GAME MISCONDUCT
The Dartmouth Cobras
By
Bianca Sommerland
Copyright 2012, Bianca Sommerland
Smashwords Edition
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Edited by Bonnie Walker
Cover art by Reese Dante
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.
Warning
This ebook contains material not suitable for readers under 18. In also contains scenes that some may find objectionable, including BDSM, ménage sex, bondage, anal sex, sex toys, double penetration, voyeurism, edge play, and deviant use of hockey equipment. Do not try this at home unless you have your very own pro-athlete. Author takes no responsibility for any damages resulting from attempting anything contained in this book.
Dedications
Les Canadiens. Je me souviens 24, J'espere pour 25.
Acknowledgements
A BIG thank you to my fabulous crit partners Cherise Sinclair and Cari Silverwood. You saw the potential for this book when it was just a dream of sexy bodies and hockey sticks and let me know loud and clear when it became more. To Sonya Grady who knows the sport and nudged me away from spoon feeding jargon—her only fault is rooting for the wrong team!
To my beta-readers: Ebony Mckennie, who's always ready to kick my butt when my confidence falters, Stacey Price who gave me whiplash with her quick and decisive response, and Genevieve Trahan who shares my love for the right team. Without you I wouldn't have had the guts to hand my baby off to the public. Rosie Moewe, thank you for making sure my baby didn't go out there all dirty!
To Riane Holt for reading, rereading, getting on my case, threatening not to take out the whip . . . you are a great friend and I couldn't have done this without you!
JS Wayne, you are a saint! You've stopped many a meltdown and hauled me back from the edge of . . . well, worse insanity! Thank you for always being my rock.
Most importantly, to my family, who puts up with my obsession for writing and hockey and dusts me off every so often when I've been immobile for too long.
~~~
This ebook contains a complimentary sneak peek at the next Dartmouth Cobras book, Defensive Zone, a short excerpt from The Dom Who Loved Me by Lexi Blake, and a short excerpt from Eliza Gayle's Midnight Playground.
~~~
Prologue
October
The players on the flat screen above the hard liquor skated in reverse as the bartender rewound the game. Again. Piss-drunk fans crowded around the bar cheered as though watching the winning goal live, and thrust their empty glass mugs out for refills. Tap beer was on the house whenever the home team won. First time in a while the generous policy would cost the Red Claw's owner a dime.
"Perron passes to Vanek. Vanek winds up, shoots . . . . Scores!" The announcer shouted as cheers erupted from the stadium crowd. "The Cobras win!"
Max Perron lifted his beer in acknowledgment as strangers slapped his shoulders and yapped about his wicked setup. Finally, they backed off him to surround Tyler Vanek, rookie extraordinaire.
"Naw, Thornton don't scare me!" Vanek laughed and thumped his chest with his fist, his tone dropping as he aped the Wild's enforcer. "'You wanna go? You wanna go?'" He paused to accept a beer from the pretty young waitress who'd been hovering and took a swig. "Sure, man, just let me drop this off in your net."
Freakin' mouthpiece. One corner of Max's mouth crept up. Maybe he should remind the kid he'd be gumming his buffalo wings if their good buddy Dominik Mason hadn't dropped the brute like a bag of manure.
He's got their attention. Why ruin a good thing? Max fished in his pocket for his cell phone to check for missed calls. Maybe I'll have a reason to slip out early.
The scuffing of shoes at his side brought his head up.
"She won't call, Perron." His captain and best friend, Sloan Callahan, gave him a grim smile. "Her and Coach have been together for three months—they won't be breaking up any time soon."
"Coach Stanton's a dick. Oriana will figure it out eventually." Max gulped some beer to wash down the bitterness clogging up his throat. "We talked before the game. She didn't sound happy."
Sloan sighed and rested his forearms on the shiny, black bar top. "Paul's good at smoothing things over with her. They're probably having make-up sex as we speak."
Make-up . . . his stomach clenched like he'd gotten a good gut check. He groaned as he pictured her soft body laid out on the bed she shared with Coach, her beautiful eyes squeezed shut as she rose to each hard thrust.
"Fuck, man!" He slammed his bottle on the bar and stood. "Seriously? You really think I need to hear that?"
"Yeah, I do." Sloan nodded towards the back door of the bar. "I got Roxy for the night. Why don't you join us—have a bit of fun? You haven't had any since you got hung up on that girl."
Rolling his eyes, Max finished his beer. He had plenty of fun—just the other night he'd swapped Vanek's equipment with the goaltender's. Pranking the rookie was worth a couple of laughs.
You fixin' to tell Callahan messing with the kid is enough for you? He smirked and considered. Might throw the man off for a second . . . . His lips tightened. The man's dealt with all my kinks so far. I doubt that would faze him.
Across the packed bar, he spotted Roxy, illuminated by the bright, red exit sign. Her pouty, crimson lips curved when she caught him looking. She flipped her sleek, blond hair over one shoulder and tipped her head towards the door. The invitation alone was enough to make his dick swell against his thigh. He adjusted his jeans to give it some space.
Roxy slipped two fingers in her mouth. Her cheeks drew in as she sucked hard.
Naughty little whore—and damn proud of it too.
"Turning tricks just does it for me," she'd told him once. "Being with different guys every night, sneaking around . . . I'm careful, I'm clean, and I'm expensive enough to be picky. I don't see nothin' wrong with it. Do you think I'm a freak?"
"No, I don't think you're a freak." He'd indulged in a rare moment of post-coital cuddling with the hooker in the backseat of Sloan's classic 'stang. Inhaling the hot scent of sex mixed with Roxy's spicy perfume, he'd felt so at ease he'd made a confession of his own. "I just wish I could find a girl like you who'd be mine—a girl who'd be okay with my freakiness."
"You'll find her, Max," she'd said. "But until you do, I'm perfectly happy giving you everything you need."
