team is fresh off the win and it’s Marcus’s birthday. Which is how I ended up here, at the house Marcus shares with his roommates—and across the room from Nash, who’s acting like nothing even happened between us earlier.
I mean, I’m not sure how else he could act. What is he supposed to do, tell everyone he felt me up in the training room this morning? But he’s acting so normal, so unaffected, that it’s making me more rattled. He’s got the upper hand, and I hate it.
First, I had to watch him crush it out on the ice tonight—which, by the way, is such a turn-on that it could be considered foreplay. Now, I’m stuck looking at his stupid, handsome face and his stupid, tattooed arm, clutching that stupid bottle of beer with his stupid massive hand, trying to appear impervious to his appeal when I am anything but.
At this rate, I won’t be able to function around him soon.
“Want another drink?” Julianna nudges me. She’s perched on Marcus’s lap to my left, a development she seems thrilled with but that somehow leaves me uneasy. I can’t pinpoint why, when he’s never been anything but perfectly pleasant to me.
I glance down at my empty mango White Claw. “Thanks, but I think I’m okay.”
New, self-imposed rule: one-drink limit in Nash’s presence.
Nash stands up and goes into the kitchen, presumably to get another beer. Everyone else is in the middle of some massive drinking game, the rules to which I don’t understand. Either way, they’re occupied enough that they won’t notice my brief absence or if they do, they won’t think much of it.
“I’m going to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” I tell Jules.
She nods, turning back to Marcus as he continues a story about their win in the championship semifinals last season. In this account, he’s the hero, but it doesn’t quite align with the version of events Nash relayed to me when he drove me home the other day. My radar pings again, and I make a note to speak to Julianna once I figure out a way to approach the topic.
Stepping over people scattered haphazardly around the living room, I squeeze through the crowd, slipping into the kitchen at the same moment Nash turns away from the fridge with a fresh beer in his hand.
He isn’t even a little surprised to see me standing here. If anything, he looks like he expected it. It’s like he’s playing four-dimensional chess, and I’m a pawn.
Laughter erupts in the living room, but the kitchen is silent as I step closer to him. “We need to talk.”
Nash’s brows lift, thinly veiled amusement on his face. “About what?”
“You know what.”
“Okay.” He cracks his beer, tossing the bottle cap aside with a clink. “Shoot.”
Shooting him sounds like a great idea, actually.
I go to speak, but immediately realize this room is entirely too open, too exposed to the party and potential eavesdroppers. Surveying the open main floor for alternatives, I come up frustratingly empty-handed.
“Let’s just—go upstairs for a minute,” I tell him, growing flustered in the face of his calm exterior.
With a shrug, he sets down his beer and follows me. The fact that he seems to think he needs both of his hands free for this discussion is worrisome. If anything, I should have made sure both his hands were occupied with something else.
I’m not sure I’ve thought this through. Okay, I definitely haven’t. But too late, now.
Fortunately, the stairwell is sheltered from the living room such that no one can see us ascend. We reach the top of the stairs and I yank open the door to the first bedroom on the left, shoving Nash into the empty room. Or more precisely, I try to shove him, and he saunters into the bedroom purely of his own accord because my efforts don’t move him an inch. At least he’s in a cooperative mood, but I can’t count on that lasting long once he hears what I have to say.
Music and party chatter fades as I close the door behind me, sealing us in. My trembling fingers search the wall beside the door, landing on the light switch, but when I flip it, nothing happens. I try again. Still nothing.
Great. We’re in the dark—alone. Solid plan, Violet.
“What was that about this morning?” I whisper-yell.
A deep laugh rumbles in front of me. “What about it? Are we picking up where we left off?”
God help me, part of me wants to. The insane part.
Because the truth is, I didn’t mind it one bit. My objections didn’t kick in until later once I sobered up from Nash’s influence. Then, the gravity of the situation hit me. If Christina or Coach Ward had walked in, it could have been catastrophic. Mostly for me.
Word has it, Coach Ward also warned the team to remain professional with the trainers. But unlike me, Nash wouldn’t be breaking any official rules. Plus, as their top stay-at-home defenseman, the team needs Nash too badly to bench him. If we were to get caught together, they’d probably kick me out of my internship and let him keep right on playing. Double standards for the athletes are par for the course.
My eyes adjust to the dark, and his hulking silhouette comes into view a few feet away. Electricity thrums between us, like two halves of a circuit waiting to be connected, making my plan to speak to him privately seem more ill-advised than ever.
I take half a step back, hitting what feels like a dresser behind me. “You can’t just try to seduce me in the middle of the training room.”
“Fine. I’ll seduce you here instead.” Nash draws closer, and my breath snags as his hands slide around my waist, claiming the sliver of bare skin beneath the hem of my cropped shirt. Every nerve ending in my body lights up like a Christmas tree, my brain short-circuiting from the sudden galvanized surge.
