Power Play (Blades Hockey Book 1)

The last time I was at the Omni Parker Hotel, it was my senior prom and my date ditched me at the last moment to take a junior instead. The junior, by the way, had a penis.

I know, I was just as surprised as you are.

While Joe and Jason danced away the night on the glossy hardwood floor like some handsome couple straight off a Ralph Lauren catwalk, I spent my evening devouring appetizers like it truly was the last supper. I smiled when my friends trotted off to dance with their dates. I shoved another éclair into my mouth when Jason, my former date, stopped by to say “hello,” and to apologize for standing me up. For the duration of prom (four hours and twenty-six minutes of pure hell), I alternated between eating and skirting the edges of the ballroom like a true wallflower. It’s a tough job, you know.

It goes without saying that I fully expected this charity event with Duke to trudge down a similar path. Or somewhat of a similar path anyway. I don’t think I have to worry about Duke making out with a guy at some point during the course of the evening. Then again, you never really know.

But Duke surprises me completely.

He sticks by my side when we gather our food from the buffet line, and merely chuckles at me when I sneak up for seconds during the heartfelt speech from the charity’s president. Duke sticks beside me when someone I recognize from college spots me within the crowd, and even goes so far as to press a hand to my lower back.

Like I belong to him.

It’s a little ridiculous how eagerly I lean in to his touch, even when it’s nothing more than a casual brush of our fingers as we clink our champagne flutes together at our table later in the evening.

He leans back in his chair, and the soft light from a wall sconce casts the lower half of his face in shadow. Not that it matters any. Duke Harrison is as hot in a pair of jeans and a plain T-shirt as he is now in a sharp, black tux. I’ve always been preferential to men in uniforms—firefighters are my total catnip—but now I can see why women go nuts over guys in suits.

Particularly, Duke Harrison in a suit.

His dark blond hair is slicked back and his blue eyes glimmer like finely cut sapphires. The Omni is ostentatious by many standards, including mine, but Duke looks right at home. If anything, he looks just as at ease now as he did at The Box, which is honestly the equivalent of a dive bar.

The ridiculous urge to crawl into his lap settles over me and I slap it away like a pesky fly.

Not going to happen.

“Thank you for coming with me,” he says, wrapping a strong hand around the stem of his champagne flute. I’m half-surprised that it doesn’t snap in half within his grip.

I match his movements and reach for my own champagne, just so that I have something to occupy my hands. “I probably should be thanking you, since I’m the one who’s been harassing you for almost two weeks now.”

He does nothing but grin at that. Then, his gaze heats as he gives me a slow once over. “Did I tell you how much I like that dress?”

A blush warms my cheeks. “Not in those exact words.”

“Blades’ colors,” he drawls, drumming his fingers on the bowl of the champagne flute. “Is it too presumptuous of me to think that you might be looking for forgiveness for the Detroit jersey episode?”

My eyes dart down to my dress. Blue silk. Silver shoes. I didn’t even realize that I’d dressed in support of his hockey team. Jenny. Of course. I glance at his face. “Do I need forgiveness?”

“No.”

“No?”

He shrugs. “If anything, I owe you an apology.”

My heart squeezes, and I drink from my champagne to hide my nerves. “For what?”

“I wanted to kiss you the other night.”

He says the words so matter-of-factly that it takes a solid twenty seconds for them to sink in. Another fifteen seconds for them to be adequately processed. I lift up a hand, palm facing out. “Hold on, I’m not sure I understand. You’re apologizing for wanting to kiss me?”

In a move born out of awkwardness, he lifts a hand to the back of his neck, and shifts his gaze away to the couples dancing behind me. “This isn’t coming out the way I’d intended it to.”

“I agree. I’m confused.”

“Can I start over?”

Our eyes meet, blue against blue. I think of Jenny’s words, urging me to live a little, to enjoy life. “Ask me to dance,” I tell him instead. “I might say yes.”