And she really was. So, after their intimate little chat, Max gave up looking for 'that girl' and decided to enjoy all Roxy had to offer.
Then he met Oriana Delgado.
Beautiful, sweet, easy to talk to—hell, he'd started falling for her the moment she'd stuttered his name. He had a feeling she'd get him . . . only Coach got to her first. And the bastard had her daddy's stamp of approval, which mattered way too much. From what she'd let slip, Coach didn't treat her good.
I would treat her like a queen. I could give her so much more . . . .
But not tonight. Tonight, she was in the arms of another man. A man she'd made it clear she wanted to be with. Nothing Max could say would change her mind. He couldn't force her to leave the man, and pining over her made him look like a fool.
The skin over his biceps tightened as he clenched his fists. He turned to Sloan. "Motel or parking lot?"
Sloan grinned and gestured for Max to lead the way out. "How 'bout the alley behind the bar? Someone might see us, but the thrill is worth the risk."
Max shuddered and nodded. He weaved through the throng of drunks, then paused beside Roxy. In a black fishnet shirt and a leather micro-mini, Roxy looked ready to be fucked. Nothing new, she always did. But this time was different. Something in her blazing, blue eyes was almost tender. Sloan must have told her about his . . . predicament.
A pity fuck. He snorted and rolled his shoulders. Not that it mattered—unless sympathy came with a discount?
Roxy frowned at his snort and reached for the metal door handle. "Shall we?"
"Yeah, we shall." Max put his hand on the door and held it open for her. "After you, ma'am."
"Uh—" She blushed and ducked out. "Thanks."
Once they'd cleared the door, he shoved her against the brick wall and braced an arm across her throat.
She let out a surprised squeak.
"Last time we were all together, you mentioned a scene you wanted to try." He bared his teeth in a ruthless smile. "Still game, babe?"
Her eyes widened, and she shivered. Her gaze flicked from him to Sloan. Then she closed her eyes and nodded.
Sloan snarled and lurched to grab a fistful of Roxy's hair. "Say it, Roxy. The money ain't worth the pain if you're not enjoying yourself. You know how rough I can be."
"Yes, Sloan." Roxy whimpered when Sloan released her. "I've been fantasizing about this for so long—I wouldn't have told you otherwise."
"Good girl." Sloan gave her a tender smile and plucked a switchblade from his pocket.
Heart hammering in his chest, Max inhaled deep as Sloan opened the knife. He'd seen Sloan scene with knives before, knew the edge was dull, but he still felt an instinctive rush of adrenaline. Logic insisted he protect the defenseless woman from the psycho with the knife. But something deep and dark reveled in Roxy's reaction to the threat. As Sloan touched the blade to her throat, her thighs shifted. The sweet musk of her arousal mingled with her floral perfume and Sloan's cologne. Under pale flesh, a thick blue pulsed against the blade.
"What do you say if you want me to stop, Roxy?" Sloan's tone was dead calm.
The tip of Roxy's tongue flicked over her bottom lip. "Pay up."
"That's right." Sloan's expression changed, warping to one of pure insanity. "Listen to me, bitch. I had every intention of slicing you up and stuffing all your pretty pieces in that big trash bin over there." He pointed to a massive black bin across the alley from them. "But the way you moved in the bar got me all hard. I watched you all night and started thinking there might be better uses for this pretty body. Was I right?"
Roxy started to nod, then whimpered when the blade dented her flesh. "Please don't hurt me. I'll do whatever you want!"
Damn. Max rubbed his dick through his jeans and gave Roxy a heavy-lidded look as he watched for any sign that she was more scared than turned-on. She lowered one hand to the hem of her skirt and curled her fingers under the leather as though tempted to touch herself.
"Max, check if the slut's wet." Sloan's lips twitched as he glanced down. He'd noticed too. "I'm not in the mood for dry pussy tonight."
Kneeling beside Roxy, Max slid his hand up between her thighs. Her flesh quivered as he stroked her with his fingers. When he touched the crotch of her panties, she gasped.
The silken material was soaked. He pushed the fabric into her with two fingertips and grinned up at Sloan.
"She's drenched." He shoved in deeper and felt her pussy spasm. His cock twitched, and a bead of pre-cum seeped out. "I'm thinkin' she needs to be fucked."
"She will be." Sloan wrapped his hand around the nape of Roxy's neck. "But, first, she's gonna earn me sparing her life. Get on your knees, whore."
Roxy carefully eased down to her knees, hissing in each breath, eyes crossing as she tried to watch the knife, which Sloan kept pressed against her throat. The tips of her red stilettos scraped the pavement as she shifted from knee to knee.
"Stop moving," Sloan said.
"There's gravel digging into my knees." Roxy's color dropped as Sloan slid the knife across her throat like he fully intended to slice her flesh. "Please, it hurts!"
"It'll hurt more if I cut your neck, don't you think?" Sloan smiled when she nodded. "Now take out my dick and suck it. If you're good, me and my friend will fuck you and let you go."
"O-okay." Roxy brought her trembling fingers to the zipper of Sloan's black jeans and deftly freed his cock. She closed her eyes when Sloan traced her cheek with the tip of the knife. As soon as Sloan moved the knife, she swallowed his dick whole.
In the shadows of the bar, with the far-off streetlights glinting off the knife and the beads of sweat on Roxy's temples, with the black tears slipping down her cheeks, the whole scene reminded Max of a horror flick. Only, in the movies, the girl wouldn't leave the dark alley alive—no matter what she did. He stood, then took a step back to enjoy the show. Pussy juice cooled on his fingers as the wind picked up, and he brought them to his mouth to suck them clean.
