2. Elise

CHAPTER 2

Elise

My mother likes to say that the first time my father kissed her, it felt like the entire world stopped. Which is adorable and romantic. Considering they wound up divorced when I was a kid, it’s not exactly the stuff of happily-ever-afters, but she meant it in a one-kiss-and-your-dad-and-I-knew-we-had-a-future kind of way.

This is not what she meant.

Not a literal stopping of a giant mechanical steel box that could plunge us to our death at any second.

Blake Wilder, the Racketeers notoriously superstitious and very grumpy goalie, has barely put his lips on mine when the elevator jolts to a grinding stop. I’m ripped from sexy to startled so quickly, I fall backwards and slam into the handrail under the mirrored wall.

“Oh!”

Pain radiates throughout my hip as I try not to lose my balance in my high heels. I’m teetering on the edge of disaster when big, strong hands land on my waist and steady me.

His breath is warm in my ear. “You okay? Are you hurt?”

Even though it’s so dark I can’t see him, I can feel him. His enormous body is everywhere, and it’s both comforting and crowding. I feel like I can’t breathe. That isn’t romantic either, because I’m about two heartbeats away from a full-blown panic attack.

I hate elevators.

All small spaces, really, but elevators in particular. Not for any reason. I’ve never been trapped in one before—oh, God, I’m trapped in an elevator—but because they shudder and groan and break down constantly in dozens of movies and books and presumably in real life.

Half the reason I jumped at the chance to move into Luna McNeill’s old apartment over the bakery is because it has one flight of steps and no death box.

But I refuse to let Blake know I’m internally freaking the fuck out.

Show no weakness.

“I’m fine,” I say, even as my hip throbs incessantly and I’m mentally calculating how long we can survive without fresh oxygen. “Though I just had to wear the fuck-me cage heels, didn’t I?” I add, lightly.

Blake chuckles, his deep voice rolling over me like warm honey. “ Huge fan. And it’s New Year’s Eve. What else would you wear?”

“Precisely. Though I wouldn’t have moved an inch if I was in sneakers. My balance is amazing.” Normally it is even in heels. I live in them because I love the way they show off my calves and give me a height advantage. Doing the pinup model pageant circuit has made me stumble-proof for the most part.

But Blake had broken my concentration when he bent down to kiss me, something I’ve not-so-secretly been wishing he’d do for months. We’ve only met a few times, but there was a sizzle between us. We flirted a little, he fished for a compliment, I refused to give it to him.

That’s all it’s been. I had assumed he was the type of guy who would have pursued me if he was interested, but he hadn’t and I’m not a woman who chases men. That was that. A missed connection, nothing more, nothing less.

So yes, I was distracted by his sudden insistence we talk and his very direct compliments.

And no one can anticipate an elevator screeching to a halt without warning.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

His hands start to wander up my sides and over my arms, making me shiver in the dark. My eyes are adjusting to the lack of light, and I can see his long hair brushing his shoulders, his strong jaw and his thick beard, his firm lips, and the curve of his nose. I can’t read his expression but I can read his body language. He’s planning to pick right back up where we left off.

“I’m not hurt.” Except for the bruise on my hip that’s probably forming as we speak.

I press my back against the wall and grip his forearms for balance as much as to stop him. Because while I do want to make out with him and show him what he’s been missing, he’s not grasping the obvious.

“We’re stuck in an elevator,” I point out. “We should call someone.”

“You don’t think it will just start back up?”

I give a huff of impatience. “Why would it do that?”

I sense his shrug more than I see it. “I don’t know.”

“Exactly. Let’s be proactive here. Isn’t there an emergency call button?”

“I don’t think this is an emergency.”

The hell it isn’t.

I lift my ridiculously tiny clutch purse and unclick it to retrieve my phone. I command it to turn on the flashlight.

“Ow, fuck,” Blake complains as the light hits him directly in the eyes. His hand lifts to cover his dark brown eyes, and he hisses a little. “Damn, girl.”

I’m unmoved.

I need to see the elevator panel to push the button and get the hell out of here.

I was diagnosed with ADHD and anxiety as a child and while I’ve learned to manage both, accepting that certain things like my inability to maintain a clutter-free apartment will never change, panic can still pop up at random times. It’s why I quit my corporate job as an executive assistant’s assistant over a year ago. Well, that and the British billionaire boss that I had a huge crush on and happened to kiss one night when we were working late alone. But the main reason I quit was because I learned I couldn’t force myself to be organized when I’m not and that it’s better to embrace being a creative, while minimizing stressful situations.

This is an obviously stressful situation.