He doesn’t even bother asking, not with words. In a corny gesture that’s straight out of a rom-com movie, he scrapes back his chair and stands, then holds out his hand in silent offer.

God, he looks good. So good that I almost forget the reason that I’m here to begin with. Employment. Financial security. The ever-present fear of never succeeding in my career.

I shouldn’t be playing these games with him. I should be questioning him. Pushing him for insider’s information that will keep my butt on The Tribune’s payroll, for as long as the company’s doors stay open for business.

But I don’t say no. The thought of feeling his arms wrap around me as we sway to a sickeningly sweet slow number is too great of a temptation to resist. The last time I entered the Omni, I roamed the ballroom aimlessly, wishing that someone would ask me to dance. This time around, I’ve made the first move and I don’t regret a single thing.

Duke rewards me with a blinding, masculine smile when I place my hand in his. Then, the next thing I know, we’re swaying on the dancing floor. Like this was the plan for the evening all along. Like we’re actually on a date.

The thought is headier than I’d like to admit. It’s a thought I’d do well to remember doesn’t translate to reality.

As Duke’s hands settle on the small of my back, I hold no illusions that this night is anything more than a sequence of dances and small talk. I’m not stupid, nor am I blind to the fact that once Duke discovers my betrayal, we’ll never speak again.

My heart squeezes at the thought, and I dig my nails into his broad shoulders. The scent of pine swirls around me, heady and intoxicating, and I succumb to the temptation of pressing my cheek against his hard chest.

“Did I get you?” His voice is a deep rumble against my face. “If I step on your toes, I apologize in advance. I’m a shit dancer.”

“I heard that all athletes are great when it comes to dancing,” I say, enjoying the way he squeezes my hand as we shift around another couple. “I thought it was ingrained in your DNA or whatever.”

“It must have skipped me.” The hand on my back skips up to my neck and then flutters back down, tracing the beads of my spine.

“What else aren’t you good at?”

“More fodder for your article?” He says it like he’s in on the joke, but the guilt and worry over the truth stiffens my back in an uncontrollable flinch. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

So, I pretend that I have nothing to hide. “I’m just curious.”

“Are we playing Twenty-One Questions again?”

I shake my head, my cheek brushing the lapel of his tuxedo. “We don’t have darts.”

“We don’t need darts.”

Propping my chin on his chest, I tip my head back to meet his gaze. The lights in the ballroom have dimmed. The president has taken his seat, and the only conversation I hear is the quiet murmuring of dancing couples over the thunderous pounding in my ears. “What are you thinking, then?”

Intense blue eyes dip to my mouth. “You don’t want to know.”

“Maybe I do.”

My heart beats rapidly, and I’m so consumed by the way his hands have come to rest below my shoulder blades, tugging me closer to him, that I barely register the fact that there’s been a song change to something upbeat and flirtatious.

We’re moving no faster than a sloth climbing from tree limb to tree limb.

Which is to say, I don’t even think we’re lifting our feet off the ground anymore.

Plus, let’s be honest: I’d climb Duke if I ever had the opportunity.

“Are you planning to use this new intel against me in your article?” Duke asks, bringing my focus back to the conversation at hand. And not, you know, how good he feels snuggled up against me as we sway back and forth.

The guilt sharpens, twisting just a little too deeply. “I wouldn’t. Ask me your question.”

“No darts?”

“I trust you to play fair.”

I have no idea what game we’re actually playing, or if we’re even playing one anymore.

Duke leads me around another couple, and then another and another, until we’re flirting with the perimeter of the dance floor. Victorian-replica wallpaper lines the walls, and every so often a gold sconce is featured with a real candle—because the Omni Parker House is nothing if not authentically historic. The tables have been moved out of the way to make room for more dancers, aside from a large one at the opposite end of the room, where the donation table sits like a beacon of goodwill.

Unfortunately, my wallet isn’t big enough for more than a single check. I’m blaming Josh for that, seeing as how he’s already on my shit list.

“Why did you flinch when we walked through the front doors?”

