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

by G. K. Brady

  Those wandering thoughts warmed her. She hummed as she scrubbed, occasionally glancing out the window at the dense curtain of snow.

  “The white socks really make the outfit.” His resonating voice made her jump, and she turned. He leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching her.

  “How long have you been standing there?”

  He slid behind her and snaked his hands under her shirt. “Long enough. Why’d you put your underwear back on?” he complained.

  She laughed. “It was a little breezy under there.”

  He folded himself around her, pinning her to the sink, and ran his hands along her bare legs. “Mmm, you’re cold.”

  “I bet you can warm me up,” she breathed.

  “Bet I can.”

  He began unbuttoning her shirt. Before she could utter another word, his mouth was on her neck and his big hands were on her breasts. Her thoughts dissolved into incoherent murmurs.

  “God, you feel good,” he mumbled against her skin. “Guess what I found?”

  “What?” she part-moaned, part-breathed, scrubbing the same place on the pan.

  As his mouth worked over her neck and ear, one hand worked on a breast and the other slid beneath her panties and fondled her. Her entire body puckered in goosebumps, and she struggled to hold back gasps.

  “No guess?” He moved his hands, gripping the sink on either side of her body, trapping her as he rocked against her. Oh my. He was ready to go.

  She turned in his arms and threw her soapy hands around his shoulders. “Please say it’s a condom,” she whispered against his lips right before his tongue slipped into her mouth.

  “Mm-hmm,” he replied, their tongues mingling, their breathing quickening. His fingers returned to her shirt placket and unbuttoned it. He pulled away and yanked his tee over his head. Parting her shirt, he ran his hands over her bare skin and cupped her rear in one hand while the other slid between her legs. She wrestled his pants down partway and stroked him, his groans thundering in his throat.

  His kisses were heady, wild things that stole her breath away. He dropped his head to her chest, folding around her as he took each breast in his hot mouth, sucking and nibbling and tugging, his fingers working in breathtaking ways between her thighs. She dove her hands in his hair and held his head, her moans pitching louder, echoing the sensations firing inside her.

  He righted himself and pulled her off her feet, his chest heaving. “I’m going to explode.” Then he spun, still holding her against him, took a few strides, and stumbled and thudded atop the table, twisting his body so she landed on top of him. Plates rattled, a water glass tipped, and a napkin holder hit the floor and scattered paper squares.

  And then he did explode—in peals of laughter.

  Paige gulped air, trying to catch her breath. “Are you hurt?”

  He held her with one hand and pounded the other on the tabletop, tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes. “Oh God,” he wheezed. “I’m fine. You?” He raised his head and looked at her as she sprawled across him half-naked, her feet dangling in space.

  “Fine.” She laid her head on his chest, his rumbling laughter vibrating along with hers. “I didn’t mean to booby-trap you.”

  “You didn’t, pixie. Being the highly-coordinated athlete I am, I managed that graceful maneuver on my own. The upside to not playing pro is not having to explain to my coach how I injured myself hauling my girlfriend into the bedroom.”

  “So you did hurt yourself?”

  Wait. Girlfriend?

  He smoothed her hair behind her ear. “Only my pride.”

  Hiccupping and giggling, Paige peeled herself off him and darted her eyes across the table. Beckett raised his head, looked around, then locked his eyes on hers. In a breathless instant, he flipped her on her back, his forearms caging her. Just as swiftly, balancing his weight, he yanked her panties down her legs. Lost in the charged moment, she hadn’t noticed the table’s rustic top until its rough ridges dug into her flesh. She tensed. He stilled.

  His breaths came ragged in her ear. “Am I hurting you?”

  “It’s not as comfortable as it looks in Bull Durham,” she gasped.

  “Probably a smooth table. And they cut away before the real action.”

  “I bet they moved the ‘real action’ to a soft bed.”

  “We have a few of those around here, though I’d never deny fulfilling one of your fantasies, pixie.”

