Chapter 27

27

It was almost two in the morning by the time they made it home. The lights were on in the foyer, but all was quiet. Over the course of multiple calls, Banks had insisted to his family that they needn’t stay up, and Georgia was glad they heeded his advice. She really didn’t want to talk to anyone after spending the last four hours being prodded, scanned, and interrogated.

She felt stupid. Intellectually she knew that it was purely bad luck that she was seated there, and the puck came hurtling her way. But she couldn’t help feeling that this was one more mark in the column of things that Georgia did to make a bad situation worse. Banks had missed the rest of the game because he insisted on accompanying her to the hospital and sticking by her side through every test. The radiologist had to threaten to call security so Banks would remain outside the imaging facility. (Threats to his sperm count didn’t work.)

He’d held her hand in the ambulance. He’d held her hand as they waited to be seen, only letting go to fill out the paperwork (he had to ask for things like her social security number and her date of birth, but he gave his insurance information because “we’re married”). He’d held her hand as the ER doctor examined her and Banks insisted that a plastic surgeon be called in to do the stitch job.

There would be a small scar, the specialist had said. Banks held her hand through that as well, as if worried she was going to break down in tears at this insult to her classically beautiful forehead. The potential for scarring didn’t bother her, but she liked that he held her hand all the same.

She’d take another puck to the head if it meant he held her like this forever.

The CT scan said there was no bleeding on the brain and that everything looked fine. She was allowed to sleep, but if her headache persisted or other symptoms like nausea or vomiting occurred, she should return to the doctor.

Only when they left the taxi that took them to Banks’s front door did he release her hand.

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired, but punchy.”

“I could punch someone. Fucking McMillan.”

“Was that the player who?—”

“Lost his shit because we scored.”

Thankfully, the team had gone on to win, 3-1. Georgia would never have forgiven herself if Banks’s absence had resulted in a loss on top of everything else.

“Next time, I’ll duck.”

He rubbed his mouth. “I’d understand if there wasn’t a next time. You’ve done your duty.”

“Are you kidding? I barely got a chance to show off my skills.”

“Your skills?”

She walked into the kitchen and picked up the electric kettle, only to have Banks take it from her, set it down, then set her down on one of the kitchen island stools.

He filled the kettle and flicked the power switch. “The raspberry one?”

“No, lemon ginger.”

He nodded. “What was that about your skills?”

“I learned all about hockey today. The rules, the playoffs, the stats.” What a big deal you are. “And I was just about to drop some knowledge when that puck dropped me instead.”

Through his beard she could discern the Banks smirk. “Drop it on me.”

Suddenly every single factoid she had learned vanished from her brain (puck to the head, remember?). Probably for the best. How silly would it be to tell him the rules?

Maybe something about his career instead.

“You won the Hart Memorial award ten years ago. The Art Ross one, too.”

“That was the year before.”

“For scoring the most points.”

He tore open the packet for the tea bag and put it in the mug. “Awards are a thing of the past for me now.”

“Why?”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Hockey’s a young man’s game. I’ve got a couple more years left in me, but I won’t be scaling those heights again.”

His chances at the Cup were running out, yet another reason for her to be mad at herself. She was distracting him at this most important time.

The water finished its boil and Banks filled the mug. Placing it on the counter, he took a seat beside her. “Are you hungry?”

She shook her head, resigned defeat overwhelming her.

“I’m sorry about what happened at the game. That was so important to you, and you were playing so well, scoring a goal, and then I go and screw it up. Again. All night you’ve been nothing but kind and?—”

He kissed her.

Not soft, not hard, just perfect. Maybe to shut her up?

Definitely to shut her up.

He had heard the panic in her voice, and he knew this was what she needed. It was like she could breathe again.

His lips tugged at hers, parting them, taking control. She felt the press of his hands to her waist and the subtle dig of his fingers into her flesh, like he was molding her to a calmer state. Before the kiss went too deep, he pulled back.

“This isn’t your fault. It could have happened to anyone, and I’m so fucking relieved it didn’t blind you or break your nose or give you a brain injury. You could have blacked out and woken up forgetting we were married.”