Second thoughts murmur in the back of my mind, voices of reason reminding me he’s the only one who ever broke my heart. It would be foolish to let him have it again, and that’s almost a certainty if we head down this path. There’s no half-hearted or half-assed when it comes to us. It’s in or out, all or nothing.
“Do you always have to be inappropriate?” I’m trying to sound assertive, but my breathy protest is unconvincing even to my own ears.
“You’re the one who yanked me into a dark room alone, Vi.”
“Oh my God. You’re so…” My train of thought derails as Nash lifts me off the ground and sets me on the dresser. Broad palms rest on the top of my thighs, heat radiating through the denim of my jeans and winding all the way up to my core, dissolving what little willpower I have left. With every second his hands linger on my body, those voices of reason get a little quieter.
A rough finger caresses my cheekbone, trailing down to my jaw. “Charming? Irresistible?”
I can’t see his face in the dark, but I can hear the smirk in his voice.
“The word I was looking for is infuri—”
Before I can finish, he grabs my face and his mouth crashes down on mine. A rush runs through my entire body, and I resist for a split second out of surprise before my instincts kick in, lips parting. He seizes the access that I grant him, pushing into my mouth with a low groan that vibrates down my throat. When his tongue slides against mine, a stadium’s worth of butterflies in every color, shape, and size imaginable explode in my stomach. The flutters travel all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes.
Oh, I missed this.
Slanting his mouth, Nash deepens the kiss, faint traces of beer mingling with his unique taste. It’s an intoxicating blend that leaves me lightheaded and longing for more, completely under his spell within a matter of seconds. His arm wraps around my waist, firm planes of muscle crushing me to him. My fingertips tug at the soft hair at his nape, earning me a deep, gravelly sound of appreciation and an even tighter embrace. His tongue plunders my mouth, ravishing me, and the voltage between us surges until it sizzles.
I’ve spent years fantasizing about being kissed like this again. It’s claiming and demanding, bossy and insistent. It says you’re mine, even though I know that isn’t true.
Almost as if he can hear my thoughts, his fingers twine in the roots of my hair, yanking with zero hesitancy, and his teeth sink into my lower lip. A needy whimper escapes the back of my throat at the divine blend of pleasure and pain, a long unmet need finally being fulfilled. Everything lights up with white-hot passion, and my fingernails dig into his skin to urge him on.
He growls and releases his bite, slipping his hand beneath my shirt and squeezing my breasts over my thin, lacy bra. His caresses are warm and rough, familiar yet thrilling, and I never want it to end. My head tips back with a shaky exhale as my nipples harden, skin heating beneath his hands. I’m gone, so far gone. He’s an addiction I’ve fallen straight back into, hooked on the way he touches me and already aching for another fix.
“Why do you always smell so fucking good?” His words are a heated, husky whisper against my throat. My inhale catches in my lungs as his tongue drags along the column of my neck, his teeth sinking into that sweet spot that makes me whimper.
His hands slide beneath my thighs, hauling me to the very edge of the dresser so abruptly that I tip forward into him. He catches me, his strong, thick fingers digging into my ass with a bruising hold, and I gasp as his hard length presses that perfect, sensitive spot between my legs. It’s decadent; a slow grind; an agonizing rhythm meant to take me to the brink and keep me there.
Faintly, I remember that we shouldn’t be doing this. We especially shouldn’t be doing this while the rest of the team is downstairs. Someone could walk in at any minute. But if anything, knowing how wrong it is only makes me want it more. After all, the risk has always been part of his appeal.
“You’re wet for me right now, aren’t you Vi? I bet you’re fucking soaked.” His voice is thick with desire and full of filthy memories.
I don’t need to speak up to confirm his theory; we both know it’s true. It’s like diving into a river after a dry spell.
His next thrust makes my mouth fall open, my thighs clenching with pleasure.
“Oh, God.” I bury my face in the crook of his neck, clinging to him as I tilt my pelvis to meet his, chasing that incendiary high. Am I really about to get off from simply dry humping? I can’t decide whether it’s hot, because I have a six-foot-four hockey god grinding between my legs, or sad because I’ve been so orgasm-deprived that this is all it takes. Maybe a bit of both.
“Damn, I missed your sounds. It’s been way too long since I’ve seen you come.”
Sheer, unadulterated need throbs between my legs like a steady, beating drum growing louder and more insistent by the second. My eyes squeeze shut as my back arches against him, seeking friction and desperate for release. His movements slow to a torturously languorous pace, infusing my body with bliss, holding me right on the edge without letting me tip over.
Flames spread across my skin, and my breathing turns ragged, my underwear drenched with arousal. With another divine rock of his hips, I gasp and dig my heels into his backside, trying to pull him closer. His hands bracket my waist, holding me in place and hindering my efforts.