  She flashed him a salacious smile. “I have a few more in mind that don’t involve splinters in my tail.”

  A slow grin spread over Beckett’s face. “Can’t wait.” He elbow-crawled down her body, kissing and licking as he went, and stood, pulling up the pants caught around his knees.

  She raised herself on her elbows, taking in his chest, his perfect abs, and the bulging fabric below his waist. He helped her off the table and led her toward the bedroom while she silently thanked the God of Condoms Found.

  A long while later, they lay nestled together, Beckett sifting her strands through his fingers, her hand tracing the hard ridges of his abdomen.

  “I don’t know about you, Andie, but that was … seismic … spine-melting. I can’t describe it.” He made an exploding noise and flicked his fingers wide.

  “Seismic’s a good description. A minimum nine-point-five on the Richter scale.”

  “Yeah?” His tone was one of surprise and delight.

  “Yeah. Next time, let’s go for a ten.” She lowered her fingers, skimming his happy trail.

  “You’re playing with fire, pixie.”

  She withdrew her hand and giggled. “All right. I’ll behave.”

  “Damn.” He tugged her close and kissed her head.

  “Too bad about our supply crisis,” she said.

  He trailed his fingers along her arm. “I’d love nothing better than a hat trick with you, but I emptied every pocket, every bag I own to find the last condom.”

  “Maybe a hot-wiring yeti will leave us some spares.”

  He chuckled. She closed her eyes.

  Minutes later, as she was drifting, he said in a voice thick with sleep, “G’night, pixie. I love—”

  She stiffened and came fully awake.

  He cleared his throat. “I love having you here.”

  She eased, locking out any thought of what was to come when reality turned on its glaring light. Instead, she marveled she could feel like this, that he could make her feel like this.

  Beautiful. Desirable. Strong. Cherished. Sexy as hell.

  What had she expected? A practiced touch pushing her buttons for his own gratification? Like Adrian? But Beckett continued to surprise her, for the way he handled her was nothing like that.

  That he knew his way around a woman’s body was evident. His touch had ranged from gentle, inquisitive—as though seeking permission—to demanding, powerful, all male. And through it all, he’d kept his eyes on her, watched her with a lover’s concern, a lover intent on pleasing her. He had taken care, taken his time, taken his pleasure long after he’d delivered hers over and over. Tender and warm, his looks had caressed her face and form while his words had caressed her ears. He’d made her body hum in tune with his until he’d finally let go in his own shuddering climax.

  Sated, afloat in the smell of fresh linens and sex, surrounded by his spicy scent, she dropped off, aware of his body throughout the night, aware when it shifted with hers. When they pulled apart, his warmth sought hers, and he cradled her in his strong arms.

  When she awoke, snow still fell, but the backdrop was light gray, and the bed beside her was empty. She ran her hand over the rumpled sheets. Where had he gone? Dread welled inside of her.

  A dull, rhythmic scraping sounded outside, and she rose and pulled on the shirt before peering out a window. The mystery noise revealed itself. Beckett was shoveling snow from the enormous driveway where her car once sat. Where did he move it to? At least he didn’t run off. Yet. How would he react when he saw her this morning?

&
nbsp; In the kitchen, she poured coffee into a moose-motifed mug from a steaming pot. Beside it were a spoon, a napkin, and a full creamer. Can’t be all bad if he’s still being thoughtful, right? She smiled to herself as she sat at the counter. Beckett soon blew in, stomping his boots and shaking snow from his hat and coat.

  “So a Sasquatch stole my car after all?” Her tone was light, but she had a stranglehold on her cup.

  He snapped his head up and burst into a smile that lit his face. “Morning, pixie. I brushed your car off and pulled it into the garage before it got buried. It’s still snowing like a mother out there, and the weatherman says it won’t stop until tomorrow. Even my heated driveway can’t keep up.”

  As soon as he’d shucked his gear, he strode to her, brushed the hair from her neck, and planted a cold-lipped kiss below her ear, sending sinful shivers along her spine. She let her breath out. He topped off her coffee and poured his own, then leaned against the counter and stared at her.