Sloan groaned as Roxy deep-throated him, and Max gulped back a moan. Roxy sucking Sloan's dick with a knife held so close to her face was one of the most erotic things he'd ever seen. Not a scene he would have thought of on his own, but he couldn't deny how it affected him. His balls tightened with each wet thrust of his friend's cock between those soft, glossy lips, with the thrill of seeing things he shouldn't be seeing. The very atmosphere around them thickened with fear and arousal. Their emotions and desires wound so tight with his, he couldn't tell them apart. He felt like he'd swallowed a bottle of Viagra or something. Like jerking off for hours wouldn't be enough. Like his dick would be hard forever.
"Enjoying the show, Perron?" Sloan asked between grunts.
Max ground his teeth and nodded. He stuffed his hand in his jeans and gave his dick a hard tug. "You know I am."
"We sharing or are you just gonna watch?" Sloan raked his fingers into Roxy's hair and jerked her to her feet. "Because I need to pound this bitch's pussy."
"Do it," Max said.
"Please." Roxy's hands slapped the brick wall when Sloan shoved her away from him. "I want—"
Sloan flipped up her skirt and slapped her ass. "Shut up."
"Hey!" Roxy scowled over her shoulder at Sloan. "Careful, someone might hear."
Now she's worried? Max sighed. Much as being watched appealed to him, he had to admit, Roxy had a point. "If you're gonna play that way, maybe we should go somewhere private. She hollered so loud last time you freaked me out."
"Don't worry." Sloan laughed and pulled a condom out of his pocket. Once covered, he positioned himself between Roxy's spread thighs. "No one's—"
Sloan froze and stared at the mouth of the alley. Max frowned and followed his friend's gaze.
His blood ran cold when he saw who stood there, wide-eyed and pale with shock.
She turned and ran.
"Oriana!" Max bolted after her. "Oriana!"
* * * *
Oriana's throat felt scored, like she'd swallowed sand and ground-up glass. She imagined blood rising with the bile in her throat; the pain was that deep. Her soft place to land wasn't there. Wasn't soft. Wasn't . . . she didn't know what it was. What he was. How could he?
A horn blared, then another. Bright white headlights flashed. She stumbled back from the edge of the curb. Arms wrapped around her waist and held her tight.
"Oriana!" Max hauled her further away from the intersection. Golden strands of hair stuck to the beads of sweat on his temples. "Hell! Why didn't you stop?"
"I can't talk to you right now, Max." She pushed at his chest and sighed when he refused to budge. "Let me go."
"No. Not 'til I'm certain you'll be all right." His sharp tone softened to a soft drawl as he slid his hand down her arm to twine his fingers with hers. "Come on, darlin', let's go for coffee. I know a good place."
The 'good place' was the one they went to every time he had a home game—and the last place she wanted to be. The front of the café was filled with people winding down from hours of clubbing, but there were a few empty tables near the back where she and Max always sat in relative privacy and talked. Here, she felt smart, pretty, special. Here, the jolt came from more than caffeine. It came from just being around this man.
This man she apparently didn't know as well as she thought.
Max took her jacket to lay over the back of a chair before pulling it out for her. She perched on the seat, placed her purse on her lap, then clasped her hands together on the table. Max sat across from her and reached over to cover her hands with his.
He didn't speak at first, just looked at her, as though he sensed that, at the wrong word, the wrong move, she'd bolt. And she looked back and realized the last thing she wanted to do was leave. Being in Max's presence was like a vacation on a tropical beach. His blond hair always seemed windswept. His skin reminded her of smooth sand, glowing as though just kissed by the sun. She licked her lips, tempted to press them to the back of his hand to absorb some of his warmth. To inhale the fresh scent that clung to him, the scent of the ice, which on him smelled exactly like the surf catching the breeze.
"You came to the bar to see me." His tone was level, calm, but his hands shook with nervous energy. "Did something happen?"
Tell him!
But she couldn't. Not after what she'd seen.
Besides, vacations were temporary escapes. Not places to stay forever.
"No, nothing happened." She smiled at Max, then glanced at the door. What could she say to convince him she could walk out of there without blindly stepping into traffic again? "I just wanted to congratulate you—maybe have a couple of beers. I didn't realize you'd be . . . busy."
Brow furrowed, Max looked down at their hands and nodded slowly. "Yeah, well, I'm sorry you had to see that."
"Me, too." She flushed and ducked her head when he glanced up. "I was . . . shocked. To tell you the truth, I almost called the cops. I thought you and Callahan were . . . until she said she didn't want anyone to hear. Then I realized she wanted you both to do . . . well . . . whatever you were doing."
A familiar waitress stepped up to their table and flashed a brilliant smile, her gaze, as usual, lingering just a little longer on Max. "Max, Oriana, I'm surprised to see the two of you here so late. Do you want the usual or something decaf?"
"The usual," Max said.
Oriana nodded distractedly.
After the waitress left, Max leaned forward and squeezed Oriana's hands.
"Look, I reckon the whole thing seems pretty messed up, but—"
She pulled her hands free and shook her head. "You don't have to explain, Max. It's none of my business."
"Right, then." He rubbed his face with a hand and sat back. "I just don't want this to change things between us. It's not like I do stuff like that all the time."
You don't? Then why . . . . She inhaled and decided she wanted him to explain. They were friends, and they'd always been able to talk. For some reason, he hadn't been comfortable telling her about this side of him. Maybe fate had decided to step in and show her who he really was before she made any rash decisions.
Like you did by jumping into a relationship with Paul?
No, that was different. Paul was . . . .
Is unreasonable, selfish, and sometimes even cruel. But still . . . .
God, what had she been thinking hunting down Max in the middle of the night?
Not much beyond getting out of that house.
"I can't do this anymore," she'd said, stuffing all the clothes she could grab in a suitcase before slamming it shut. "It's over."
Paul had laughed. "Enough with the drama. We both know you've got nowhere else to go."
Upper lip stiff, head down, she'd hauled her suitcase to the door and grabbed her car keys. "Yes, I do."
"Right. Well, I'll leave the porch light on for you." Paul had followed her to the door, stood there, and watched her go. "And 'cause I'm such a nice guy, I won't say I told you so when you come back."
