And it’s maddening that his only reaction to my touch is to push and hold the door close button on the elevator so we’re not interrupted. To pause this from ending but to do nothing to further it along.

  Does he not feel this? The unsated need? The desperate desire? The damn everything that makes me want and need and not be ashamed in the least?

  My hands are on the buckle of his belt.

  On the button of his waistband.

  On the zipper of his pants.

  When I cup him, he groans into my mouth. When I slide my hand between the fabric of his underwear and begin to stroke the thickness of him, his entire body tenses, his hands fisting against the wall beside my head, and his lips faltering momentarily in their sensual destruction of mine.

  I crave the feel of his hands on me.

  It sounds so simple yet stupid, but Hunter knows how to touch a woman. My body remembers.

  Because I’ve missed it.

  His touch.

  Him.

  Touch me.

  I stroke my hand up him and rub my thumb over the crest of his cock.

  Want me.

  The nails of my other hand score down his back through his shirt.

  Take me.

  The ding of the elevator shocks me to my senses, and the way that Hunter jolts back, has me looking toward the door in fear of being caught by a guest.

  When I look back to him, he’s tucking himself back into his pants, and the smirk on his lips is almost as taunting as his words. “Now you’ll know how it feels. Now you know what it’s like to watch me walk away.” His chuckle is low.

  “What?” I look up to meet his eyes, curious and darkened with desire neither of us can deny.

  “Good night, Dekker. It was good to see you again.”

  When he strides out of the elevator, I stare after him with shock etched in every muscle of my body.

  That shock morphs to embarrassment. The embarrassment churns to anger. That anger fuels self-loathing.

  The dig is real, and the sting from it hits harder than it should.

  But I caused this. He kissed me, yet I overstepped every damn line there is.

  You almost just gave him a blowjob in the elevator.

  I didn’t, but my mind was there. The want was there. The goddamn urge was there.

  I let the door close. I let the car ride to my floor. I let the doors open. All the while my mind reels, and my temper simmers from the utter mortification of what I just did.

  Each step I take toward my room is emphasized by my thoughts.

  How could I be so unprofessional?

  Step.

  How could I let him play me like that?

  Step.

  How could I let those unrequited everythings I feel when it comes to him resurface?

  Step.

  How could I be so weak?

  Even worse, how can I stand here trying to put my key card in the door and question how I’m going to carry out my dad’s professional wishes when they clash with my personal desires?

  This is bad.

  So very bad.

  “This can’t happen. You can’t let this happen,” I mutter as I move into the room. “We’re not good together. We can’t be good together. Not even for a night.” Shit. Shit. Shit. “This was a huge mistake. Christ, the last time . . .”

  I kick my heels off and fling them carelessly into the hotel room as my mental chastisement for what I almost let happen reigns.

  For what I wanted to happen.

  The last time . . .

  I undress with trembling hands, and my need to take back everything that just happened owns my every thought.

  But I can’t. I know, I can’t.

  And I hate that a small, unprofessional part of me doesn’t want to.

  The last time . . .

  Those three words keep repeating in my mind as I climb into the shower.

  As I crawl into bed.

  As I try to clear my head and not think about him when the taste of his kiss still lingers on my tongue.

  The last time . . .

  The last time almost broke me, because it was only after I walked away that I realized I’d fallen in love with him.

  DEKKER

  3 years earlier

  “DEKKER.” HUNTER GROANS MY NAME and every part of me aches as he pushes his way into me.

  Our fingers link and our bodies churn with a deep-seated burn that neither of us can put out. Time after time. Hookup after hookup.

  We may be in a new hotel, in a different city than usual, but dammit, Hunter knows exactly what I need, and how I need it.

  It’s been a shit day. An even shittier week. And the only thing I looked forward to was this.

  Him.

  That thought scared the shit out of me but didn’t deter me from showing up, and it sure as hell didn’t prevent me from holding myself back when my heart constricted in my chest when he opened the door.

  There’s something different about tonight, though.

  “Fuck. I needed this.” A kiss to my lips. A grind of his hips. “I needed you.” A pull out as his teeth nip my collarbone and the head of his cock slides along every damn nerve.

  Something’s definitely different.

  Sure, the carnal hunger was there for our first round tonight. The clothes yanking, hands possessing, can’t-get-in-me-quick-enough desperation that we thrive on.

  But now—this second round—is so very different.

  The sex has shifted. Less greed, more need. Less fervor, more finesse. Less guardedness, more vulnerability.

  He moves in and out of me with silent strokes. His lips are on my skin, the heat of his breath against my ear.

  When he pushes up and meets my eyes, gone is the usual cocky smirk. Gone is the humor that usually lights up his face. He’s intense and serious, and my breath catches when our eyes hold and he moves.

  There’s an intimacy I’m not used to from him.

  An intimacy I’ve slowly begun to crave and fear at the same time. One that spooks me and fulfills me in ways I’m too overwhelmed to contemplate in the moment.

  So I avert my eyes. I lean up and take my own nip of his collarbone as I move my hands from his and scrape them up his flanks. “Let me ride you,” I murmur into his ear as my hand slides between us and my fingers circle around him at the hilt of his cock and squeeze.

