Fake Shot (Boston Rebels Book 2)

I don’t know what it is about watching my fake fiancé fight my ex-husband, but it does something to me—elicits some sort of primal need to claim him and be claimed by him. I don’t even want to know what Brock said that made Colt fling him to the ice and pound the shit out of him; I just want to kiss his face and tell him how much I love him for it.

Wait . . . what?

“What’s wrong?” Audrey asks, glancing over at me after we watch Colt skate off the ice. Below us, Drew is lining up for a faceoff, but Audrey’s eyes are flitting between her fiancé and me, her face contorted into a worried grimace.

“For a second there, I just had this thought that terrified me.”

“Yeah,” Audrey says, throwing an arm around me and squeezing me to her side as she looks back at the ice. “Love can be like that.”

How does she know what I’m thinking? “But I don’t . . . I can’t . . .”

“Yeah,” Audrey says, “you can. It’s okay, Jules. Don’t you think, after everything, after the way he keeps showing you he cares, that it’s okay to trust him? Okay to care about him in return?”

“I’m so scared,” I whisper, reaching across my body and taking her hand where it rests on my shoulder, squeezing her fingers. “I can’t fall for him. Not when we already agreed it was all fake.”

“How long do you think it’s been since it was fake for him?” she asks quietly while her gaze darts back and forth, following the puck along the ice. Now that Colt’s not in the game, I’m just staring at her, trying to figure out what she’s talking about.

“What do you mean?”

“When’s the last time this felt fake? Like the last time that you thought he was just putting on a show for people?”

I think back, before this weekend when we went away, trying to figure out when things changed. It didn’t feel fake at the party, even though I was worried he was only touching me, only paying attention to me, for show. But that was the last time I needed to worry about it, because from that moment on, whether it was just the two of us or we were with other people, there was never a moment that it felt like we were pretending. No, as soon as I stopped reminding him it was all pretend, it stopped feeling fake.

And the way he takes every opportunity to touch me, to hold me, to tell me he cares and that he’ll wait and that I’m worth it . . . it can’t be fake for him either.

He’s slowly, brick by brick, dismantling the walls I’ve built around my heart. He said I had to be the one to take those walls down, but he’s doing it for me every single day in the way he shows me how he feels.

“Oh my god,” I gasp, and instead of looking at me in shock, Audrey just smiles. Lauren looks over at me from the other side of Audrey. Jameson headed to the locker room the second that Colt got a game misconduct, so at least he’s not here to witness his sister realizing she’s in love with his best friend.

“I knew you’d find the right person someday,” Audrey says. “I just never thought it would be Colt.”

My laugh is almost a bark. “Yeah, me neither.”

Teenage me couldn’t even have dreamed up how great he actually is. And the fact that I thought this whole thing was “safe” because there’d be no way he’d ever have feelings for me? The irony is too much.

“I always kind of thought it would be him,” Lauren says, one eyebrow raised.

“Did you now?” I ask. I’m so tempted to say that the only reason she could believe that would be because she didn’t know what happened in Vegas. But none of that seems to matter anymore, so I hold my tongue. “I need to go see him.”

Audrey tells me how to get to the door closest to the locker rooms. “You’re going to have to text him to come meet you, though. They won’t let you in there.”

And then I’m running up the stairs to the exit and following her directions. I don’t text him, though, I call. When I get his voicemail, I tell him where I’m waiting for him. I’m only standing there, chatting up the security guard, for a few minutes before a loud cheer goes up in the arena, which I assume either means the Rebels scored again, or we won the game. Maybe both.

And then the heavy metal door flings open, and Colt is striding through the door in his suit, heading straight toward me. He wraps me in his arms, burrowing his face into my neck and breathing in deeply.

“You good?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, but doesn’t let go. Instead, he clings to me like I’m the only thing holding him up.

I pull back, cupping his face in my hands and looking every square inch of him over. “You sure?”

“I’m completely fucking positive, Tink. I feel fantastic.” Then he kisses my nose and says, “Let’s go.”

We’re at the Neon Cactus having a drink with his teammates when the text comes through.