I'm not going back. She'd thought it then and she thought it now. But the certainty was gone.
The waitress brought their drinks and retreated quietly, obviously having caught some of the tension between the two. Oriana sipped her mochaccino, savoring the espresso roast and rich dark chocolate topped with just a hint of cinnamon. Max made a throaty sound of pleasure and licked some frothed milk from his upper lip. Her pulse quickened. Damn the man for being so sexy. This would be much easier if he were ugly. Or gay.
Then again, probably not. Even if he were ugly, she'd still love the way he made her feel. And if he was gay, she'd wish he wasn't.
Stop stalling. There's no easy way out. Get the facts and go from there.
She set her cup on the table and traced the glass handle with her pinky. "So you were waiting for Sloan to finish so you could—"
"Not this time. I was fine just watching." Max's cup clinked as he set it down. "I'm a voyeur. I get more out of watching than participating."
Her quickened pulse seemed to suddenly stop. She lifted her head and stared. The words left her mouth before her brain had time to filter them. "A voyeur? No, I don't believe it. I can't see you sneaking around, getting off watching people having sex. You can have any woman you want." With those big shoulders, so muscular, yet relaxed like they could carry the weight of the world effortlessly. "Voyeurs are insecure freaks that use two-way mirrors and peepholes to invade people's privacy." And that smile, the one he was giving her now, the one that made her tingle down to her toes. "They—" She slapped her hand over her mouth to shut herself up.
Great friend she was. He'd confided in her and in return she'd insulted him.
But rather than take offence, he chuckled, then took another sip of coffee. "Don't hold back, Oriana, tell me how you really feel."
Her cheeks heated up. "I'm sorry. I—"
"Don't be, I'm used to it."
Like that made her feel any better. "Please. I want to understand."
He nodded and put his hands, palm up, on the table. When she gave him hers, he continued. "I was still in my teens the first time I ever did something that would classify as voyeurism. I walked in on a friend of mine having sex at a party. He shouted at me, told me to get out, but I just stood there—I couldn't move. Then I . . . well, let's say I did something embarrassing. The guy stopped being my friend after that. I talked to my dad about it—we've always been close so I figured he should know I had a problem. His solution was to buy me a bunch of porn."
"Did that help?"
"For a bit, but I couldn't help fantasizing about being there in person. I never did anything about it 'cause my dad gave me a lecture about intruding on people's privacy, and his word is law. I buried my 'sick urges'—my words, not his—until I got old enough to go to strip clubs. Some of the girl-on-girl action helped a little."
"I'll bet." Oriana smiled, thinking—despite his strange urges—Max was a typical guy.
Max cleared his throat. "Yeah, well, I got exactly what I needed when Sloan and Dominik invited me to a club they go to. They were sharin' a girl and . . . ."
The cafe seemed to heat up. Oriana inhaled sharply, leaning forward. "And?"
"Sloan looked right at me and asked me to join in. I was already so turned on, I didn't even think twice. First time I realized being watched pushed all my buttons too. I could feel the eyes of all the people in the club on me—like they were all sharing the experience. Like it was one great big orgy." He shook his head at combed his fingers through his hair. "After that, me and Sloan went to the club together all the time. And . . . well, hell, I told him all my deep, dark secrets, and he acted like it was no big deal. Said so long as the people I watched consented, it was all good. And he consents a lot."
"I saw that." The coffee and the room and her blood cooled as she pictured them. Sloan surrounded by writhing bodies and Max drinking it in, savoring every moment of ecstasy before he joined them. Not something she could participate in. Ever. It was just too . . . out there. Paul's attitude, his offhand cruelty, even his lackluster lovemaking, suddenly didn't seem that bad. At least it was normal. She frowned at her coffee cup. "But you do know not everyone is into—"
"Things would be different with you, sugar." He ran his thumb over her knuckles, reaching out to tip her chin up with a finger. "I'd find a way to change. You'd be enough for me."
For a split second, she was tempted to say yes. But that wouldn't be fair. She held back a sigh and finished her coffee. "You shouldn't have to change for anyone, Max. There's nothing wrong with who you are."
"But I would. I'm not telling you this because I expect you to . . . ." He studied her face for a moment, then withdrew his hands. "I just want you to understand what happened tonight."
The smile on her lips felt like it had been sewn in place. She stood and pulled on her coat. "I do."
"Good." He picked up the bill and shook his head when she opened her purse. "I've got it. Just give me a sec and I'll walk you to your car."
"Thanks, but no. I need a few minutes alone to think." She focused on buttoning up her jacket so he wouldn't see the lie in her eyes. "Much as I understand, this is a lot to absorb. Besides, I'm parked right down the street."
"It's awfully late." He looked helplessly at the line in front of the cash register and the waitresses rushing to clean up after the crowd. "I'd be more comfortable if you'd—"
"This isn't Montreal. You're more dangerous than anyone I'll meet outside—Hey!" She giggled when he made a grab for her. For a second, things seemed lighter, brighter, their familiar playfulness a splash of yellow paint all over reality.
He caught her and wrapped her up in his great big arms, holding her close. Surrounded by his warmth, his strength, she felt her knees grow weak. She peeked up at him.
His eyes twinkled with mischief. He bent low and his lips brushed her earlobe as he spoke, letting his accent thicken his tone. "So you think I'm dangerous?"
Hell, yes. When he talked to her, in that smooth, rich voice—damn, the things he could have made her do. Thankfully, he didn't let the Southern playboy out often—with her anyway—but even without the vocal seductiveness and the face and the body, he played havoc with her concept of reality. He made her smile and laugh, made her believe in silly things like love at first sight.
But she was a Delgado. The responsible sister.
And he'd just proved he wasn't the man for her.
"You really shouldn't—" She squirmed out of his arms and the pain inside returned, even harder to swallow than before. "I have a boyfriend, Max."