“Nash.” A whimper slips through my lips. I’m fevered, frantic with need. “Please.”
A low hum rumbles in his chest. “Good girl.”
With a grip on my body that teeters on punishing, he yanks me against him again, capturing my cries with his mouth while I fall apart beneath his hands. It’s an explosive euphoria; mind-melting pleasure. I hear colors, feel sounds, so weightless I’m not sure I’ll ever come down.
When I finally float back to reality, I’m boneless and breathless in his arms. Nash cups my face, and his lips find mine again, but this time it’s a soft kiss, tender and savoring. His hand wraps around my neck, my heartbeat pulsing beneath his fingertips.
He pulls back, his nose grazing mine. “Vi—”
Behind us, the door creaks and swings open, obliterating my post-orgasm high. Light pours into the room from the hallway like a spotlight trained on the two of us. Our connection shatters, and my hand flies to my mouth, fingertips landing on kiss-swollen lips where the taste of him still lingers.
Nash’s hold on my waist tightens, and he pivots so he’s partially blocking me from view. Behind him, Shea O’Connell appears in the doorway and drunkenly stumbles in like a baby fawn learning to walk.
A few steps into the room, Shea freezes, surveying the two of us with utter befuddlement across his face. “Shit. This isn’t the bathroom.”
He tips his head back, laughing hysterically at this revelation for a good couple of seconds. Then his gaze falls back to us, and his laughter dies abruptly when he finally registers what he sees: me, perched on a dresser with Nash standing between my legs, and Nash leveling him with a murderous glare. He looks like he’s two seconds away from throttling Shea.
Shea’s glassy eyes widen. “Uh . . . Sorry, Richards. Didn’t mean to interrupt.” He reaches behind him for the brass door handle, gripping the knob tightly like it might somehow keep him safe from Nash’s wrath.
“You didn’t interrupt, because you were never here,” Nash tells him, a lethal calmness to his tone.
Shea is drunk, but not too drunk to not catch on, and he quickly shuffles backwards out the room. “Right, of course not. Catch you later.”
He shuts the door behind him with a quiet click, enclosing us in darkness again. Nash reaches behind me and switches on a small table lamp, putting us face-to-face in the aftermath of what just transpired. We’re both breathing heavily, but I’m panting more than after a full 10K.
“Fucking freshmen,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “Again.”
“Seems to be a common theme,” I murmur.
His expression softens. “Are you okay, Petal?” He ducks his head to catch my eye, and his hands wrap around my waist, thumbs slowly stroking back and forth.
My chest pulls tight at the familiar nickname. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
It’s a lie; I’m reeling, nearly dizzy from his influence. And beneath that, I feel vulnerable. Painfully vulnerable in a way only Nash can evoke, and I hate it.
Because there’s an ease in the way he touches me. A determination. Or maybe straight-up domination. Every other guy I’ve been with has been timid, engaging in an apprehensive game of trial-and-error while they tried to figure out what worked. Tried, because none of them ever did. Nash handles my body like an expert. Holding, squeezing, owning.
Maybe it’s not a fair comparison. He’s had a lot of practice. Besides, sex was never the issue. Everything else was.
His gaze pins me, watchful. “You kissed me back.”
Like there was ever any question whether I would.
“I . . .” Grasping for a response, I come up empty-handed. “I should get going. Claire and I are supposed to go for a run tomorrow morning.”
Nash nods, but he doesn’t take his hands off me. His lips brush against mine softly, our tongues meeting. The butterflies start an all-out riot in my belly all over again, clamoring for more. He pulls away and rests his forehead against mine, squeezing his eyes shut for the briefest moment in a way that almost looks pained. “I missed you, Vi.”
My throat clenches. “I missed you, too.”
With a sigh, he picks me up and sets me back down on my feet, his hold on me lingering until the last possible second before we step out into the empty hall. He squeezes me in a silent goodbye, and I let him go downstairs first while I lean against the wall, trying to catch my breath.
Once Shea vacates the bathroom, I dart inside, locking the door behind me. In the yellowish vanity lighting, my makeup is smudged, composure demolished. Mascara flakes line my eyes, concealer rubbed off, cheeks flushed, and lips reddened from kissing. Turning on the tap, I clean up as much as I can with soap and water, but it still looks like I’ve been crying, at best—or having sex, which I nearly was.
It takes several rounds of box breathing before I’m level-headed enough to face everyone again. The minute Jules lays eyes on me, she kindly offers to bail without asking a single question. I explain some of what happened to her on the ride home, but not everything.
Later that night, sleep evades me. I lie in bed, tossing and turning for hours.
One question echoes through my mind.
How can he be Mr. Wrong when he’s the only one who’s ever made me feel this way?
