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I recognize this man’s little tells. I know that he likes to fuck rough, that he enjoys primal play, even as his touch is so tender it brings tear to my eyes. That he’d do anything for his family and for his team, that he has feelings for me, even though he hasn’t outright confessed to it, but a woman’s instinct knows when a man is affected by her. He hasn’t said ‘I love you,’ but he’s told me he cares for me, and more importantly, he’s shown me how much he wants me. And Rick ’Stone’ Mitchell, captain of the hottest ice hockey team on the continent, is drawn to me, and not just physically, even though he’s loathe to admit it.
"I’m sorry Grams didn’t have her operation earlier, but she’s fine now."
"And if she finds out we’re not getting married, all the progress she’s made will be reversed."
I rub at my forehead. Every part of me hurts after spending the night on the unforgiving hospital chairs, even though Rick and I had been ushered to a comfortable waiting room on what seemed to be a private floor of the hospital, the kind I didn’t think existed in the country. And while the coffee from the machine was terrible, the corridors were carpeted. There were a few other waiting rooms on the floor, and a reception with someone at the desk all night, and there were nurses coming in to keep us updated, something I didn’t think would normally happen. The entire process gave off the feeling that there was a lot of money cushioning the process. And his grandmother’s home was beautiful, with that gorgeous private garden behind it… but it wasn’t ostentatious… But add the car and uniformed driver who had picked us up, and the dots join in my head. "You’re rich," I exclaim.
He stares at me, a question in his eyes.
"I mean, you’re rich. The kind of rich where you don’t have to make your bed every day or cook your own food or lift a finger to do anything. It’s why you have a chauffeur who’s worked for your family for decades."
He tilts his head. "Your point being?"
"Don’t you want me to sign a prenup?"
"So you are going to marry me?" Something flashes in his eyes, but he banks it.
"If we don’t, Grams is not going to be happy. It’ll upset her and put more strain on her heart, so you've said."
"Is that a yes?"
I bring up my knees and hug them to my chest. "It's not like I have a choice."
"Marrying me is the ultimate way to piss off your douche-ex."
"I suppose."
"Don’t you want to get revenge for what he did to you?"
"Oh, I do." But somewhere along the way, this had become less about Dennis and more about me and Rick.
"So what’s the problem?"
"It’s just"—fatigue knocks at the back of my eyes—"every time I think I know you, something happens, and I’m sure I don’t."
He seems about to say something, then shakes his head. He tosses his jacket aside, reaches behind him to pull off his T-shirt, then shoves his jeans down. OMG that expanse of his ripped chest, with the tattoo over his heart, the concave stomach, those powerful thighs—my mouth waters. My nipples tighten, and I squeeze my thighs together to control that gnawing in my core. He rakes his gaze over me, and I’m sure he knows the effect his striptease had on me, then he mutters, "Scoot over."
"Wha—"
He slides onto the bed, so I have no choice but to follow his direction. He pulls the covers over both of us, then adjusts me so I’m on my side and his arm is under my neck. He adjusts his body to mine so he’s spooning me, and oh my god, heaven is the feel of his hard thighs against mine, the wall of his chest pressed into my back, my head tucked under his chin, with his heavy arm pinning me to him, and that thick length of his cock nestled into the curve of my butt.
"Rick," I begin, but he tightens his hold on me. "Sleep, we’ll talk later."
"You’re too hot," I protest.
When he doesn’t answer, I sigh. "I mean, your body is like a furnace, I’m sweating, I need to take off my clothes."
"Not stopping you," his voice is slurred, like he’s half asleep already.
I manage to shuck off my slacks, then my jacket and my blouse, as well as my bra. Clad in my panties, I burrow back into his chest. He pulls me close.
“Rick, I haven’t brushed my teeth, and neither have you,” I protest.
He makes a noise at the back of his throat which I interpret as ‘fuck that.’
I sigh again, “Rick, I do need to brush my teeth.”
No answer.