  I take control, pushing us back into familiar territory. Into the physicality of our motions. Into the carnality of our movements.

  He emits the sexiest groan when I turn my back to him, straddle his hips, and lower myself painstakingly slowly on top of him. He’s heaven, hell, and everything in between as the stress of the week releases with each inch of him I accept until he bottoms out inside me. When I begin to rock my hips, I lose myself to him.

  I lose myself to him.

  His hands grab my hips and help guide me up and down.

  I ignore the look in his eyes from moments ago and how being with him has made me feel lately.

  Our moans fill the room, one after another.

  And how wanting more from him scares the ever-living shit out of me.

  I let my head fall back and we give ourselves over to the pleasure and desire and fall under its all-consuming haze.

  Getting close to someone means getting hurt.

  There are no sweet words whispered afterward. No soft kisses or snuggling.

  This is how we are. We are let’s meet in a hotel somewhere, work ourselves into an exhaustion of sexual satisfaction, and then part ways before we fight or spar or whatever it is we do that makes us want to get away from each other. But as I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, there’s a churning in my stomach and an ache in my heart.

  This doesn’t feel like enough anymore.

  The question is, why?

  I see my flushed cheeks and swollen lips. I see the truth staring right back at me.

  I’ve fallen for Hunter Maddox. I’ve fallen for him when we agreed this was casual, when I don’t let myself get close to anyone, and when he doesn’t do relationships. I’ve fallen for him when we agreed to meet at hotels instead of our places so we’d prevent this from becoming routine or take the excitement out of it. I’ve fallen for him when I’ve never allowed myself to fall for anyone.

  I’m an emotionally unattached girl. It’s easier this way. It prevents the hurt of knowing it’s going to end badly.

  But his eyes . . . the way he looked at me. The tenderness in his touch when we’re typically fire and brimstone and bruises and teeth marks . . . there’s something more on his end too.

  Panic sets in.

  Full-blown panic . . . because this isn’t us. This isn’t what we agreed to. And hell, I’m looking at his actions through love-colored goggles so of course I’m going to read too much into everything. Of course I’m going to when I’m the one who went and fell.

  I bring a hand to my chest as if it’s going to allow me to catch my breath, when I know it’s not going to do shit.

  When I know falling for Hunter isn’t going to make him want any more from me than the hot sex we find ourselves in. Even if he did, we’d crash and burn into an ugly mess before we even began.

  How did I let this happen?

  I take my time getting dressed. Each item of clothing I put on, I talk myself out of my revelation. I haven’t fallen for him. This is just sex. We’d never work. He doesn’t do relationships.

  I almost believe it, until I walk into the room and see him. His pants are pulled on but unbuttoned, his chest is bare, and a bottle of beer is in one hand when he looks up to meet my eyes. Every part of me wants to go and kiss those lips, run my fingers through his hair, and tell him I want more with him. Six months flew by and doesn’t seem like enough.

  And then the truth is clear. My heart already hurts. My head is already spinning. The words I need to say—to tell him I’ve fallen for him—die without ever finding sound. He’s not in this like I am. He’s not ready for more.

  His eyes narrow. “Where’re you going?”

  “I’ve got stuff to do,” I stammer.

  “Like . . .” He takes a few steps toward me.

  I want to wake up next to you. At my place. At your place.

  “Just things I forgot I needed to do. Deadlines.”

  I want to learn about what it is that clouds your eyes and makes you go quiet.

  “Deadlines?”

  I want quiet nights with a glass of wine and you beside me.

  “Yes.” I gather my things in measured movements, when all I want to do is shove them in the bag so I can rush out of here and let the tears fall. Even worse, I can feel the weight of his stare at my back, and I know he’s standing there watching me and wondering.

  “Hey? What’s wrong?”

  With a deep breath, I turn to face him. Standing a few feet before me, he’s throwing a shirt on, his hair has fallen over his forehead, but his eyes home in on mine.

  Tears burn as my thoughts tumble and fight against the want to say them and the knowledge that they’ll only end in being hurt.

  “Nothing.” I offer a tight smile.

  “Dekker?”

  I shake my head and swallow over the lump of emotion lodged in my throat. “This was a mistake. Again.” He chuckles over this ongoing banter we always have. I don’t sell the lie as well as I think I do, because his head tilts to the side. “But”—I look down to my purse strap in my hand and take a deep breath—“I don’t think we can do this anymore.” Because I hate saying goodbye to you. “We always said we’d know when this had run its course, and I think it finally has. You know, you and me and this.” Because it’s easier to walk away now than to confess my feelings for you and be destroyed when you reject me.

  “What do you mean this has run its course?” He takes a step toward me.

  “Just what it sounds like.” I offer a laugh that has no resonance. My smile warms but only by sheer force when I take a step toward him. “Don’t you think it’s better to part ways now, like it is with us . . . actually liking each other?”

  Confusion etches the lines of his face as he leans his hips against the dresser behind us. “If that’s what you want.”