Lauren

You know Jackson’s husband, Nate? His dad is interested in your nonprofit and wants to meet with you.

Jules

He’s interested in donating?

Lauren

Yeah, apparently Nate told him about it after I explained it to him and Jackson. He owns a ton of commercial property in Boston and is interested in donating. But I think he also genuinely wants to know more about the program and may want to be involved somehow.

My stomach drops when I think of the last guy who wanted to be “involved” in our nonprofit.

I turn my phone toward Audrey and her eyes scan the screen before she raises her eyebrows and says, “Do you want to meet with him?”

“I keep thinking about how I felt when we finished recording that video of Rosie. That realization that we need the money now so we don’t have a waiting list a mile long. So yeah, I think we need to move on this.”

Lauren

I’m going to send you his contact info. Nate told him you’d reach out if you were interested.

“Do you want me to be involved in this?” Audrey asks. “Or do you want to handle it yourself?”

I realize that my sister is putting the ball in my court, letting me decide if I want this to be an “us” thing, or if I need to go by myself like I did last time, just to prove to myself that I can do it.

“This nonprofit, like Our House, is ours. I can’t, and don’t want to, do it without you.”

“From a business perspective,” Audrey says, leaning over and resting her head on my shoulder, “yes, it’s ours. But you are the face and the lifeblood of this nonprofit, Jules. You’re the one with the passion and the knowledge that helps these women. I couldn’t do it without you, but you certainly could do it without me.”

I hear her acknowledgement of what I bring to this process, but it doesn’t change the fact that Audrey and I are in this together.

Tilting my head to the side, I rest my cheek on the top of her head. “Even if I could do it without you, I don’t want to.”

Nate’s dad’s contact comes through via text a moment later, and I don’t let myself think too much about it before I tap on the number to send a message.

Jules

Hi, this is Jules Flynn. Nate suggested reaching out to you about the mentoring program for women in the trades that my sister and I recently started in Boston. He mentioned that you might be interested in donating or being involved. I’d love to talk more about that opportunity whenever you have time.

Jay Davenport

How is tomorrow, late afternoon? I have some time around 5pm.

Audrey sits up and we just look at each other. I wasn’t expecting a reply this late at night, or for a meeting so quickly.

“Let’s do it,” she says.

Jules

We can make that work. I’ll send you some info tomorrow in case you have a minute to look through it ahead of time. Where would you like to meet?

He texts me the address to his office in the Davenport building downtown, right near the old State House, and it’s only then that I have the “ah ha” moment of realizing exactly what a big deal he is. Jackson’s husband, Nate, while obviously wealthy, is so down to earth I would never have guessed that he’s part of the historic Davenport family that the landmark building is named after.

“What’s going on?” Colt’s voice is low, the words spoken directly in my ear from the opposite side of me.

“Just setting up a business meeting with a potential donor tomorrow.”

“At . . .” Colt glances at his watch. “. . . eleven at night?”

“Yep.”

“Why do you need more donors? Should I have made a bigger donation?”

“You can’t be our only donor, Colt.”

His hand slides along my lower back and loops around my waist, pulling me toward him. “And why not?”

“Because I don’t want to milk you for all you’re worth,” I say, squeezing his strong thigh playfully where it rests beneath my hand.

His laugh is deep, and his breath ruffles my hair when he says, “I think I’d be okay with you milking me for all I’m worth, Jules.” I know he’s not talking about money right now, and immediately my thoughts go to yesterday and the way he left his release all over my body. I cross my legs to quell the ache between them as the memories rip through me. I need this man. I need him in my bed, but I also need him in my life and in my house.

I need him taking care of me the way that only he can—the perfect balance of showing me how strong I can be and holding me in my moments of weakness.

Looking over my shoulder at him, I shake my head through a laugh. “I think you should take me home.”

His hand presses into my belly as his thumb strokes the underside of my breast. “I was thinking the same thing.”

We scoot out of the booth, saying our goodbyes, and I tell Audrey we’ll chat tomorrow morning about the meeting. McCabe looks at his phone, grumbling about his nanny being flighty and unreliable, and slides out of the booth with us. We walk out together, and even though they’re both heading back to the arena to get their cars, Colt tells McCabe he’ll see him later.