His question catches me by surprise, and I don’t manage to restrain the second jerk of my shoulders. He notices this one, too, and rubs his hands up and down my back in comfort.

His touch both soothes and arouses me, damn him.

“My senior year prom was here,” I tell him quickly, like I’m tearing off a bandage from a festering wound.

“Had a good time?”

“My date decided that he’d rather spend some quality time with his best friend, Joe. Naked, in the restroom.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“So, you . . . Did what for the rest of the dance?”

“Ate food, mostly.” Pretended that I’d meant to go stag to prom the entire time. As that thought slides into fruition, another one follows on its heels: was prom all that important in the first place? It felt that way years ago, when my back and the walls of this ballroom became best buddies, but now that I think about it . . . I wasn’t all that interested in Jason. It was the sting of rejection that had hurt a lot more than a truly broken heart. “I hung out with my friends, those who weren’t shackled up for the night, anyway. Nearly demolished the entire tray of éclairs.”

“What color was your dress?”

I lift my brow, mouth pursing as I look up at his handsome face. Now that I remember—for weeks, I’d stalked the local boutiques, waiting for the right dress to land on a sale. While Jenny had picked out her dress months in advance—read: Miss Punctuality Herself—I’d handed over my saved cash the weekend before prom. The dress had been sparkly and beautiful and . . . “Red.”

“Like the Red Wings jersey.”

Groaning, I drop my forehead to his chest. “You aren’t going to let me live that down, are you?”

“No. Your turn for a question.”

“How kind of you.”

Although I’m not looking at him, I can hear the grin in his voice when he says, “I try—sometimes. When I’m not too busy showing my dick.” He lets that sink in for a moment, giving me time to recall our earlier conversation, and I give a snort of laughter. “Go ahead, ask me something. Whatever you want.”

I don’t even give myself time to think on it. “What’s your biggest regret?”

“My biggest regret?”

“Yes.”

I feel his intake of breath, just before his breath rustles my hair. “Not kissing you.”

Now it’s my turn to breathe deeply. He’s killing me. I swear to God, Duke Harrison is the biggest tease on earth. He may have women running loops around him. He may have not one but two Stanley Cups under his belt. He may have been the model for a Got Milk? ad however many years ago.

But when it comes down to making a move with me, the NHL’s most popular goalie is tip-toing around the line separating business from pleasure.

“Duke?”

“Yes, Charlie?”

“Kiss me already.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. His fingers intertwine with mine, and he drags me from the ballroom. It’s been years since I’ve last been here and I don’t know my elbow from my knee. I don’t think Duke does either, but he’s not deterred in the slightest.

His gaze lands on the elevator. “This way.”

And off we go.

With a quiet ping, the elevator doors swing open and we cross the threshold. The floor dips under our combined weight, not that I’m worried about it. I’m too busy hastily unbuttoning Duke’s tuxedo jacket so that I can slide my hands beneath the material.

“Floor,” I gasp, reaching blindly for the illuminated buttons to my right.

Duke does it for me, smacking the top button with his index finger, which just so happens to be the rooftop level.

Then, his mouth crashes down on mine, and I am so gone. He tastes like sex, there’s no better way to describe it. Or maybe it’s that he tastes like seduction. His lips tease at mine like he’s sipping champagne, plying them open with flicks of his tongue.

Who am I to tell him no?

I give in, surrendering, with my back pressed flush against the mirrored wall and one ankle tucked around his calf muscle, needy for more. I’m not even embarrassed about the way I moan his name and rub shamelessly against him.

It’s been a while, okay?

“Jesus Christ, Charlie,” he groans against my mouth, one large hand cupping my face to better the angle of the kiss. The kiss turns even hotter, if that’s possible. It’s a tangle of lips and teeth, of captured sighs and hotter than hell moans.

“What?” I gasp. My hands go to his butt, which is firm and lovely, and I really want my legs wrapped around his waist.

“You.”