His lips drew together in a thin, hard line. "After last time, I thought you were ready to end things with him. You kissed me."
Another blush flared up on her cheeks. She smacked his arm. "That's not fair. You gave me chocolate—and it was a kiss on the cheek. A friendly kiss."
"Ah, I see." He bent over and pressed a light kiss on her forehead. "Well, then, here's another." His cheek brushed hers. "And if things are going well between you and Paul, I'm happy for you, honestly. But I hope you've made it clear you won't tolerate him making you feel like shit about yourself whenever he's having a bad day."
She rested her head on his solid chest, breathing in his fresh scent, lightly tainted with beer. As she drew away the overpowering aroma of freshly ground coffee beans took over, clearing her head.
"Of course." She hooked her purse over her arm and nodded at the waitress waiting nearby. "You sure you don't want me to pay for myself?"
"I'm sure." He patted her cheek. "Might make a dent in my savings, but you're worth it."
"All right, then I guess I'll see you around," she said, even though she knew she wouldn't. She swallowed when he let her go and started to turn away. "Thank you for . . . everything."
"Yeah, well, take care. And don't you worry." His jaw worked as he paused, head down, and shoved his hand into his pocket for his wallet. "I'll be here when . . . whenever."
The bells over the door tinkled as she hurried out, desperate to get to her car before his sweet acceptance of her choices ripped apart her resolve. Before she'd reached the end of the block, the bells sounded again. She glanced over her shoulder and saw him, standing there. The gentle weight of his eyes on her back remained until she'd reached the safety of her car.
Once inside, she eyed him through the rear-view mirror. Her heart beat hard between her ears when he didn't move. Finally he stuffed his hands in his pockets and took off in the other direction.
Make a u-turn! Go tell him the truth!
Shaking her head, she started the car, then pulled out. All the way home her decision dragged her down. When she trampled up the front steps, she felt like all her bones were made of lead. The porch light blinded her as she fumbled in her pockets for her keys.
The door swung open. Paul sighed and gestured her inside. "Let's get this over with."
She closed the door softly behind her, then pulled off her jacket and went to hang it in the closet. "Get what over with?"
"You're sorry, you'll never do it again—"
Her shoulders stiffened as she turned to face him. "I'm not sorry."
His dark brown brows creased in confusion. "But you're back."
"Yeah. I'm back." She strode across the living room, kicked off her shoes, then plunked down on the stiff, white leather sofa. "And I'll be sleeping here tonight."
The grandfather clock in the hall ticked off the seconds in the silence. Paul's shadow wisped over her as he crossed the room.
"Hey, I'm giving the guys a break tomorrow." He scuffed his socks on the carpet and cleared his throat. "Maybe we can go visit your dad?"
Damn him, he always knows just what to say. Visits with her dad were . . . pleasant when Paul was around.
"I'd like that." Curling up on her side, she wrapped her arms around her chest. The dull ache wouldn't go away. Almost felt like something inside had been surgically removed. Maybe her heart.
"Okay." Paul bent down and kissed her cheek. "We'll talk more in the morning. I was a little rough on you . . . I like that you're so into the game, but this is my job. I see things different than you do."
"I know." The wet spot where he'd pressed his lips felt cold. But for some reason, the spot on her forehead where Max had kissed her still burned. So not right. "But a win's a win. You've gotta give the guys more credit. The goaltender was off his game. If the first line hadn't pushed so hard—"
"That's what you don't get. If they'd focused on defense like I'd told them to—they deserved to lose after that performance."
"The first line worked their asses off."
Paul pushed away from the sofa. "You mean Max."
"Not only him." But he was probably the main reason for the fight. Maybe Paul sensed something between them. And if he did, this was all her fault. She reached out to touch the back of his hand. "I really hate when you call me stupid, Paul. Just because I can't understand why you'd get so upset about your team winning—"
"And you never will." He shook his head. "We'll talk more tomorrow, Oriana. Get some sleep."
Lying perfectly still, Oriana listened to the sound of Paul ascending the steps to their bedroom. She stared at the front door for a while, feeling trapped. If only she had the guts to get up and leave again. For good.
But this was her life. What she'd chosen. What she wanted. Normal. Stable. Things would get easier once she accepted all her dreams of some great romance were just that. Dreams.
But for now . . . she closed her eyes and drifted away into a place where reality didn't matter. Where Max waited with his teasing smile and warm embrace.
Chapter One
Mid-March, 5 months later
Rock on blades in the cold, shadowed spotlight,
The words 'flag' and 'freedom' stir you.
Do not be lulled by the song.
Hear the screams, knights of the ice, wield your stick swords.
Fly the wings, break away, never shy from the crush.
Play as though at war and hear the trumpet sound.
Standing in the shadow of the blocky beast of gray slate and glass, Oriana gazed up at the glaring light coming from the high window of her father's office. In her mind's eyes, she could see the poem, written by her twelve-year-old self, etched on a bronze plaque. The plaque hung on the wall behind her father's desk among tarnished gold medals and faded blue ribbons. The original had been lost long ago, but she could still picture her father, holding the stationary with the pink carnation print, hands shaking as he read the meticulously handwritten words. His eyes glistening, he'd laughed and hugged her.
"Beautiful, sweetheart," he'd said. "You have no idea how much this means to me."
For a while, his words rang true, but, by now, that precious plaque had gathered years' worth of dust. The Delgado Forum, the largest building this close to the Narrows, was all her father cared about.
She inched closer to the wall.
Paranoid much? She rolled her eyes and laughed at herself. Even if she stood in the middle of the street, her father couldn't see her from way up there. And she was waiting for Paul, so it wouldn't matter if he did.
The muffled sound of Metric's Stadium Love came from her book bag. Heavy textbooks thunked on the sidewalk as she dropped the bag between her feet and crouched to unlatch the buckle. Reaching in to fetch her cell, her hand brushed the smallest book and heat skimmed her ears. She should have stopped at home and dropped it off. If anyone saw what she'd been reading . . . .