  “What?” She ran a self-conscious hand through her untamed bedhead.

  “I swear you grew more beautiful overnight.” He said it softly, reverently, and she flushed hot and squirmed in her seat.

  “Beck, I’m not even your type.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What’s my type?”

  “Um, dark, tall, slender.”

  A sip of his coffee, then he shook his head. “Not so much. I’ve developed an unshakeable fondness for petite, auburn-haired, green-eyed girls who drive gold Tacomas and whose first names sound suspiciously like something in a book or binder—or the sheriff of Mayberry.”

  A giggle escaped her; she gulped her coffee. “So the shoveling—going somewhere?”

  “You keep looking as hot as you do, and I’ll be rustling up a sled and a team of dogs.” He winked.

  Her cheeks blazed.

  He sauntered over and put his arms around her, snugging her close. “You’re really cute when you blush, you know that? Hell, who am I kidding? You’re cute all the time.”

  “I thought I was hot.”

  “You are. Smokin’ hot. Takes a lot of talent to be cute and hot.”

  “I should get cleaned up.” Her voice was muffled against his chest.

  He pulled back, and his eyebrows crawled up his forehead. “Want some help?”

  “Hmm, that sounds dangerous. Maybe I should go this one alone.”

  .~ * * * ~.

  “Just holler if you need me to soap your back … or anything else.” Beckett watched forlornly as she trudged off without him, reining in an urge to follow. He’d been in lust plenty of times, but this was different. The desire Andie sparked in him was deep and rich, like a full-scale symphony orchestra where a solo reedy violin had played before. This, no doubt, was being in love, and it was new territory. A new high. He was unsure what to do about it, unsure how much to let show. Unsure if he should let any of it show. Damn, he’d almost told her he loved her last night. It had seemed so natural as he fell asleep with her curled against him. But the way Andie had flinched—she wanted to hear it even less than he’d meant to say it. Such a curious position he found himself in.

  Last night had been incredible. Unlike anything he’d felt with anyone else. Ever. And not just the lovemaking, but baring his soul to her. Now all he could think about was being with her again … and again … and again. Just her. With just him. Just them.

  He tiptoed into the bedroom and deposited her clean clothes in a neat stack on the messy bed. The sound of raining water came from behind the bathroom door, conjuring a picture of her naked in his shower, water sliding off her smooth skin. The image shot straight to his groin, and he groaned. Of all times to be without backup! Planning for this hadn’t figured into his packing—it wasn’t as if he needed protection from his right hand.

  Making his way to the kitchen, he laughed out loud at the irony of being trapped in a place where they had everything they needed except for one very critical item. Arguably the most critical item. Oh well. Like she’d said, they’d explore others ways of having fun. His cock twitched.

  A fragrance—her fragrance—preceded her into the kitchen, where he munched on an English muffin as he contemplated whipping up breakfast. He craned his neck around and caught her shy smile.

  She smoothed a sleeve. “Did you wash my clothes?”

  He nodded. “Much as I love seeing you in my shirt, I figured you’d be more comfortable in your own stuff, so I threw it in the wash before I went outside. But don’t worry. I checked all the tags to be sure I did it right.”

  “Do you do this for all your … guests?”

  “Never have before.”

  She glided to him, rose on tiptoe, threw her arms around his neck, and stared up at him, misty-eyed. “That was a really sweet thing to do. And you fold really well.”

  He placed his hands on her small waist and pecked her lips. “I keep telling you. I’m a sweet, talented guy.” Clearing his throat, he moved away from her. “I thought I’d rustle up some breakfast. What’s your pleasure, milady?”

  Her pleasure was to feed him pancakes and bacon, so she cooked while he took care of business on his laptop as best he could with spotty Internet. Neither of their phones had reception, and he recognized panic welling in her eyes, so he pulled on his winter gear when breakfast was finished.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “Thought I’d pay a call and see if any neighbors have a landline. Then I can call your office and fill Katie in.”