It’s the second time someone has pointed me out like that tonight, but Duke’s harsh whisper speaks to something very different than how Jenny said my name earlier this evening. Jenny doesn’t want to get me into bed.

Duke’s voice, on the other hand, is raw. Hoarse. Like he wants something so badly but doesn’t know whether it’s good for him. Like he wants to tumble me onto a bed, to hell with the consequences.

“Ask me a question,” I urge him, mainly to distract him from having any second thoughts and leaving me desperate and wanting. “Whatever you want.”

His blue eyes sear me when they flick to my face. “Are you wearing any panties?”

A burst of shocked laughter escapes me. “That’s what you want to know?”

“Right now, yes.” His hand caresses my hip, and I watch as his fingers tangle in the fabric. The seconds tick by, slow and measured, as he hikes the silk farther up my legs. “Will you tell me?”

“No.”

He pauses. “No, you won’t tell me, or no, you aren’t wearing any underwear?”

Just then, the elevator door pings open, and I flash Duke a saucy smile. “Wouldn’t you love to know?”

“I would,” he tells me solemnly, “I definitely would.”

I’ve never been an exhibitionist. Hell, I’ve only had sex in a bed—missionary style. But Duke and I have been going back and forth for days now, trading barbs, trading flirtatious comments, and so it’s not much of a surprise that as soon as we exit the elevator, we’re kissing again.

Right now, I don’t feel like an Ice Queen. I don’t feel “rigid.” If anything, I feel molten under his touch, as though I am seconds away from coming undone. It’s almost . . . freeing, like that moment when you get home after a long day at work and unclasp your bra. You can’t help but sigh with relief, even as you want to stretch your body to release the pops of tension tightening your limbs.

That’s how I feel right now. My hands are in his hair, scraping back the layers away from his rugged features. His hands are cupping my butt, fingers tightening just so when I nip at his bottom lip and draw out a curse from him.

At once, I want to sigh in contentment and also to link my limbs around his body and beg him to make me come.

The thought of having an orgasm restarts my brain. We’re making out on a rooftop, though the bonus is that we are hidden away in an alcove-like protrusion of a wall. The city’s glittering lights fade behind the breadth of his shoulders. The hem of my dress slides up the length of my thighs, as Duke efficiently draws it up, up, up.

More importantly: Duke Harrison is about to have sex with me on a rooftop.

Words leave me on a marathon-worthy pant: “I have a question.”

“Okay. Go.”

“Actually, it’s not really that much of a question.” My dress is hiked up around my waist, almost exposing my lady parts to the world—or, you know, to Duke Harrison. This is just as nerve-wracking, actually. Forcing myself to ignore the distraction of Duke between my legs, I say, “I want to have sex with you.”

Cool air kisses my belly, and I realize Duke has the fabric of my dress bunched in his fists. “That’s good.”

“That’s good? That’s all you have to say?”

Much to my surprise, he shifts his grip and presses me against his . . . Well, hello there. “Are you happy to see me?” I ask, lifting my hips to cradle his.

His only answer is to capture my lips with his, stealing whatever thoughts I have left from my brain. My article for The Tribune is the very last thing on my mind. Us having sex on a rooftop in Boston’s financial district steals to the forefront of everything else.

A masculine hand lands between my legs. With a groan, he rasps, “No underwear?”

“None. You could see the panty line under the dress.”

“Thank God.”

After that, there isn’t much conversation. I don’t notice the chill in the air, especially not when Duke flicks his thumb against my clit. I don’t notice the awkward way I’m positioned against a brick wall, save for the fact that Duke has lifted my leg around his hip so that he can slide a finger inside me.

I hiss with pleasure, driving my forehead into his chest, dragging my nails down his still-clothed arms. I want more. I want to see his tattoo for myself. Hell, I want everything.

My hand falls to his pants, over his hard-on. It’s long and thick, and though I’ve never really had a good sexual experience, I can’t wait for this one with Duke.