She blinked. “And that would be a bad thing?”

“A terrible thing.”

He wanted her to remember they were married. To remember them .

“But you missed the rest of the game.”

“You think that was important to me?”

She placed a fist against his chest. “Yes! It was Game 1 of the playoffs. At home. In front of your family. And you scored a goal. After a season where your face-time percentage is the highest in the league.”

“It’s face-offs, but I like your spin on it.” He raised an eyebrow. “Someone’s been doing her homework.”

“I told you! I have all the freakin’ knowledge.”

That made him laugh, a deep rumble that she’d take to her grave as her favorite sound in the world. All the more precious for its rarity.

His gaze dipped to her mouth again, then down over her blood-stained Rebels jersey. His demeanor turned grave again.

“I’m okay, Dylan.”

He blew out a breath, a hot puff of air that tickled her lips. She wanted him to kiss her again, to peel off this jersey, the one with his name. To move those hot, rough hands over her skin.

He curled a hand around her neck and used his thumb to hold her still while he looked her over. “My wife took a puck to the head. If I wasn’t so worried I’d be pretty proud.”

That thrill through her body when he said “my wife” was a dangerous, dangerous thing.

“I’ve got the scar to prove it.”

“A keepsake for when this is over.”

Her heart dropped to the floor tile. Of course he had the end in sight, as he should. He’d want his no-drama life back.

His family would be leaving soon, and Banks would probably want to start the process of separation. He wouldn’t need to have Georgia on site any longer. Sure he might pretend for Connie, but the mental severance would begin. It would be better for his game, for his life, for his sanity.

But what about her life? Her sanity? She wanted something to remember, something to hold onto. This scar wouldn’t be enough.

His hand stayed where it was, his thumb tracing a gentle line over her cheekbone and jawline.

“Come on, Champ, let’s check in on Cheddar then get you to bed.”

She turned back to her herbal tea, seeking the calm his callused hands couldn’t give her. Wishing like hell she was brave enough to ask for what she really needed.

By the time he came out of the bathroom, Georgia was under the covers, curled up like a cat. Seeing her lying there, vulnerable and quiet, almost had him shaking again.

He’d thought he lost her.

Overstating it, maybe, but a puck to the head was not trivial. There could have been brain damage, and even now there might be lasting effects. All because he asked her to sit in his section.

Insisted. Not for his family, not to save face. Because he wanted people to know his wife was there, rooting for him. He wanted to show her off.

What a selfish fuck he was.

Head injury care protocol had moved on in the last few years. No longer was there an expectation to wake the patient every couple of hours to make sure they hadn’t slipped into a coma. These days, uninterrupted rest was preferred. Not that he’d get any. But he was fine with watching Georgia breathe, ensuring that it was steady, even, unlabored. The tiny bandage strips over her cut were as wispy as she was.

Stripping to his briefs, he slipped under the covers, turned out the light, and lay on his back staring at the ceiling.

She placed an arm around his torso and snuggled into his good shoulder. “Go to sleep, Big Guy.”

Like this? Not likely.

He should not have kissed her in the kitchen. He’d only wanted to calm her down. She was so worried she’d upset his routine, his game, his life—and while it was true, he couldn’t let her feel like that. She needed to know she wasn’t a burden. She could never be.

She didn’t think he should have left the game. That she wasn’t worth leaving the game for. He got the impression Georgia was not used to being the center of attention. Strange, considering her upbringing and her many appearances in the media, but she’d taken a backseat to her sister for much of her life. He’d read up on it, curious about the psychological impact of being the healthy sibling of an unwell child. They even had a name for it: glass child syndrome. Overlooked, ignored, with expectations that the well sibling remain on an even keel and not rock the boat.

Tonight, she’d been anxious that no one make a fuss. Didn’t even want him to contact her parents.

Georgia needed someone to take care of her, not that she’d ever admit it. He wasn’t even sure why he was admitting it. Probably guilt over what happened.

