasn’t fair to her sons.”

  “How do you know? Did your dad tell you that?” Paige’s mind raced, imagining the enormity of the guilt Beckett’s younger self had shouldered. Would his dad tell him something like that? She couldn’t fathom it.

  Beckett shook his head. “No. Dad says Cooper wasn’t motivated, so they decided against it. But she worried. I know she did. I used to see her crying over bills. It tears me apart to this day.”

  Paige rubbed his back. “Beck, I think you’ve been beating yourself up over something you had absolutely no control over. Even if your mom fretted over finances, it was outweighed by how proud she was of you. You said she came to all your home games and yelled louder than anyone. Can you imagine what a thrill it was for her to watch you play? What a special gift she got to nurture?”

  His eyes sank into her, and she gave him a hesitant half-smile. He leaned in and kissed her, breaking it off when the oven timer dinged.

  “Hungry?” He swiped away the last of his tears.

  “Famished.”

  “Good. Then the crap I serve you will taste better.”

  Beckett had salvaged some onions, mushrooms, and peppers, mixing them with Italian sausage chunks in a sort of frittata concoction he baked along with garlic bread. He tossed a salad and pulled the cork on a bottle of Chianti as Paige set the table.

  With her first bite, he raised his eyebrows in a question.

  “This is delicious, Beck,” she mumbled around the food.

  He lifted his fork. “Good. I like my shirt on you, by the way.”

  So do I.

  Over dinner, they talked about places he’d traveled in his career, circling back to the incident in Minneapolis. Might as well get that out too.

  “You could have walked away, Beck. Why didn’t you?”

  “Really? Have you never watched CSI? I left behind plenty of DNA. Besides, she knew who I was, and so did her friends. But mostly I couldn’t leave her there alone. She was so cold. Even I’m not that big a dick.” His shoulders sagged. “If the settlement makes her life right again, then I guess … I just hope she’s okay.”

  “Have you reached out to her?”

  He shut his eyes. “My lawyer says not to.”

  Time for a cool change. “So what about the modeling? Will you do it?”

  “Pretty sure. I’ll have to spend time in Chicago first—Christ! I forgot to tell you Hammacher’s bringing us an offer. After that meeting, I go straight to Las Vegas.”

  “What’s in Las Vegas—besides scantily clad women?” She was relieved to see his lips curve.

  “That’s where the shoot is. I guess they’re using desert landscapes and casinos for the backdrops.” He darted his eyes at her. “Come with me and keep me out of trouble. It is Sin City after all.”

  “You’re planning on getting into trouble?”

  The smile broadened. “No, but I like having you around, and if it convinces you to go with me, I’m ahead of the game.”

  “Um, that brings up something …”

  He paused mid-forkful.

  “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable with the, ah, condom thing.” She bit down on her thumbnail.

  He shoveled the bite in his mouth and chewed. “Not at all. That’s my department, but I let it slip. First time it’s happened. No idea why, other than my ability to think was annihilated.” He lifted his eyes to hers.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  She held back the other question on her tongue, but he seemed to read her mind again, reaching across the table to take her hand. “Don’t stress, pixie. I get it. For the record, I get myself checked routinely, and I’ve never had an STD. My latest tests were done at the same time I got medical clearance to play, and they came back clean.”

  She dropped her head in her hands. “I’m sorry. This is so awkward. God, how do you—” She brought her head up, horrified she’d almost blurted the rest of the thought. How do you have these conversations with every woman you bed?

  His gaze sharpened. “How do I what?”

  Her cheeks blazed while she searched for words to mask her blunder. “What I meant was, navigating the whole, um, dating thing is so tricky. I can’t imagine going—”

  “Then don’t.” His eyes icy, his jaw tight, he pushed back from the table, scraping his chair over the wood floor. “Don’t go there with anyone else. Problem solved.” He raised an eyebrow for emphasis.

  He hadn’t understood—not exactly—but in her eagerness to leave the uncomfortable topic behind, she rushed on. “So how do I get in touch with Katie to tell her I’m stuck?”

  His posture eased. “We’ll figure it out in the morning. Want more? Food, I mean.”

  He winked, and a small breath of relief gusted from her. “Thanks, no.”

  A few glasses of wine later, her belly full, Paige stared at the flames twisting and leaping in the fireplace as though dancing a ballet. Beckett’s pensive gaze rested on her.

  “Since we’re doing True Confessions, pixie, what scares you most?”

  Her eyes swept the dining table, and she blurted the first thing that came to mind. “That I’ll never be like Annie in Bull Durham.”

  His eyes popped wide. “You wanna be a slut?”

  She burst out in laughter. “No!” How could she explain the whole he’s-so-hot-for-her-he-clears-a-table-and-throws-her-down scene without sounding ridiculous?

  A sly grin spread over his face. “You want to teach a pitcher how to throw?”

  She shook her head, her shoulders bobbing with giggles. “Forget I said anything.”

  He stood and looked her over before taking in the table. Oh God, he gets it! But when he walked into the sitting area and moved tables, chairs and rugs, she grew baffled. He picked up his phone and swiped it. Jazz was replaced by “
The Game of Love” by Wayne Fontana & The Mindbenders, and with another swipe, the volume climbed. His purpose was clear when he hauled her up and escorted her to the open space. One hand holding hers, the other on her waist, he swayed her in time with the music, his feet moving, shuffling, spinning on the makeshift dance floor.

  “Follow my lead,” he instructed.

  She bit back her laugh when she saw his furrowed brows. He was serious. Dancing, in any form, no matter the level of her inebriation, was not her forte, and after stepping on his feet a half dozen times, he motioned for her to keep her eyes on his while he steered her. Only then did she fall in with his rhythm.

  Next up, “Play that Funky Music” by Wild Cherry, and he walked her back and forth, his hips rocking. The man could dance! Soon she forgot her gawkiness and followed his steps, his turns and dips, just to watch his body move. It was a thing of wonder.

  “I’m Your Boogie Man” flowed into “You Sexy Thing” before she came up for air. “They didn’t pick you for Dancing with the Stars? What were they thinking?”

  “Glad you like it.” He waggled his eyebrows as “Sixty Minute Man” by the Dominoes reverberated through the room.

  A little shiver shimmied up from her belly, and her skin tingled where he touched her. They danced another song, and when “Do You Want to Dance” by Bette Midler came on, slow and sweet, she wrapped her arms around him. He stroked her sides, her hips, the small of her back. Tilting her head, she glimpsed a lazy smile on his face.

  He leaned down and kissed her, soft but insistent. The kiss heated. He pulled away with a head shake. “You’re gonna kill me.”

  She grinned, enjoying the effect she was having on him, even if she wasn’t enjoying the fact they had no condoms. “All right. Go cool off. You cooked; I’ll clean.” Maybe that’ll cool me off.

  Beckett disappeared, and Paige rolled up her sleeves and scraped, rinsed, and loaded dishes in the dishwasher. She filled the sink with suds, slipping in the dirty skillet as she relived the last few hours in her head. Letting her defenses slide, surrendering to desire, had spawned a journey into uncharted territory—exhilarating territory. But was it just for tonight? She shook that thought away, instead remembering how she’d soared inside when he’d entrusted her with his secret, danced with her, been deep within her.