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Nerves about the evening with the guys may have had me indulging in an edible as I pulled on the cream satin dress. I’d already felt loose, lips tingling, as we walked the short distance to the club. My eyelids were heavy by the time we stepped inside, and that’s where the memories end. I’m not a frequent user, but Palmer suggested bringing one just in case being on the road was more taxing than I anticipated. She also supplied the gummy, which explains why it hit me harder than normal.
My sister is a rebel. I try to ignore the fact that she knows way more about THC and alcohol than a newly twenty-one-year-old should.
There’s a vague memory of stepping up on a spotlit stage, but I must have imagined that. Or maybe dreamed it. I rarely dream when high, but maybe this time was an exception.
I burrow deeper into my bed. My phone isn’t screaming yet, so either it’s dead, or I still have time to catch the bus. Either way, it can wait an extra minute or two. Just another snooze before I have to get up and face the real world and the hot-as-sin hockey captain that I’m trying not to jump on like a trampoline.
I rub my cheek against my pillow and the blanket tightens around my back.
That can’t be right.
Blankets don’t tighten.
There’s an arm wrapped low around my waist. Now that I know it’s there, I can also feel the hand cupping the curve of my ass, fingers dipped into the warm juncture between my thighs. Those fingers flex and my stomach swoops as my lips part. I should be horrified. There’s a strange arm and hand becoming intimately acquainted with my panties. I shouldn’t feel the tightening in my abdomen or the tingles in my belly. One of my legs is bent at the knee and I shouldn’t be considering widening my thighs and canting my hips so those fingers can brush my pussy again.
I open my eyes. My face is pressed against a firm pectoral, a dusting of light gold hair cushioning my cheek. The large fingers flex again, sliding against my center, and I can feel the unmistakable bulge of a hard cock pressed to the soft skin of my stomach. I don’t think he’s awake yet. The movements seem more involuntary than teasing, and I need to sneak out before that changes. I need to extricate myself from the tangle of limbs and find my clothes and leave because this definitely counts as fraternizing. But if I leave now I can pretend it never happened. And if those movementsbecomepurposeful, I don’t think I’ll be able to walk away. I don’t think I’ll want to.
It makes sense that I’m being blinded through curtains I didn’t forget to shut. I closed them when I changed my clothes and left them closed. Thank you very much. It makes sense that my wake-up call didn’t go off. Because this isn’t my room. Those aren’t my curtains. This isn’t my phone with my scheduled reminder. And now I also understand why I haven’t panicked over the prospect of being naked with a stranger.
The man I’m starfished on top of is not a stranger. He’s Victor Varg.
And I know this, not because I looked at his face—my gaze is still fixed on one flat, pink nipple—but because the molten awareness I always get around this man is racing through my veins at an alarming clip.
This is a colossal fuck-up. The megalodon of fuck-ups. I heard all the warnings and still took it as a green light to jump into bed with the man I can’t have. Fuck.
I lift my head and try to look around the room. I need to get out of here now. My sister’s dress is lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. I can’t see my heels anywhere, but once I’m upright, I hope they’ll be obvious. Shoes are the least of my problems if I can’t escape the bungee cords Vic has for arms. I’ve been focusing on the one cupping my ass, the one with the fingers rubbing me insane. His other arm tightens across my back, palm curved around my shoulder, holding me firm against his chest. Any other time, any other man, and this would be one of the most romantic ways to wake up. Today it’s a nightmare.
I wiggle. The tiniest shift left to right, trying to slide out from under the arm, and everything under me tenses. I freeze, waiting for him to relax. His hips punch up once, twice, a slow grind that has my eyes fluttering closed as I bite my lip to hold in a gasp.
Time to go.
Or maybe not. If we’ve already come this far. What if I stayed? It’s not like this could get worse. I might as well….
No.
I need to leave now. We can pretend this was a fever dream, that I did not wake up draped over this man, bare breasts pressed to his skin. I shift again and he groans, deep in his throat. A sound that settles in my core. Then his arms tighten, and he rolls us, tucking his face against the top of my head. If he pins me under him, I will not be responsible for my own actions. I’ll take it as a sign the universe is saying “stay here, fuck him again,” but he keeps us on our sides and the hand cupping my shoulder loosensand drops to the mattress.
It’s easier to get free now and I should be thrilled, but there’s a tiny part of me that’s disappointed. I wanted the option taken out of my hands. I wanted to not have to be the one to think through consequences and make tough choices. I’ve been doing that since I was twelve. For once, can’t someone else be in charge?
I back myself to the edge of the mattress, pushing a pillow at Vic. He wraps his arms around it. Once my feet are on the floor, I see my shoes. They’re half under the bed. Like I kicked them off or dropped them. My panties are… still on my body.
They’re damp with sweat and other things, and suctioned to my skin, but I’m pretty sure this means we didn’t have full-on sex. My inner muscles ache, but not the well-used kind of throb. This is the hungry, needy pulse that tells me I’ve been keyed up and held on the edge for too long.
I suppose I should feel better about that. If this ever comes back around to Bob, it won’t be a lie when I say we haven’t had sex. I’m ninety percent confident.
A glance at the clock spurs me into action. My wake-up call should have come and gone over an hour ago. We’re due in the lobby to catch the bus to the airport in just under thirty minutes, and I still have to find my phone and get my things from my room. I need to make a dash for it and cross my fingers that none of the other players will catch me making my escape.
Phone, phone, phone.
There.
It’s on the nightstand next to the bed, plugged into—what I can only assume—is Vic’s charger. He either plugged it in for me or forwent his own charging so I could have mine. I almost tear up, which is a ridiculous overreaction, and has me grabbing my things and my bag from the floor with enough speed to make a sprinter proud. Did he know my sisters would have sent in the cavalry if I were unreachable? I mean helicopters, the FBI, the coast guard, mounted police, private eyes, the whole nine yards. Max is more levelheaded and wouldn’t take part, but he’d also have no luck convincing them not to panic. A glance at the screen tells me I’ve already missed twelve calls and forty-five texts.
There’s a muffled sound from Vic and I hit the floor and crawl my way to the door. I have my eyes screwed shut like I’m a child. If I can’t see him, he can’t see me. I have to stand up to get the door open, and I chance a look behind me to see the expanse of Vic’s broad back glowing in the light from the window. It’s unfair how attractive he is. He shifts, the sheet tugging lower, and I yank the door open before bolting into the hallway.
I don’t run into any other Arctic players on the way back to my room. It’s a minor miracle, and I know I’ll pay for it later. It’s not that I think they’ll assume I was with Vic—although they will—but seeing any of them during my walk of shame is the epitome of unprofessional. My entire night was the epitome of unprofessional. It was just a string of poor decisions that I have no excuse for. I should have turned Jack and Vic down on their invite out. I shouldn’t have gone back to my room to change into this dress, no matter how gorgeous it is, because I only put it on to get a certain captain’s reaction. I shouldn’t have indulged in a gummy—although, to be fair, I didn’t expect how hard it would hit me. I expected it to ease my nerves, not send me to the stratosphere.
I throw my stuff into my suitcase as I yank on my travel clothes and double check the bathroom counter for any extra toiletries that escaped my first grab. I yank my hair back into the French twist I could do in my sleep and check my face in the mirror. I look like a raccoon that got stuck in a commercial sized dumpster and made it my new home. I scrub the dark smudges from under my eyes and that’ll have to do for today. I can almost hear the Madison lecture about proper skincare—as if I didn’t teach her everything she knows—but my vote is for caffeine over moisturizer. I’ll apologize to my T-zone with a mask once we get back to Quarry Creek.