Duke, who is still one of the hottest goalies in the NHL.

Duke, whose smile is shy but whose humor is dryly delivered and complete with sexual innuendos. At least, with me that’s the case.

My fingers find the zipper of his pants. “Underwear?” I ask, torturing him when I pull down on the tab but stop halfway to the end zone.

“None,” he chokes out, “you could see the boxer line under my pants.”

Laughter escapes us both, dissipating only when he curls his finger just so, hitting that spot, and my hand lands on his cock, tugging at the rounded head.

“Jesus, Charlie,” he rasps, sliding another finger within me, hitting that spot again and again and again. “Jesus.”

“Do you want more?” I say, daring to press a kiss to the thick column of his throat.

“Fuck, yes.”

His fingers leave me, and he quickly scans the rooftop. No one is here. We might as well be the only ones at the hotel. “Are you sure about this?” he questions, his gaze landing on my face. “We don’t have to—”

“I’m one-hundred percent positive.”

Oh, am I. Charlie Denton, Ice Queen No Longer. More than that, I’m craving his touch, his kiss. The cold is already seeping back into my limbs, reminding me that it’s wintertime in Boston and that I’m wearing a silk dress.

Doesn’t matter.

I’ll stock up on Nyquil tomorrow, if needed. I’ll buy orange juice and drink it by the gallon. I’ll—

My thoughts scatter as Duke settles his tuxedo jacket around my shoulders. The scent of pine hits me like an aphrodisiac, and I want to curl into the coat. I flick my gaze up to his face. “Is this you’re way of telling me we’re done for the night?”

I wait, biting my lip, for him to tell me to gather my stuff as he sends me packing.

That’s not what he does at all.

His hands go to the zipper I’ve already halfway undone, withdrawing his erection and drawing his fist up and down in one hard stroke. Oh Lord, I can’t find my breath. Duke Harrison with his hand on his cock is the hottest visual I’ve ever seen. I have no idea what I’ve done to deserve this, but I’m not about to start complaining.

“Condom?” I whisper, and he nods once, pulling his wallet out from his back pocket and removing a packet from the cash slot.

Magnum.

As if Duke Harrison could be anything else than magnificent.

“I plan to taste all of you later,” he tells me, rolling the latex down his impressive length. “I’ll start here”—his finger goes to my clit, which is tingling with need—“and then I’ll work my way up to here.” His fingertip brushes my nipple through the silk, and he laughs hoarsely. “No bra?”

“Didn’t want any bra lines showing.”

His forehead drops to mine. “You’re killing me, Charlie.”

“Same here.” I squirm against him, and he lifts me up, settling me on what’s got to be a brick level intended for plants. It’s winter. It’s freezing. There are no plants. Except for me, and I’m ready to bloom.

No, I’m not sorry about that wicked cheesy line.

“Stop making me wait,” I say, urging him on when I clamp my legs around his waist.

He abides by my demand, thrusting inside with one hard stroke that has me calling out his name. My hands dig into his shoulders. His forehead drops to the curve of my neck.

“Fuck, Charlie,” he mutters, his lips staggering kisses over my exposed collarbone. “You feel so good.”

So does he. I lose myself in the eroticism of the push and pull of his hips from my body. There are no words that adequately define how I feel—needed, desired. For the first time in my life, I feel wanted by a man.

I’ve never needed to feel wanted. Over the years, I’ve learned to love my independent streak, to enjoy the life of a woman on her own, though fate handed me those cards too early in my life.

But in this moment . . . I want it to last forever.

“Please,” I whisper, begging for something that I don’t yet know the name of, “please.”

Another kiss, this one to my forehead. “Whatever you want, sweetheart. You can have whatever you want.”

With three more sharply driven thrusts, he gives me more than I could have ever asked for.

He gives me an orgasm.

He gives me a second orgasm. (Who knew such a thing existed?)

He gives me the hope that maybe, just maybe, we can be more than just random sex on a hotel rooftop.

Maybe it can lead to love.