Gloves Off: a marriage of convenience hockey romance (Vancouver Storm Book 4)

We make our way back to the hotel room in tense silence.

She left him at the altar, a voice whispers, a protective surge rising in my blood.

And the way he looked tonight, watching his highlight reel. My chest aches. More than ever, I regret recommending him for retirement. I was acting on my tangled and blurry emotions.

In the elevator, our eyes meet, and my pulse skips a beat. The air is thick with tension. We’re not supposed to mess around, but the knowing interest in his eyes says he doesn’t care.

I don’t think I care, either. I forget why we weren’t supposed to.

Inside the room, he holds my gaze, removing his jacket and loosening his tie, undoing the buttons of his shirt while my heart pounds in my ears. His mouth tilts and he takes a seat in the chair across from the bed. He leans back, spreads out, and watches me, so wildly handsome and serious. The image is like an advertisement in one of my fashion magazines—stacked muscle, dark, possessive eyes, and a knowing smirk.

It’s the who can break first game. My competitive instincts wake up.noveldrama

A memory flashes into my head: his tight, jealous expression at my sleep shirt, the one from an old hookup. That shirt is how I’m going to win this game.

When I open my suitcase, though, it’s not there. None of the undergarments I packed are.

I hook a finger beneath a plum lacy strap, lifting the garment. It’s high-end, similar to what the designer sent along with my dress. My blood starts to hum. I’m smiling, though.

“Volkov.” I turn, holding it so he can see. He lounges in the chair with an undeterred expression. “What the hell is this?”

“No idea.”

“Where’s my stuff?”

“What stuff?”

“My panties, Alexei. You messed with my bag.”

He must have done it this morning. He said he’d bring my bag to the arena. Why am I smiling?

“Maybe I just like buying you things.”

I let out a high laugh of disbelief. “After years of making fun of me for shopping? I doubt it.”

It’s some kind of sick power game he’s playing. I should hate being controlled like this, and yet I get a flutter between my legs at the idea of wearing lingerie he bought for me.

He wants to play a game? I’m in.

“How thoughtful of you.” It’s the hotel room all over again. I am here to play. “Guess I should try it on.”

“Guess you should.”

I can’t get a full breath as I turn my back to him, feeling the weight of his attention. It’s different than the hotel room. I don’t know how. Maybe it feels like we’re playing for fun now, instead of a way to get back at each other.

Off comes my dress and heels, leaving me in the undergarments the designer sent.

Nerves trickle through me. He’s not backing down. Neither am I.

My hands shake as I take the undergarments off, but not from fear. Hookups have always been so dull and predictable, so unsatisfying. I’ve never been with someone that’ll play with me like this.

With my back to him, I stand naked, Alexei’s eyes burning marks in my skin. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I can’t stop, though. I feel alive, like I’m sprinting down a hill. If he rejects me, I’ll explode into a thousand pieces of humiliation.

The man bought me lingerie, though. He’s not going to reject me. I hope.

Slowly, so painfully slowly, I put the bra and panties on. Perfect fit. My tits look amazing and I feel like a goddess. My respect for him grows.

Before I can turn, though, he’s at my back, warm and bare-chested. He reaches past me to lean on the dresser, caging me in. His lips meet the sensitive spot between my neck and my shoulder, and my thoughts scatter.

“You look like a fucking dream, Georgia.”

“You don’t think I look like a . . .” I pause, heart hammering. “Rotten tuber?”

I feel the curve of his lips on my shoulder. Just once, I wish I could see him smile. I bet it would blow my mind.

“Yes, I know all about your little term of endearment,” I laugh. “We could have been caught, you asshole.”

Another curve against my shoulder. Another scraping kiss, stubble against skin. Goosebumps rise down my back. We’re supposed to be competing, I tell myself. Not laughing.

“I couldn’t help myself.” His low voice rumbles through his chest, which is pressed against my back. He’s warm, and I fight the urge to lean into him. “Turn for me, Hellfire.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” And yet, I’m turning, leaning back against the dresser, heart in my throat as his gaze drags down my body.

Our eyes meet; his flash with heat.

“You look fucking incredible.” He sounds like he’s in pain as his hand comes to my thigh, brushing his fingertips up my leg. “But you knew that.”

“So this is the new direction you had in mind, huh.”

“Tell me to stop.”

His hand drags closer to my center, and my heart pounds everywhere—my throat, my ears, my chest, between my legs. His head dips to my neck again, his lips skating over my skin, still trailing his fingers over me. Over the seam at my hip, over my waist, up to the lace at my ribcage. Under his touch, I don’t breathe.

“Why did you buy this?” I whisper, my focus narrowing to his fingertips at the top of my thigh, four inches from where I need them. Where I’m getting damp for him.

“Buying you things makes me feel a certain way.”

My gaze drops. He’s hard, huge, and my mind races with the memory of how he felt inside me. The deep, pleasurable burn as my body worked to accommodate him. A delicious ache forms between my legs.

“Are we doing this again, Hellfire?”

God, yes, I want to say. Fucking finally. “I don’t care,” I say instead. This is a game, I remind myself, and caring means I lose.

Slowly, he shakes his head, just like that time on the ice when that drunk guy was talking to me. “Not good enough.”

I reach for his erection, but he catches my wrists, pinning them together in one hand. “No.” He nips my shoulder. “You ready to beg?”

Determination roars through me. “Never.”

“We’ll see.”

He brings his hand between my legs, brushing his knuckles over my center, over the panties he bought. The barest contact against that bundle of nerves has my head falling back, has my hips arching into his fingers, but he keeps his touch light and teasing.

“Wet already.” He sounds like he’s won something, dragging slow, leisurely strokes over me.

A frustrated noise slips out of me.

“The magic word is please.”

“Bite me.”

He pinches my clit firm enough to send pleasure racing through me, but it’s not enough. I curl forward, clamping my teeth together to hold in the moan.

“Bite me is not the magic word, Hellfire.”

“You’re doing this because you hate me.”

His mouth tips up. So cruel. So callous. So fucking hot. “I’m still going to make you come.”

While he continues that hypnotic work between my legs, I hardly notice us making our way to one of the beds. I fall back as he climbs up beside me, leaning on one propped elbow, bicep bulging, while his other hand brushes over my panties. For a guy who’s made his name being brutal, aggressive, and powerful, he’s shockingly gentle.

Too gentle. I need more.

“You need to go harder and faster if you want me to actually feel anything,” I manage, baiting him.

There’s that annoying smirk again. “I’m aware, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t call you sweetheart? What’s the matter?”

I like it too much. Instead of forcing me to answer, though, he slips beneath the fabric covering me. Pleasure whirs through my body at the friction, so much more intense with skin against skin. His fingers move faster, circling and swiping, and pressure builds behind my clit. My eyes close. I can feel his gaze on my face, can feel him watching me intently, but I don’t care.

“Oh my god,” I whisper before pressing my lips together to hold in the moan.

He winds me higher, kissing my neck and shoulder and chest. My thoughts begin to blur.

“All right. You want more?” His touch stops, his hands come to my waist, and he flips me onto my stomach. “I’ll give you more.”