Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Daniela

"You're sexy as shit, you know that, right?"

All of my attention is focused on the big, burly hockey player sitting next to me, so I don't miss his hands tightening on the steering wheel.

Same as I don't miss how my words make his shoulders tense.

Or how his eyes—deep pools of melted chocolate—flick to mine and then away, back to the winding mountain road, tall pines crowding in on all sides, scattering patterns of shadows over the snow that catch the moonbeams overhead.

And I don't miss that Riggs doesn't reply.

I don't expect him to.

Not the big, burly, taciturn hockey player.

He doesn't say much to me. Not ever.

Not when we're hanging out with my best friend, Nova, and her boyfriend, Lake, who plays with him on the Sierra. Not when we're hanging with my brother, Knox, who's also his teammate.

Riggs watches me, though.

Lots.

Observing. Studying. Assessing .

And tonight, after a Christmas party that saw me drinking a plethora of Nova's honey rosemary mules (her twist on a Moscow mule that is herbal and sweet and, in a word, delicious ), that assessment isn't exactly pleasant.

"You're drunk," he mutters, disdain heavy in those two words.

"No," I say. Am I buzzed? Definitely. Am I beyond the legal limits of driving? I sure am. But am I drunk? So drunk that I'll black out and won't know the consequences of my actions? Nope.

I've long moved beyond allowing myself to reach that state.

College life was free and loose and wild until…

I figured out the person I wanted to be—the life of the party, funny and witty and the best version of myself…and that didn't include drinking so much that I didn't know what I was doing, couldn't think through the consequences of my actions and put myself in danger.

It certainly didn't include puking on the boy I had a crush on.

So…low moments.

But also learning moments.

Learning my limits. Making alcohol my bitch.

Relaxed and comfortable and social…but not sloppy.

Now I just…

Use it to file away the sharp edges of real life.

Riggs's eyes flick back to mine, and it doesn't take a magnifying glass to see the disbelief in the dark brown depths. "You're drunk ," he says again.

"Not drunk," I lean across the console, drop my hand onto his thigh, feeling the muscles flexing beneath my fingers and palm. Strong and thick, powerful enough to generate speed on the ice, to propel himself into other guys, finishing a check, slamming his body into theirs.

He can slam into something else.

Me .

Or rather, his cock can slam home deep inside me.

I shiver at the thought, at the fantasy I've had over and over again from the moment I met him and wonder if tonight is the night it will come true.

His hand covers mine—big and warm, his fingers and palm rough with callouses that I want to feel catching on my skin as he trails it over my thigh, my hips, my breasts, between my legs.

But he doesn't lace our fingers together.

Doesn't lift my hand and press it to his mouth, doesn't kiss my palm, or flick out his tongue, tasting my skin.

Instead, he drops my hand back on my own thigh and says, "You're drunk" again.

A kernel of something—maybe uncertainty or doubt or… hurt —settles heavy in my stomach like a single stone landing in a pond, sinking to the bottom seemingly unseen once the ripples have cleared, but still there, still on the sand-covered bottom.

Altering the water's flow, being covered with algae or used as shelter for a tiny creature.

There, even if it's unseen.

Causing change, no matter how small.

I don't want to feel that, don't want to think that—don't want life's sharp edges cutting me. Not now. Not ever again. So, I shove that feeling down, holding my breath until the surface of that imaginary pond calms.

It's a pebble, a tiny rock, barely larger than a grain of sand.

It's nothing.

Absolutely fucking nothing.

Which is why I reach back over the console, allowing my body to follow my hand this time, leaning toward Riggs, my palm dropping back onto his thigh. "I'm not drunk," I say, drifting closer, my breasts brushing his arm. "I had a couple of mules?—"

"Six," he mutters. "You had six mules."

I freeze, start counting.

One. Two. Three. Four.

No, I only had?—

Wait.

There was the time Nova refilled my copper mug with the extra mix.

So, five. Barely. That last one wasn't even a full drink.

"Six," he repeats, clearly registering that I'm counting. "Lake gave you his to finish off."

I still. Think. Remember.

And realize that he's right.