Her fingers touched the cool, metallic edge of her cell. She snatched it out and closed her bag, making sure the strap was tight. The muscles in her thighs clenched as she rose, wobbling a little on her heels. Stilettos took some getting used to. Too bad the comfy sneakers in her bag wouldn't look half as sexy as the thigh-high leather boots she'd chosen to complete her costume for the evening. She wiggled her toes and winced at the sting of a broken blister on the inside of her left foot.
What was it Silver always said? Ah, yes. You wanna look hot? Suffer.
Then again, her little sister had started wearing G-strings in her mid-teens to avoid "gross" panty lines. In her late teens, she'd stopped wearing bras. Oriana didn't ask why—she really didn't want to know. Keeping up with Silver's warped fashion sense would take more free time, and, well, guts, than Oriana possessed. For school and special occasions, she wore nice, tailored suits. The rest of the time, she stuck with sweats. A little boring, maybe, but she hated having to constantly fiddle with her clothes and worry about how everything fit.
Looking around to make sure no one was watching, she ran a finger under the tight leather clinging to the flesh of her thigh. A cool breeze skimmed between her legs, reminding her of what else she was wearing. Better not to think too hard about the outfit beneath her white, mid-length wool coat.
She turned her attention to her phone, unwound the wire for her earbuds, then stuck them in her ears. When the highlight reel began, a smile whispered across her lips. The Friday night crowd bustling around her faded away. All she heard was the spectator's roar. All she saw was him.
Even on the small screen, she could make him out. Max Perron, number 40. A close-up of his face after a sweet slap-shot sent tiny wings aflutter in her stomach. Sun-kissed ocean eyes glowed in a wickedly handsome face. Beautiful . . . even more so up close, filled with heat. She hadn't seen them in so long, not in person, not in any way that mattered, since the day he brought her flowers for her birthday and she'd told him their friendship was a bad idea. She'd ignored every call from him for what seemed like forever. Ignored them until they stopped coming.
A shriek pierced through the sounds blasting in her ears and brought her back to the present. She took out the earbuds.
"Tyler! Oh, I can't believe it's really you!"
The shrill cry came from a young woman dressed in a huge jersey who stepped out of the shadowed alcove halfway down the ramp on the side of the forum. The players came out of there after practices or games and fans would lay in wait to get a glimpse of their heroes. But Oriana had a feeling this girl was more than a fan.
Tyler Vanek, one of the rookies brought up from the farm team the year before, stopped short and leaned an elbow on the brick wall beside the parking garage entrance, trying to look smooth.
"Hey. And you are . . . ?" His lips curved and his cheeks, soft and freshly shaven, glowed under the bare bulb that flashed on overhead. He raked his fingers through his tight, blond curls, and his eyes traveled over the girl as she hopped on her spiky, red heels.
The poise of a man, with the expression of a little boy eager to get his hand in the cookie jar. Maybe he didn't know who the girl was, but he'd clearly figured out enough to like his chances.
What did Max call them again? Oh, yeah, Puck Bunnies. Oriana smirked when the girl leapt forward with a little shriek. Appropriate.
Vanek braced and caught her before she could knock them both over. "Wow. You're feisty."
Ya think? Oriana stuffed her phone in her book bag and took out her sunglasses. The last dying sunrays had barely crested the city skyline, but she slipped the glasses on anyway. A sidestep up the sidewalk out of their line of sight put her in the perfect position to observe without seeming to. Not because she was into . . . watching or anything, but she was curious to see how far it would go.
Most of the players would offer a signature and gently detach themselves. The rookie obviously didn't know better. Bunny's lucky day.
Clinging to his shirt, the blond Jessica-Rabbit-lookalike rubbed one leg up his thigh. "Can we go somewhere?"
"I can't, I gotta get back." Vanek groaned as her hand disappeared between their bodies. "But here's good."
With his back against the wall, he watched her get on her knees.
Oriana let out a huff of disgust and spun away from the pair. Then checked her watch. The spindly silver hands didn't move.
Stupid batteries.
Groans from below set her teeth on edge. Peeking at the lusty pair, she blushed. How could they do that out in the open? Loud slurps had passers-by glancing their way and doubling their pace. Vanek's baby face screwed up, and he clenched his hands in the girl's hair as she bobbed her head faster and faster. An old man slowed and took a good long look at the show before giving Oriana a toothless grin.
Cheeks blazing, she crossed her arms over her chest and faced the street. The image of another man getting sucked off by a girl on her knees played like porn on the big screen of her mind. She pressed her eyes shut and tried to force the images out of her head. Vanek's grunts brought them back.
What she'd witnessed in the alley had haunted her for nights after.
You made the right choice. Forget it.
But she couldn't. The way she felt about Max wouldn't go away. She might not want the kind of wild life Max lived, but her heart didn't care. Logic told her there was nothing wrong with the normal, stable life she intended to lead with Paul.
Then she recalled her plans for the evening. Okay, so desperation trumped normal.
Too late for her and Max, but with Paul, maybe, just maybe, she could salvage what they had. If only she weren't the only one fighting for their relationship.
Where are you, Paul?
Tugging a curl loose from her bronze coiffure, she twirled it around her index finger and traced a big, silver hoop earring with her thumb. The scenario played over in her head like it had while she'd carefully picked out each piece of her outfit. Paul, all detached, sitting across from her in the secluded booth she'd paid extra to reserve at his favorite restaurant, looking at his cell every couple minutes. Then she'd take off her coat.
And he'd stare.
The snug, black corset dress she'd finally settled on, knee-length, slit up both sides to the hip, made her feel a little self-conscious, but what she wore underneath made her feel like a goddess. Maybe she should give Paul a preview in the car. He might not want to go out to dinner after all.