As McCabe speeds on ahead, Colt backs me into the glass wall of a storefront half a block down the street from the Neon Cactus.

He steps in close—not enough that he’s touching me, but enough that I can feel the current of sexual tension humming between us. His stance is wide, so I barely have to look up at him as he reaches out to stroke his thumb along the tender flesh of my lower lip.

“I don’t want to leave after the game on Thursday,” he says, his words a whispered admission.

“And I don’t want you to go.” But he has to. We both know it. I don’t know how many more years he plans to play, but the thought of feeling like this every time he travels, and knowing that he’s gone about half of every season . . . I don’t know how I’d do it. I don’t know if that’s even what he wants?

Leaning forward, he rests his forehead on mine. “Is this what falling in love feels like?”

My stomach flips over almost painfully in my belly, and I have to clear my throat because it feels too thick to speak. “I don’t know. But I think . . . maybe it is?”

“Are you telling me I’m not in this alone?” The vulnerability in his question hits me hard.

I guess this is what Audrey meant when she asked me when the last time was that it felt fake. And I can’t remember anymore, because in all honesty, it stopped feeling fake almost immediately.

“I don’t even know what this is, Colt. But whatever it is, I’m in it with you.”

Colt leans down, kissing me tenderly, before he pulls back and says, “You’ve gradually become the single most important person in my life. None of this is fake for me. I’m not sure it ever was.”

His tender kisses turn needy and insistent, and I want to be alone with him. I want his clothes off and our bodies pressed together, and I’m not willing to wait a second longer. When I tell him as much, he links our fingers together, pulls me to the edge of the sidewalk, and hails a cab.

“What about your car?” I ask, even though I don’t want to waste time going to get it.

“Fuck the car. I’ll get it tomorrow.”

He opens the cab door for me, and I slide in behind the driver, and when Colt gets in, he tells the driver the address and promises him a good tip if he can get us there in five minutes or less. We speed through the streets of Boston, as Colt’s hand moves up my inner thigh and his fingers trail between my legs. As he runs his fingers along my seam, pressing the thick fabric of my jeans into my clit, I have to swallow down the moan that wants to erupt from the pleasure he’s already bringing me. He teases me over and over until I’m craving him in a way that feels nearly uncontrollable. I want his fingers inside me so I can fuck them right in the back of this cab.

And then the cabbie takes the turn a little too fast, and I’m thrown toward him. He easily captures me in his hands and sets me on his lap. I’m sitting on his huge erection while he quickly undoes the button of my jeans and pulls the zipper down, and I’m hoping the cabbie can’t hear the drag of metal against metal over the music he’s playing.

Colt slides his hand down the front of my jeans, dipping his fingers into the front of the lace thong I sewed myself and sliding his fingers along my slick seam before bringing the moisture up to circle my clit. My back arches as I react to his touch and he brings his other hand under my shirt, running his thumb over my nipple as he slides one long finger of his other hand into me. The contact—him entering me while also stroking my breast—has me bucking my hips to meet the shallow thrusts of his finger. His movement is hampered by my jeans, and in this moment, I have no shame. I’d pull them down right now if we weren’t already turning onto my street.

“Alright,” the cabbie says after clearing his throat like he knows exactly what we’re up to back here. “Under five minutes, as promised.”

When Colt pulls his finger out of me, I want to cry. I need him so badly I’m not sure I can wait until we get into the house. But I don’t have a choice, because he’s pulling my shirt down over my open jeans, then opening the door for me. He reaches into his wallet and takes out several bills, which he hands through the opening in the divider between the front and back seats before he steps out of the cab himself.

The way his pants are tented at the zipper as he stands on the sidewalk, looking at me through a lust-filled haze, has me reaching out to stroke him. He lets out a groan, then grabs my hand and pulls me up the front steps, clearly in as much of a hurry to get naked with me as I am with him.