Which is…annoying.

But doesn't really change anything.

I'm not drunk. I'm buzzed and no, I wouldn't operate heavy machinery, but this pussy is primed, locked and loaded.

I know my own brain, my own mind, my own body.

And they're all ready for the orgasms—yes, plural —I know that this man can give me.

A hard body pressed close. A cock slipping home, stretching me so wide that it's almost uncomfortable. Rough strokes, fingers digging into my hips, lips and teeth and tongue ? —

I press my thighs together.

Yes, I'm ready for this man—quiet but always watching, thoughtful and protective and a hard worker, a good guy who wouldn't proposition his teammate's sister.

But Knox's and my relationship isn't a typical one. I'm not the weak little sister who needs to be looked after by the older, growly, cock-blocking brother. Knox has never interfered with my life because he knows I'm a grown woman who does what I want with my body, and that's that.

Easy as pie.

Riggs can't know that—it's not like the guys are having heart-to-hearts in the locker room.

From what I hear, they barely get along at all, the tenuous peace between the players holding only because Lake and Riggs and Knox have all but willed it to be that way.

So, Riggs might watch me with heat in his eyes, but he's not going to fuck things up with my brother.

So, obviously, it's up to me to make sure he knows this won't.

Just like it's up to me to make the first move.

No problem.

I got you, boo.

I squeeze that thick thigh, allow my breasts to brush more firmly against his arm. "Six," I agree. "But that doesn't mean I don't know that"—I slide my hand up, brush the head of his cock where it's growing against his leg, and, hell yes, the man is packing something I very much want to meet up close and personal—"I want you."

The car slides to a stop and I almost grin.

Right here?

Okay then. I'm down.

Or going to be going down. Heh .

Gentle fingers wrap around my wrist at the same time a hand settles in the middle of my chest, and he pushes me— firmly , albeit not roughly—back into my seat. "You're. Drunk," he growls. "Which isn't a surprise because you drink too much."

The kernel in my belly grows bigger, becomes harder to ignore, creating larger ripples beneath the surface of that imaginary pond.

"I know my limits."

Furious brown eyes on mine for a heartbeat, but I ignore that. I know how to make it better, know how to make us both feel good.

I slip my hand from his grip, drag my fingers along his chest. "We'll both enjoy ourselves"—I slide my hand down, lower, lower , until I'm palming his cock, hard and hot and huge as it pulses beneath my fingers—" immensely ." I rise up, press my mouth to his.

For one second, the universe stops.

Then it bursts into a thousand shards of motion—his fingers plunge into my hair, tilting my head back. His tongue slips between my lips, and…

Riggs Ashford is giving me the hottest kiss of my life.

Deep and wet and a little rough.

Long enough that my lungs start to protest, that my body starts to melt, that…

I dip my fingers under the hem of his T-shirt, stroke them along taut, hot flesh, and?—

Riggs breaks the kiss, snags my hand, and pulls it off him.

My lungs are heaving. My head is spinning. My body is so close to toppling into orgasm that I feel like I'm teetering on the edge a cliff. And all from just a kiss.

Okay, fine.

Not just anything.

The best, hottest, most perfect kiss of my life.

I reach for him again.

"No," he says.

"Riggs," I beg, knowing I'm whining but unable to stop it.

He pushes me back into my seat again—still firmly but gently—but his voice, when he says, " No " again, is rough.

Cold. Sharp.

Just no.

It slices right through the pulsing need in my belly, the need that's been poking at me from the moment I first laid eyes on this gorgeous, bearded man of few words.

No .

He doesn't want this.

Doesn't want me .

A bucket of icy water over my head, dousing need and confidence at once.

Of course he didn't?—

Of course he couldn't?—

Of course he wouldn't?—

I'm an idiot.

A big, giant idiot.

Thank God he's turning away, reaching for the steering wheel.

Because it means he can't see my face.

And thank God he drops me in my driveway, not walking me up to the door—not tonight.

Because it means I don't have those cold brown eyes judging me when I go to the kitchen and snag the bottle of vodka from the freezer.

The fucking sharp edges of life have sliced deep tonight.