Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Niko

I have a rule: no puck bunnies. Not since Peyton set her sights on me and upended my life.

But I cannot tell if this Chloe woman is playing games or not. She somehow managed to lift my spirits when nothing else could touch the foul mood I have been in since the cancellation of my visit with Ayana earlier this week. Instead of annoying, I find her chatter almost charming, something I cannot make sense of. Women do not charm me. I am uncharmable. Some people might label that as coldness—or perhaps grumpiness if they are being kind—but that does not bother me.

I would be lying if I said part of this woman's charm did not lie in her pouty red lips and those full tits pushed up in her top to create the most luscious cleavage I have ever seen. And here she is, so close I can smell her sweet scent and feel her warm breath on my chin as she gazes up at me with challenge in her blue eyes.

It would be so easy to give in and bury myself between her thighs for the night—push my problems from my mind until the sunrise brings them back. But that is not how I operate. I should not even be here at this bar, not with the skills competition tomorrow afternoon.

I open my mouth to tell the raven-haired beauty she has chosen the wrong mark, but that is when I notice the slight tremble of her lips and the quickness of her breathing that has her breasts rising and falling in a rapid rhythm. What I mistook for aggressive, lust-fueled game playing is tinged with...nervousness.

Chloe is no puck bunny.

This does not mean she is not still off limits, but it does compel me to act with more care than I otherwise might have.

Instead of rebuffing her advances outright, I find myself softening my tone and saying, "You do not strike me as stupid, Chloe of the short people."

Her mouth falls open in barely disguised dismay before her tongue darts out to swipe across her bottom lip. Not a puck bunny at all. "Oh," is her eventual response. My cock swells in my pants at the mental image of that tongue licking my cock from root to tip.

Her grip loosens and her chin begins to dip. Soon, she will turn from me and dismount her barstool, embarrassed by the failure of her charms to capture my interest. I want to tell her she is wrong. If anyone could tempt me, it would be someone like her.

My eyes drop to her red lips again, and I make a split-second decision. My hand comes to the underside of her chin and I use my index finger to lift it. Her surprised expression makes her eyes go wide and her lips part again, and I take advantage by ducking my head and capturing them with mine.

The first brush of our lips is electric, and I feel the hairs on my arms stand on end under my shirt and coat. It must have to do with the cold, dry March air in Toronto, no matter that we are indoors. When I go in for another taste, Chloe's fingers tighten once again on my lapels, and she leans fully into me. I worry she will tumble from her barstool, so I lower a hand to her hip to hold her steady. My fingers dig into the soft curve and I inwardly groan, my mind imagining driving my cock into her from behind as my hands brace her lush hips.

But that will not happen. I will keep this encounter to one kiss with a stranger who will never be anything more.

Chloe tests my resolve when she whimpers into my mouth and swipes the tip of her tongue over my lip. The hand that was at her chin curls upward to hold her jaw so I can further explore her hot mouth as I part my lips and take over the kiss. My tongue forces hers back in her mouth as I delve in for a thorough taste. Bright champagne hits my taste buds, but it is the velvety, sweet softness of her mouth that does me in.

Our kiss rapidly turns hot and wet, all the sounds of the lively bar and its patrons fading to a dull buzz as my senses focus their attention on the suppleness of Chloe's body, the sound of her low moan, the sweetness of her hot tongue, and the scent of her honeyed skin.

Maybe taking her up on her offer would not be such a bad move. When one of her hands leaves my coat to skim up the side of my neck and delve into my hair, I am convinced of it. I tear my lips from hers, intent on flagging down the bartender for our bill when my phone rattles on the bar top next to me.

At the name on the screen, my hard-on instantly deflates.

Jane: Can you talk?

Shit.

My eyes flick back to Chloe who is blinking at my chest now, clearly not having her wits about her yet. I do not blame her. If Jane's name had not just jarred me back to reality, I would still be lost in whatever spell Chloe cast on me.

"My lawyer," I say, my voice coming out hoarse. It is a mystery to me why I feel the need to explain. We owe each other nothing.

Chloe's hand falls from my hair as her head tilts back, and I almost smile at her still-dazed expression as she continues to blink, this time at my face. "Wh—what?"