Page one of her new . . . relationship handbook said a man like Paul needed direction. Needed to be caught off guard.
Men in demanding jobs often feel like they have to be in control at all times. They can't find release in the bedroom because they're wound up so tight. Take their choices away and you'll find you've got a man ready and willing to please. Make him work for it. You'll both enjoy the results.
Could it possibly be that simple?
You're not even wet.
Oriana winced as another memory twinged like a splinter. The way things had gone the last time she and Paul were alone together, she was lucky he'd agreed to meet her at all. Whenever things got intimate, she screwed it up. Their sex life was seriously lacking, the very reason she'd taken the initiative to ask him out for once. And called her sister for some advice.
"Look for a book called Lady in Charge," Silver had told her. "If that don't work, ditch the loser."
She'd found the book online under "femdom" and decided her little sister was seriously unhinged. Dominate Paul? Really? But then she read the excerpt and decided to give it a shot. The bondage stuff looked . . . interesting. Picturing silk scarves or lined cuffs securing her wrists—No, Paul's wrists to the headboard . . . .
Well, couldn't hurt to try. She couldn't very well make things worse.
Thinking of the graphic image on page 214 of a woman attaching a spiked ball stretcher to her lover's sack, she grinned and shook her head. Such extremes right off the bat would definitely make things worse. Better stick with the mild stuff. Like taking charge for the night.
For some reason, the very idea made her feel like she'd taken a big bite of something that smelled sweet and tasted awful. She mentally flipped the through the pages she pored over the night before, trying to find a single appealing scene. Maybe a simple role-play?
How would she broach the subject with Paul? 'I want to try something…'
Her stomach did a little flip. Okay, no talking. Just a candlelit dinner, a little reveal of her sexy lingerie, and maybe some moves from the book. Tease him under the table cloth and order him not to come. He'd be putty in her hands. The book said so.
Well, something's gotta work. Oriana made a face and checked her long, black, manicured nails. According to that same book, the "honeymoon's" over.
The streetlight overhead flickered to life and a shadow fell, her only warning before a massive form slammed into her. Teetering on her heels, her arms flailed. Her book bag swung out, hit the sidewalk, and skidded off the curb.
Without a word, the man plucked her bag off the street, ignoring the car that swerved to avoid him, horn blaring. He held it out to her.
She hesitated before taking it. The guy was huge, menacing with his face hidden in the shadows of his dark, gray hood. Without getting too close, she snatched the strap. Mouth too dry for a "thank you," she inclined her head and hoped it would be enough.
"Sorry about that." He lowered the hood, revealing a face just as familiar as the voice. His eyes ran over her, paused on her heels, then made their way up slow. "Hey, don't I know you?"
Sloan Callahan. The man she'd seen with Max in the alley—had he seen her? The flap of her jacket hung open, and for a horrible moment, she felt completely exposed. Her mouth went dry, and she had a vision of that night. Only this time, the woman they planned to share wasn't Roxy. It was her.
Her eyes traced the scar from a slash that had almost taken his eye. The bound wooden blade of the stick had torn rather than cut, so the wound wasn't nice and smooth. White flesh streaked in two irregular lines through one brow, over one cheekbone, and up to his temple, creating a well-defined path.
Those who'd voted Callahan the most handsome man in the sport for three years straight—as if good looks made a damn bit of difference on the ice—considered the damage done to Callahan's face a tragedy. To her mind, the scars gave him a dangerous appeal. The kind of appeal that tempted good girls to do very bad things.
"Do I?"
Definitely. Oriana blinked. Did he know she was thinking about him and Max and . . . ? She shook her head. Don't be a dumb ass. He asked if he knew you.
Taking hold of the flaps of her jacket, she held it closed and craned her neck to study him over her sunglasses. "No. I don't think so." His dark eyes narrowed, and she swallowed. A moan from the ramp spurred her on. She pushed her sunglasses up with a finger and spoke loud so Vanek's captain wouldn't hear him. "Umm . . . I don't suppose you have the time?"
A crowd of teens approached, taking up most of the sidewalk. Rather than move across the sidewalk to let them pass, he stepped towards her. She retreated until her back hit a light post. His hand under her elbow kept her from toppling onto the street.
"It's eight-twenty, princess." He leaned his forearm on the post above her head and chuckled when she froze. "You waiting for someone?"
All she could do was nod as she peered up at him with wide eyes. Damn he was tall. And big. And hot.
More scary than anything. Should check him for weapons. Boy's dangerous.
Cold air skimmed over her breasts, causing goosebumps to rise on all the flesh not covered by the tightly-laced bodice. She wanted to do up her jacket, but he was too close. If she didn't move, he might not notice the slit of the dress had slipped to one side, exposing her thigh to hip.
You sure you don't want him to notice? said the naughty voice in her head, which usually indicated she had been spending too much time on the phone listening to her sister's raunchy tales.
She peeked up at Callahan, and heat flooded her cheeks when she caught his eyes on her breasts.
"Well, let's hope he's not too late. Someone might steal you away." Tiny creases cut through his scar, and something stirred deep inside. The way he looked at her almost made her feel desirable. He leaned a little closer. "I mean, dressed like that, standing on the corner . . . ."
He pushed away from her.
"How dare—" She sputtered on the words she wanted to say and let her narrowed gaze spit all the venom her mouth couldn't. Might be better for him if he did have a knife on him. She was very tempted to see what kind of damage she could do with her nails.
But acting like a savage wasn't her style. She gave him the coldest look she could muster and glanced up the sidewalk to see if she could catch the eye of someone passing by. Just in case he went caveman on her. Not that he looked even close to doing so. His composure brought her to the edge of losing hers entirely.
A sparkle of amusement lit his black eyes, and he gave her legs another lingering look. "Hell, with those legs, I'm sure you'd get a decent offer. I'd make one myself, but I'm in too much of a hurry for you to make it worth my while." He winked and tugged his hood back over his head. "Maybe next time."