“Move your big body,” I tell Blake, pushing around him, flashlight bouncing erratically as I search for the panel.

There it is. The red button. I push it triumphantly, half-expecting the elevator to light up and start descending immediately. Maybe some confetti to drop. A bass beat to start thumping in celebration.

Nothing happens except Blake moves in right behind me on the pretense of squinting at the panel. His thighs brush my ass.

“I don’t think that was necessary,” he says.

I try to glance back at him, but all I can see is his dark suit covering his massive shoulder. “Are you aware we’re trapped and no one knows it?”

I’m already late to this party. No one is going to send out a search party for me. In fact, I wasn’t even on the invitation list. Dani Larkin Armstrong Hughes McNeill, or whatever her actual name is now that she’s married to three men, just had a baby a few days ago, so she clearly forgot to add me to the attending guests list after she invited me. Which is totally understandable and wouldn’t have been an issue, aside from a sour-faced security guard who did the whole you’re-not-on-the-list thing.

There was no way in hell I was going to text Dani given the hour and the fact that she literally just gave birth, but I wasn’t about to give up either. Not after spending an hour and a half doing my hair and makeup and looking this damn hot. I was going to text Luna and every Racketeers player whose number is in my phone until someone came down and vouched I’m not a spy or a stalker seeking entrance to their private party.

Fortunately none of that was necessary because Wade, who wears the team mascot costume at the hockey games and is obsessed with my boobs, strolled into the lobby stoned right then and told the security guard I’m his girlfriend. For a guy who looks like he’s spinning out on the astral plane half of the time, he has his sharp moments.

Unlike Blake right now, who seems to be deliberately misunderstanding me.

“What’s the rush? We’ve got all night.” His eyes narrow. “Unless you have plans?”

“Yes, they involve the free food and booze at the party I was about to walk into when you accosted me and forced me to stay in the elevator with you.” That’s a gross exaggeration, but now he’s just annoying me.

“I did not accost you.”

“What would you call it?” I demand. “We need to talk,” I say slowly, in a poor attempt at Blake’s demanding and rough voice.

He actually starts laughing.

Not the reaction I was expecting.

Grumpy Blake is sexy.

Laughing Blake is deadly.

As in the murder of all my inhibitions and hopefully my pussy. He may be annoying and we may die of suffocation or dehydration in this elevator, but after we’re safe, I wouldn’t mind having sex with him. I haven’t hooked up with anyone since that prick hockey player Justin Travers, who had a tiny dick and somehow blamed that genetic shortcoming on me. It left a bad taste in my mouth, literally, and I feel confident Blake has more than a Vienna sausage in his pants.

“What’s so damn funny?” I ask.

“Is that really what I sound like?”

I turn my flashlight on him. He’s smiling and rubbing his jaw. His eyes narrow at the light, but he holds my gaze. “I think I sound more like this—we need to talk.”

He says it the same way he did earlier. Demanding. Confident. Growly .

I’m momentarily and blissfully distracted.

“What do we need to talk about anyway?” The only thing I want to discuss is our escape plan.

He doesn’t address that. “Are you scared that we’re stuck in an elevator?” he asks. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not scared,” I lie.

He clearly doesn’t believe me. He cocks his head and studies me for a second before nodding. “It’s going to be fine, Elise. Here, I’ll call the front desk. I’m sure there are maintenance personnel on site.”

I sigh in relief. “Thank you. That’s a great idea.”

“Come here.” Blake pulls me up against his chest with one hand and rubs my back comfortingly as he pulls his phone out of his pocket with the other. “I’ll call the front desk.”

Dropping my hand holding my purse, I press the other one against him so that the flashlight on my phone is facing his chest, dimming its brightness.

Blake is talking to someone. “Yes, this is Blake Wilder, with the Racketeers’ private party in your lounge. My guest and I are on the elevator and it’s stopped moving.”

Relieved that he sounds confident and calm, I lean forward, just a little bit, wanting to feel the strength of his muscles and how good it feels to have his arm wrapped around me. He’s built like a lumberjack and instead of lifting logs, he could be lifting me up against the wall later tonight. The thought makes me shiver in anticipation, heat swirling down low between my thighs. I love big, strong men.

His hand is drifting down from the small of my back onto the curve of my ass. His fingers flex and I give a soft moan of approval. Blake glances down at me, his eyes darkening with desire. “Yes, thank you, we appreciate it. Happy New Year.”

He ends the call and gives my ass just the smallest of squeezes before he lets it fall away. “The hotel already knew we’re stuck in here. The fire department should be here in ten minutes.”