  She sprang up. “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, you don’t have the right clothes. Stay here and use my computer, see if you can get through to your peeps.” He grabbed a notepad and pen. “Here’s my password.”

  Back outside, the snowflakes had gotten smaller, but snow drifts rose above his head in spots, so he fired up his ATV plow and worked his way laboriously toward the nearest house a quarter mile away. Before he could get there, he was stopped by a cluster of puffed-up people who stood like penguins for all the snow gear they wore. They were getting a neighbor unstuck from his home, so Beckett helped clear a snaking driveway. Which led him to another neighbor, and then another. People he’d never met, people who lived there year-round.

  When he finally got a landline in some old codger’s home and reached Katie, she’d already traded emails with Andie.

  “So you squared her calendar? We’re gonna be stuck for a couple days.”

  “I squared it,” she chirped. “Turns out her appointments also had to cancel because of this storm. She’s all yours.”

  All mine. Pulling on his hat and gloves, Beckett turned to his host and thanked him.

  The shriveled man looked him up and down. “You’re that hockey player, ain’tcha?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Big fella. I bet you can hit like a son of a gun.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man nodded his ancient gray head. “Need anything else, son?”

  Beckett eyed the old-timer and sighed. “Yeah, but I don’t think you can help me with it.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Snow (Hey Oh)

  Paige popped up from the computer and glanced out the window on her way to check a blueberry crisp baking in the oven. Retracing her steps, she paused at the window and pressed her nose against the frigid glass, fogging it. Where is Beckett?

  Back at the table, she took a seat in front of the computer screen and checked the time. Was that an engine? She raced to the window only to see enormous pines flailing in the wind. Through a veil of snow, endless, rippling, gray and white stretched before her. Even the deer didn’t dare stir in the maelstrom.

  At the computer once more, she re-read a detailed email from Katie. Thank God for Katie! As Paige moved the mouse, she slipped and clicked on another window, maximizing it. Beckett’s inbox. Her eyes darted away, but like driving by a car wreck, she couldn’t avert her gaze for long, and they darted back. She caught a name, two, five, before looking away again. Her heart chugged as though she were a
thief trying to make a clean getaway.

  Covering one half of her face with a hand, she peeped between her fingers while her other hand oh-so-delicately rolled the mouse. Why she thought this particular technique would make her less guilty didn’t occur. She previewed one email from an obviously female sender and let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding when she realized it was from the woman coordinating the modeling job in Las Vegas. Another female correspondent proved to be Joe’s wife doubling as DeFunked’s office manager, giving Beckett details of the Hammacher meeting.

  Growing bolder, she scrolled through other senders, clicking a few here and there. Stop it! She returned to the top of the inbox to minimize the window. Put it back the way you found it. Her eye snagged on a folder in the lower left corner. “Yamila,” read the label.

  She wiped clammy hands on her pants, staring at the folder as if it might open itself. When it didn’t, she hovered the mouse over it, her mind running through a list of reasons why this was so wrong, on so many levels—like pawing through a host’s medicine cabinet, something she’d never done. All her logic was smashed by a chirpy voice in her head telling her it didn’t matter: Yamila was the past, Paige was … What was she? Maybe just another Beckett Miller conquest. The thought constricted her chest. Well, if she was his latest fling, then it was nothing serious, so learning about an old girlfriend didn’t count. In all honesty, she barely followed her own convoluted logic.

  A shrill dinging nearly shot her from her seat. The timer! She raced to the oven and pulled the dessert out to cool. She meandered back to the computer, with another quick glance out the window, and plunked down, her ethical dilemma still glowing on the screen before her.

  Sucking in a sharp breath, she clicked on the folder. An endless list of emails taunted her. They were from Yamila, dated—wait! The last one was only ten days old, the next one not much older. Scrolling down, she kept going weeks, months back. So many!