  Ask me to stay.

  “I think it’s for the best.” I nod to reinforce my clipped words.

  Tell me this is more than sex.

  “Okay then.” He runs a hand through his hair and blows out a breath that fills the room and suffocates my heart. “If you’re sure. I mean . . .”

  Agree that I forgot our rules—no emotions, no obligations—and tell me you want more than this.

  In what feels like the hardest thing in the world, I step up and press a kiss to his cheek. I let his arms slide around me and pull me into him. It’s the kind of bear hug that you can lose and find yourself in. It’s the kind that tells you you’re loved and that the person cares for you.

  But his words don’t come.

  Not when he leans back and gives me that lopsided smile that makes my heart melt.

  Not when I walk toward the door, my heart screaming to tell him the truth.

  Not when I turn back one more time and look at him.

  There’s something in his eyes I can’t make out, something I wish I could read, but I know I’m staring through jaded eyes. Eyes that want to believe he doesn’t want me to leave for more reasons than the incredible sex. Eyes that want to believe he has feelings for me too.

  Isn’t that the irony though? I want him to feel about me how I feel about him, but if he did, if he professed how he wanted more, I’d run the other way.

  I learned about love the hard way.

  I learned how you could love someone more than the whole world but that doesn’t save them from death. It won’t save you from being alone.

  My soul knows that love always ends in pain and loneliness.

  HUNTER

  THE PUCK HITS THE PLEXIGLASS that separates the crowd from the ice with a crack. The arena is a ghost town at this godawful time in the morning, so the sound ricochets off the walls and echoes back to us.

  “You losing your touch, Maddox?”

  I swing my stick back and then let my arms jerk forward without responding. The puck hits the upper left corner of the net, and I glare at Maysen.

  “Does that look like I’m losing my touch?” I ask.

  One after another, I land puck after puck into the back of the net, but nothing abates the anger and restlessness I feel. Nothing diminishes the feeling that I’m a hamster on a wheel. Nothing eases the goddamn ache Dekker left me with last night but that I refuse to admit.

  But walking away was the right thing. Putting her in her place so she doesn’t think I’m naïve about why she’s here, or that I’d fall right back into how things were when she’s the one who walked away.

  Was that the whole point of last night then? A subtle stab at revenge? I can’t make sense of it—my need to talk to her in the bar, to remind her I was there, and then leave her hanging in the elevator.

  Shit. I’d be lying if I denied it wouldn’t have been a hardship to fall right between her thighs.

  Groaning at my own stupidity, I go back to my practice shots. Trying to work myself into a frenzy so my head can go to that silent place where I don’t think and just do.

  There’s a rhythm. Grunt with the swing. Smack the stick to the puck. Thud as the puck hits the net.

  Grunt. Smack. Thud.

  Maysen lifts the bottle of beer to his lips, and my eyebrows lift.

  “Hair of the dog?” I ask.

  Grunt. Smack. Thud.

  “Shit, if it were the hair of the dog, I’d be sliding back between Sadie’s . . . or was it Sandy? Maybe Shelby. Fuck if I remember what her name was, but if that’s the case, I’d be all up in her because she straight wore me out. I need this shit,” he says and lifts the bottle of beer in the air, “to simply get me through the morning.”

  Fucking Maysen.

  Normally I love the asshole. Right now, not so much.

  Perhaps it’s because he got some and I didn’t.

  Then again, after seeing Dekker last night—after tasting her—just any ole puck bunny wouldn’t have satisfied me. Not that they’ve satisfied me for a long time.

  Since Dekker.

  Stopping to catch my breath, I rest my hand on my stick and take in the arena around me. Years upon years of blue and red pennants hang from the rafters while images of the team’s history play out over the uppermost walls. Defining moments in the franchise’s history. Defining moments in the league’s history. And while I shouldn’t care about any of it, it’s a history I never thought I’d get to be part of and now hope to leave my own mark on as well.

  And that, in and of itself, makes me a prick.

  How can I be grateful to play here when Jonah can’t? How can I be happy when I’m the one who took his place?

  Christ. Isn’t that why I play for the Jacks? I could have been on any playoff-contending team but he told me to play here. He told me this was the decision he would have made. And since I play for him, I did what he suggested.

  Who knew it would work? Who knew I’d be the starting block management built the franchise around and that in my second year here, we’d be in playoff contention?

  Always the big brother, always looking out for me.

  Even after what I did to him.

  But that’s why this is so fucked. Sanderson is already threatening that contract talks are going to be brutal when they were the ones who begged me to come here . . . and then not keep their promises. Why can’t I just play the game I train every day for?

  I close my eyes for a second and breathe it in. It’s by far my favorite time in any arena, when the nineteen thousand or so seats are vacant, and it’s just me and the ice and a game I’m lucky to be gifted at.

  Nothing can beat the roar of the crowd as you’re dancing down the ice, weaving between defenders while trying to control the puck, but there’s something about the silence that is more profound. Almost as if the silence reflects the magnitude of it all.

  So how come I’m feeling that less and less?

  How come most days, this gift feels more like a curse?