Now I’m fully reassured. Firefighters always save the day. “It was me pushing the button, wasn’t it?” I ask. “That’s how they know.”

Blake gives a grunt. “Maybe.”

So he’s that guy. Can’t admit when he’s wrong. Or maybe when someone else is right.

Either way, it’s not great.

Good thing I’m not in the market for a boyfriend.

Just hot hookup New Year’s Eve sex.

“So.” I take a step back, wincing at the soreness in my hip. I massage it through my dress.

Oddly, I suddenly realize he’s limping a little as he shifts to the left.

“What’s wrong with your hip?” I ask.

“What happened to your hip?” he asks at the exact same time.

“You first,” I say. I’m instantly sympathetic. Goalies do a lot of squatting, sliding, hip rocking… so much body movement.

What started out as sympathy suddenly has me visualizing Blake Wilder hip thrusting naked. I clear my throat and try to steady my phone in my hand.

“Just a hazard of the job.” He shrugs. “You?”

“Just bumped it when the elevator stopped.” I stare at him, my flashlight trained at him. “What did you want to talk about? Anything other than that you obviously saw me in this dress and had to kiss me?”

“Can you take the spotlight off of me?” He crosses his arms over the barrel of his chest.

“Can you answer the question?”

Blake lets out the world’s biggest sigh. “What the hell happened with you and Justin Travers?”

Whatever I thought he was going to say, it wasn’t that. I stare back. Why on earth would he care about that now, after all these months? “That’s none of your business.”

“He’s an asshole.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

There is momentary satisfaction in his expression before his nostrils flare and his eyes narrow. “Did he hurt you?” he demands. “I’ll fucking kill him. Tell me the truth, Elise.”

I’m fascinated by the display of what… jealousy? I’m not sure if it’s about hockey or me or both, but I can admit that there is something sexy as hell about his reaction. What woman doesn’t want a touch-her-and-die moment from a protective guy?

“He didn’t hurt me. He was just a jerk.”

Blake is silent, watching me. He seems to decide I’m telling the truth. “Did he suck in bed?”

“Okay, just stop right there.” I hold my hand up. “That is really none of your business.” Then because I don’t owe Justin Travers anything and I’m still nauseated and possibly in need of therapy by the fact that he decided to clean himself off post-condom on my childhood teddy bear, I give Blake what he clearly wants to hear. “But yes, he was terrible in bed.” I hold my pinky finger up as a visual display.

Blake’s eyes widen. “For real?”

I nod.

“Well, damn. Holy shit.” He chuckles. “Justin Pinky Dick Travers. I fucking love the sound of that.”

Clearly, whatever perceived threat there was before has instantly been minimized. “I didn’t love it.”

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t look sorry. He looks thrilled.

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” It wasn’t about the fact that Justin wasn’t well-endowed. I can work with small. I can’t work with bad manners and a selfish, accusatory attitude. “Don’t go spreading that around. It’s not his fault.”

“He’s a total asshole,” Blake says. “And now I know why. He’s overcompensating.”

I make a noncommittal sound.

“He didn’t overcompensate?”

Not even close. He accused me of being too wet, and that’s why he kept falling out during sex. For the record, I wasn’t even damp by that point because he was so rude about the whole thing. But I didn’t even tell Luna and Dani the truth about what happened. Luna would have been outraged and Dani would have been sad and it wasn’t that important in the end. I just chalked it up to a night that could have been better spent and moved on. After throwing my teddy bear in the washing machine.

“Why does it matter?” I ask.

“Because you deserve to be worshiped in bed.” He takes a step forward and cups my cheek, gaze drifting over my lips.

Well, yes, please..

I turn my flashlight feature off and shove my phone back in my purse so my hands are free. “I one hundred percent agree with you,” I murmur, grateful for my heels as I slip my arms around his neck. “Know anyone who is up for the job?”

Blake responds by kissing me.

It’s not a questing, tender kiss.

It’s dominating and demanding and rough.

It’s him laying possession to my mouth, tongue sweeping between my lips to tangle hotly with my own.

Immediately, I’m lost.

His hands are cupping my cheeks as we grapple with each other in a sexy tussle for control. I lose, instantly. He has me backed against the wall, hands above my head before I can even blink. I gasp, already out of breath, already wet and aching, already desperately wishing I wasn’t wearing fucking shapewear under my dress.

“Your mouth is so fucking perfect,” he says, pressing another hard kiss on me.