I take my phone in one hand, turning the screen her way while my other hand finally releases her hip. "I need to call her. Right away." This is about Ayana, and nothing comes before my daughter—certainly not a random sexual encounter with a stranger, no matter how unexpectedly she has piqued my interest.

"Oh." Chloe gives her head a quick shake and straightens on her stool. "Of course." She sends me a smile, and I cannot tell if it is forced or genuine. She leans forward once more, bringing a hand to my face. I intercept it, thinking she is ignoring my wishes, but it only makes her laugh.

"You've got red lipstick all over your mouth, Nikolai of the tall people. I'd hate for you to walk around the rest of the night getting funny looks."

I release her hand, allowing her to swipe her thumb over my lips to remove the stain, not understanding why I didn't just do it myself. The touch is somehow even more intimate than the kiss we just shared.

"There," she says before settling back again, her lips still curved in amusement.

Rising from my stool, I dig into my pocket for my wallet. I drop a hundred dollars on the bar top, nodding my chin at her half-empty champagne flute so she knows I have her drinks as well.

But instead of making a quick retreat to find a bit of silence to call Jane like I should, I hesitate. "Would you like me to see you back to your hotel? For safety," I quickly add.

She smiles again and shakes her head. "I'm good." Her fingers wrap around the stem of her glass and she raises it toward me. "To strangers," she offers.

I nod, intent on simply saying goodnight as I know I should. But my tongue betrays me with the truth instead. "I wish tonight had gone differently so I could see what else your mouth can do, Chloe." I don't wait for her reaction to my words before turning to pick my way through the crowd and exit into the cold night.

"You're lucky I'm playing with a bum wrist, Drugov, or you never would have won that hundred grand last night," the keeper for the Pittsburgh Fury says as he skates by me two days later.

My only response is a glare paired with a smug grin. I excelled at the skills competition, winning first place among the goalies and earning myself enough prize money to pay my sister's rent for the foreseeable future.

But I credit anger as the driving force behind my win. When I left the bar the other night to call Jane, her news was both good and bad. Our request for a new hearing in front of a judge had been granted, but the court date isn't for another two months. Which means at least two more months of Peyton's bullshit and likely two more months without Ayana.

The wall of my hotel room took the brunt of my frustration, necessitating a call to the front desk and a two-hundred-dollar tip to the unlucky housekeeper who vacuumed the remains of my broken glass at ten at night.

As I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I had a strong pang of regret that I had not asked for Chloe's phone number. But it was for the best.

My eyes drop to the ice beneath my skates as I push toward the net on the other end of the rink for warm-ups. My team won its first game earlier today, so we are now competing in the final All-Star matchup. Benny is on the opposing team, so I will enjoy the opportunity to meet up with him at the net and show him who the dominant player is.

It is time to center my focus on the game and leave all else behind. Just as I tighten my resolve, however, I hear a voice bellow my name. I lift my head to see Roman LaFontaine, my former teammate and captain, waving from the stands a few rows back from the glass. I lift my chin in greeting as my eyes shift next to his fiancée, a lovely woman named Olivia, and then to Kaitlyn Philips, Benny's current agent and the object of his not-so-subtle lust.

When I bring my right skate forward to continue on my way, however, my gaze catches on a fourth in their party. A curvy, raven-haired beauty who is all too familiar to me, despite the fact that I was never meant to lay eyes on her ever again. Chloe, the stranger, is clearly not a stranger at all.

I open my mouth to say something—anything—finally settling on, "I did not know! I give you a tooth!" Because I am telling the truth. I had no idea Chloe was friends with people in both my professional and personal circles. How did I not realize? How did she not tell me? Especially after our discussion of not mixing friends with...benefits.

My racing thoughts have me narrowly missing the boards, prompting one of our team's wingers to laugh up at me from where he is stretching on the ice. "A ghost walk over your grave, Drugov?" he asks. Although I have no understanding of his meaning, I simply nod. It is far preferable to explaining my current frustration.

His comment does have the effect of bringing me back to the ice. To the game. To my fucking job. It is time to focus again, and not on a pair of pretty tits and a woman who might have a knack for distracting me for a moment or two but will never figure in the long game.

It's time to win a game, for Christ's sake. And that is the only thing on my mind.