A little sting in the corner of her eye made her blink fast and shake her head. Sticks and stones, Oriana. How would Silver handle this?
Hands on her hips, she gave him a swift once over and sucked her teeth. "Callahan—"
"You can call me, 'Mr. Callahan.' We're not friends."
"Fine, Mr. Callahan." She clipped out each syllable, resisting the urge to kick him. "There won't be a next time."
Real smooth. Do you need Silver to script a decent comeback?
"So you say." Callahan cleared his throat. "Vanek, I'm heading in. You have two minutes."
The sharp sound of a zipper drew her attention to the ramp. Vanek gave her a sheepish grin, then nodded at his bunny while she scribbled something on a scrap of paper and stuffed it in his pocket. The bunny's heels clicked as she made her way up the ramp. Blonde waves bouncing, she disappeared around the corner.
"Nice try covering for the kid. I'm sure he'd thank you if he got her knocked up and she took him for all he's worth." Callahan took her sunglasses from her face and slipped them into her jacket pocket, effectively removing her only shield. "Did you enjoy the show?"
So much for hoping he'd forgotten. She glared at the gold embroidered team logo centered on his broad chest. A snake, just like him.
His finger brushed her cheek as he tucked a loose curl behind her ear. Her pulse sped up. Her gaze shot to his face. Those black eyes didn't belong to a snake. Or any animal she'd ever seen. They brought to mind the ocean at night when the surface was smooth and calm. And just cool enough to be soothing after a hot summer day. She could imagine immersing herself in the water, feeling soft waves lap up her thighs. Soon the moonlight would reflect off the glassy surface, like the streetlights reflected in Callahan's eyes.
The ocean always mesmerized her.
"Tell me, princess, did it get you off?"
But the ocean didn't have a big, stupid mouth.
Her chin jutted up. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't." He ran his thumb over her bottom lip. "So soft. I can imagine you in that position . . . ." When she jerked away, he laughed. "But you don't know what I'm talking about."
Oh, god. She watched him turn away, unable to force her eyes off him until he disappeared inside the forum. Her mind locked on "the position" he'd implied. The bunny's position? Or the position of the woman he'd shared with Max? Neither option seemed as deplorable as it should have. Or likely to happen.
So not fair. The only man in history to reject Silver, hitting on her.
No, mocking her. He couldn't seriously think she'd ever . . . .
Her nipples drew into hard little points and poked through the openwork details of her lace bra. Her body wasn't in accord with her mind. Then again, the intelligent arguments her brain came up with were weak.
Sex in public isn't my thing.
Not that she knew what her "thing" was.
Couldn't you consider trying something new? For Max?
She should have, but it was too late.
Is it?
Neither her brain nor her body had an answer. She hadn't spoken to Max in months. Maybe she should call him and apologize for the way she'd behaved. Maybe then they could discuss . . .
Get a grip. You have a man.
Who was an hour late. So much for their dinner reservations.
Heaving out a sigh, she smoothed her hands over her sides to make sure the dress hadn't inched up to reveal more of the generous thighs Sloan had admired. Then did up her jacket. The way things were going, he might be the only one who got to see them tonight.
Change direction of thoughts. Sloan isn't interested in my pudgy legs. I'm trying to impress Paul. Who'll be here . . . .
The door of the forum slid open. Her father's secretary walked out.
"Hi, Annie." Oriana stepped into the pinched-nosed woman's path. "Is Paul—?"
Annie looked over the red rim of her spectacles and sniffed. "He'll be along shortly. Excuse me."
The secretary hurried to her bus stop. Her behavior might have seemed rude to some, but it didn't bother Oriana. Her father kept Annie busy. She had to get home to her kids.
Never mind that she would have found time to talk if Silver stood in her place. Because Silver wouldn't be standing here, waiting. No one kept Silver waiting for anything.
Then again, Silver wouldn't let them if they tried. Her little sister would have stormed into Daddy's office after ten minutes of sitting in the limo—not standing on the curb because the limo driver wouldn't dare tell her he had other places to be—and ranted until both the man of the hour and Daddy were tripping over each other making apologies.
Oriana couldn't do that.
A couple strolled by with steaming cups of coffee. The aroma lingered in the crisp, maritime breeze, fragrant tendrils of temptation, coming from the couple as much as the cups. A little cafe around the corner ground their coffee beans fresh for each pot right in front of the customers. The whole place smelled so earthy and rich, the caffeinated kick struck the second the door cracked open. Still her favorite haunt before and after exams, even though Max never . . . .
Stop.
Coffee. Coffee would be lovely. A new plan formed and she smiled.
Maybe she couldn't do ranting. But she could do thoughtful.
Fifteen minutes later, cardboard tray in hand, Oriana strolled into the Forum and made a beeline for the elevator. The echo of her heels on the glistening, black granite floors sounded like the tick of a giant clock. High rounded arches and marble columns gave the appearance of a cathedral; the huge black and white portraits of hockey greats, like Gordie Howe, suspended from the pristine white ceiling looked like saints of old. Without crowds it didn't seem like a place to enjoy rowdy sports. The last couple of times she'd met Paul here, she'd had to stop herself from looking for pews.
Eight months in Dartmouth and I still haven't been to a single game. Her steps slowed as she passed the big, red double doors that led to the stands. School work kept her busy, so she'd never questioned Paul and her father's refusal to let her watch the games from the press box.
Well, no one could stop her from buying a ticket. Then she could enjoy the full experience without Paul or her father spoiling her fun by telling her not to shout at the players. Imagining a treat of beer and nachos, she inhaled deeply, then wrinkled her nose at the sharp scent of lemon cleaner hanging in the air from a recently passed mop. Nope, fantasy just wouldn't cut it. Whether the men in her life liked it or not, she was going to the hockey game tomorrow night.