Then he nips at my bottom lip like he can’t stop himself, like he wants to consume me. The roughness of his beard is only heightening my awareness of how close he is to me. I can feel his hardness pressing against my middle as he palms first one breast, then the other, teasing his thumb over my nipples beneath my dress. He tries to take the neckline down for better access as he runs his lips over the swell of my breast, but it doesn’t budge. I’m poured into this skintight son of a bitch, and there is no wiggle room.

“God, your fucking body,” he growls. “I want to rip this dress off you and taste and touch every single inch of you.”

I want that too.

He smells like the woods. I don’t know how that’s possible, but he does. He smells like he just chopped a week’s worth of firewood before bathing in a spring river. It feels like I’ve fallen into a fantasy where the rough lumberjack stumbles upon the naked virgin washing her clothes in the river and she is torn between running away and letting him have his way with her.

Only I’m no virgin and I know exactly what I want. And it’s not running away.

I moan softly. “Fuck me,” I beg breathlessly. “Now.”

I’m never shy about telling men what I want and need, but it’s crazy how fast he’s shot me from zero to ninety.

“No condom,” he says, shaking his head.

“No, God, no,” I say in disappointment, letting my head fall back against the wall, hard. I hit it again for good measure. “I don’t have one either.”

“I’ve got you,” he says, simply.

I take it to mean he’s going to get me off, which I definitely approve of.

I’m going to enjoy returning the favor.

He yanks my leg up onto his thigh and shoves my dress up to my waist. His hand roams up my thigh. Right over my shapewear. He roams and roams, teasing me without meaning to. He is just trying to figure out how to get them off. Considering it took me ten minutes to get into it, he has his work cut out for him.

“Where the fuck does this thing end?” he asks, clearly bewildered, pulling back to glance down. “What are we working with here?”

I laugh softly. “Shapewear.” Or as I like to call it, my rolls wrangler. At least it stops under my boobs. I had actually intended to wear the bodysuit version, but I couldn’t find it in my bedroom, closet, or dresser, which isn’t uncommon. I frequently lose track of clothing—and everything else—in my chaotic apartment. I’ve learned to pivot without much distress.

Blake lifts his head to stare at me. “Why the hell would you do this to yourself? Your body is fucking gorgeous. I’ve been fantasizing about it for months.” He grips my thighs. “I want all of this.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the enthusiasm.” I’m not going to bother to explain to him about thigh chafing in dresses. “Just yank it down. It’s right above my waist.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He has my dress right up under my strapless bra and slips his fingers between my flesh and the stretchy fabric. He peels it down with a hard yank, frowning. He’s clearly very offended by shapewear, which I find kind of adorable.

I hold on to him as he lifts first one of my feet, then the other, removing the shapewear. He holds it up and shakes it.

“I’m going to burn this stupid thing.” Then he drops it and runs his rough hands over my bare thighs, hips, my stomach, giving a sigh of pleasure. “So much fucking better. So soft, so damn sexy.”

“If you were angling for a blowjob, you’ve totally earned one,” I tell him, digging my nails into his biceps.

Then he has one, then two fingers buried deep inside me without warning, and I lose the ability to speak or think.

“Oh, fuck yes, Elise. This pussy is perfection.”

“Blake,” I breathe. I don’t know what I want to say other than that. His fingers are huge. Massive. Skilled. Rhythmic.

He buries his lips near my ear, murmuring in encouragement. “Yeah? You like that? Does that feel good to have my fingers fucking you?”

“So. Good.”

“You want another finger?”

I nod eagerly, panting too hard to answer with words.

He slips his thumb over my clit, massaging it as he adds his ring finger to the first two.

“Oh!” He’s stretching me with each stroke. Then he flicks his tongue over my earlobe as he works my pussy.

“You’re going to come for me, you sexy little vixen. Now.”

The words are commanding and rough.

I’m not always fabulous at following orders, but this one is easy.

I shatter all over him, giving sharp cries of pleasure into his shoulder, rocking my hips to get the most out of his fingers.

“That’s it.”

I’m still shaking and holding onto him, trying to catch my breath, when a metal grinding sound has me lifting my head in panic. “Oh, shit.”

Blake yanks my dress back down to cover my naked lower half. He steps in front of me right as the elevator door pries open and a light washes over us.

“Chicago Fire Department. Everyone okay in there?”

Blake clears his throat. “We’re fine.”

Or devastated from an orgasm. He can speak for himself. My hands are shaking as I smooth down my dress and glance around his shoulder to see if our rescuers caught a glimpse of anything. Like my bare ass.

A handsome face is peering down at us. This man has the brightest, bluest eyes I’ve seen in my entire life. He has a crooked and warm smile.

Damn. Chicago’s finest.

Happy New Year, girl.