Her soft breathing against his neck should have soothed instead of inflamed. But then that was Georgia. What should have been comfort was closer to torture. She moved her head, and he moved his, so he could brush his lips against her forehead. He remained like that, contorted like an ogre, holding onto his princess for dear life.

“You’re tense,” she whispered.

“You should be sleeping.”

“I can’t. My heart is racing.” She took his hand and placed it against her breast. “See?”

The heat and life beneath his fingertips traveled an electric current down his arm and onward. His belly. His cock.

That fucker twitched, loving the closeness. The sheer, sexy potential.

His hand flexed against her chest, and his fingers itched to cup and curve her gorgeous tit. Just as he was about to pull away, she covered his hand with hers and placed it where it needed to be.

“Georgia—”

“Please.” The tone in her voice was desperate. “Touch me, Dylan.”

His fingers tingled, his hand flexing to shape that mound of heated flesh through her camisole. Gently he massaged his thumb over the pebbled nipple. He turned to her, seeking better access, and caught her eyes striped by lights from the partially open blind. They shone bright, her lips parted and wet from the flick of her tongue.

Jesus, she was beautiful.

He needed to feel her skin, all the gorgeous heat of it. Pulling at the hem of her top, he pushed it up over her breasts. His hand found purchase again, this time without the barrier of her top, and he took a moment to explore. Her tits were small but perfectly formed, gorgeous swells in his palm.

His mouth watered with desire. Just a quick taste because he might not have the stamina for anything longer. His cock was thickening, desperate for attention.

Meanwhile these pretty tits needed his mouth on them now. Tongue first, the flat against a nipple. Her breathy gasp became a whimper when he plumped her flesh and took it between his lips. He sucked on her tit, then kissed a path between them before applying his efforts to the other one.

His dick started to leak. Not gonna last.

Mouth full and busy, he coasted his hand down her stomach over the round of her belly until he reached?—

Shocked, he withdrew his fingers. No panties.

The darkness made it seem like a secret, one that would vanish in the night shadows along with their fake marriage. He didn’t want fake.

He wanted real.

He leaned over to turn on the lamp and pulled back the covers.

His beautiful wife lay before him, her camisole pushed up above her breasts, which were tinged pink from where he’d suckled them. Otherwise, she was completely naked, wild-eyed, and panting.

“Where are your panties, Peaches?”

“The laundry basket.” She licked her lips, sucked in a breath. “If what you’re really asking is why am I naked, I’m hoping that’s obvious.”

It was becoming so. His wife needed a little TLC.

“Are we sure this isn’t you in a weakened state after suffering a brain injury?”

“Someone else will have a brain injury if he doesn’t satisfy his wife’s conjugal rights.”

For all that sass, she still looked vulnerable. Like asking for what she wanted was a big deal. She was worried that he might not want to reciprocate.

While he was worried that she was still recovering from a puck to the head and once he started, he’d drill her into the mattress.

“We’ll take it slow.” He pulled at her bunched-up top, gently eased it over her head and dropped it on the floor. Another heated stare down her lovely nakedness was soon followed by his rough hand over her tits, her stomach, and around to her sweet ass for a squeeze.

She inhaled sharply and arched her back a touch. Her fingertips touched his cheek, then moved over his bruised shoulder, the bump from the separation.

“Still hurts?” she asked.

“Can only feel you.”

Curling a hand around his bearded jaw, she pulled him closer and touched her lips to his. The barest brush, and it set him on fire. “Can you feel this?”

She was asking about more than the physical.

“Can feel you everywhere, Georgia.”

The kiss started softly but that didn’t last long. Lust slammed through him, and that promise to take it slow vanished with the next stuttering heartbeat.

I want this woman so bad.

Too bad.

He drew back, trying to rein in these deeper feelings and transmute them into base desire. That was all this was. A dry spell, a warm woman in his bed, the adrenaline from seeing her hurt.

She chased his mouth, and that notion that she wasn’t playing hard to get, that she needed this as much as he did crashed through him.

Let go. Enjoy this gift because it’ll be gone soon.

He kissed her deeper, going all in with his gorgeous wife.