As soon as the door closes behind me, he’s pressed me up against it, pulling my legs up so they’re wrapped around his waist, and then he’s thrusting his enormous and ridiculously hard cock against my clit. The sensation has me moaning into his mouth as his tongue tangles with mine. I slide my hands along his shoulders and push his jacket down until he lets it fall off each arm before bringing his hands back to my ass. I thread mine into his hair, dragging my fingertips along his scalp gently. It’s a caress at first, and then I’m digging my fingers into his head, pulling him closer, changing the angle as I pour all my feelings into that kiss.

A minute later, he pulls back, looking at me in awe and saying, “Holy shit, Tink. You kiss like you’re ravenous.”

“I am,” I say with a small shrug, “for you.” And then I’m holding on tightly with my legs and pulling my shirt over my head.

He looks down at the sheer lace bra and hisses out his appreciation. “Look at you,” he says, gazing down at me as my chest heaves with heavy breaths. A small, private smile graces his lips. It’s nothing like the one he flashes for everyone else, and it makes me wonder if anyone but me has gotten to see it.

Before I can ask, he’s turning and striding across the entryway to the kitchen. He glances at the table, then turns toward the countertop instead and sets me right on the edge. It’s the perfect height, because I’m still wrapped around his waist exactly where he wants me, but now his hands are free to explore.

“This bras is . . .” He looks down at me and shakes his head slightly, like he’s forgotten how to speak.

“Thanks. I made it myself.”

“Really?” His eyebrows raise as he trails his fingers lightly across the lace, like he forgot that I told him this about the thong he kept.

“Yep. The underwear too.”

“This I have to see.” He hooks his thumbs into the open waistband of my jeans. “Lift,” he commands, and I press up on the countertop to lift my ass off it so he can slide my jeans down over my hips. He pulls them gently down my legs, kneels to remove my shoes and pull the jeans over my feet, then tosses them to the side before standing back up.

My legs are spread on either side of his hips, my heels resting on the drawer pulls below. He stands there staring at me, his eyes raking up and down my body before he finally looks up and meets my gaze. “You are so fucking beautiful.”

“Is that why you like me so much, now?” My tone is teasing, but I need to hear from him how he feels. He said he was falling in love, but why?

Stepping forward so that he’s between my open legs, he grips my hip bones and leans in to say, “Fuck no. You’ve always been beautiful, but I never really knew you until recently. It’s who you are—your generosity, your honesty, the way you always take care of others, the way you turn prickly when you’re hurt, and the way you’ll open up to me even when you won’t with others—that has me truly falling for you. Now I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

His admission seems to suck all the oxygen from the room. It’s so cliché, and yet it must be true, because I’m having a hard time breathing.

“I feel like you’re freaking out internally right now. It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way yet,” he says.

“I do.” The words barely make it past the lump in my throat, and I can feel my nose heating up the way it does when I cry.

I should be happy—this is what I always dreamed of having with him. But instead, I feel raw. I’m on the verge of tears because he’s peeled back all the layers, seen who I really am, and . . . it’s made him like me more? It’s made him love me, even? I didn’t know this type of vulnerability with another person was something I could ever let myself experience.

“I don’t know what the future looks like for us, Jules,” he says as he leans down and rests his forehead on mine. “I just know that my only path forward is with you.”

“Yes.” It’s a whispered plea coming off my lips, both because that’s what I want with him, and because he’s reached out and is running his thumb along the damp lace of my thong, then stroking upward to my clit. And as he teases me, I undo his tie and unbutton his shirt, until I’m sliding it off and pulling his undershirt up and over his head.

I want him naked, but for now, this view—the hard ridges and planes of his abdomen and chest, his strong arms, his muscular shoulders and neck—will do. This man is mine, and I will enjoy him.

When he brings both his hands to my shoulders and hooks his thumbs under the straps of my bra, dragging them down my biceps, I hook my legs around his waist and pull him flush against me. I already miss the feel of him, and as I tilt my hips up, grinding myself along his hard length, he frees my breasts from the lace. His thumbs toy with my nipples as he watches me writhe against him.

“Goddamn, Jules. You keep grinding yourself against me like that and we’re not going to make it to the bedroom.”

In response, I tighten my hold on his hips and press myself against him even harder. “I need you, and only you. Whether you knew it or not, it’s always been you. And right now, I need to know what you feel like inside me.”