Boxer

Let me be honest. I’m not completely sure why I’m here.

There’s movement behind the door, and the click of the lock has me ready to turn around and pretend I was never here. Except for that peephole. Damn peephole means it’s too late for me to chicken out.

Taking a deep breath, I prepare to find the woman I’ve come to think about obsessively. As if her perfume is lingering around me to tease, drawing up images of her at inopportune moments. Which is problematic when I should be doing other things, like playing hockey or reading bedtime stories or otherwise functioning in life.

My brother showed up in town earlier this evening. He does that sometimes, wandering in and out as he pleases. He remembered Charli’s birthday and brought her a present. She’s infatuated with him being here and showering her with attention, so much so that she hardly noticed when I asked Steven to watch her for a few hours. Outstanding business, I told him.

Maybe I’ve come to apologize. Maybe I’ve come to be honest, to ask for more than she can give. Maybe I’ve come to push her away completely. I don’t know, and I don’t have a plan. I just know that my heart, my head, and my feet all led me here tonight.

I thought I was prepared to see her, the stunning blonde from the office, but that’s not what I find when she pulls open the door. There, instead of the polished exterior I’m used to finding, is something different.

While the shimmery blonde hair and slim figure are the same, Jocelyn’s face is nearly devoid of makeup. Her eyes are pale blue, like the sky viewed through a cloud, just a bit hazy and soft.

She’s been called the ice queen, among other names, but I don’t see it—not how they mean, anyway. When I look at her, I don’t see the sharp icicles, the cold front that others claim to find in her. Instead, I see a crystalline gem, a raw and beautiful work of nature.

Ice, while at times dangerous and sharp, can also be beautiful. There are few things more miraculous than snowflakes, or the sheer white innocence of a frozen tundra. Within her is a certain contentment—like the quiet of a morning’s fresh snow.

Maybe I don’t mind the ice because I spend so much time on it. It’s my love, my career, my passion. Maybe there’s a reason I’ve been drawn to her.

My hands shake as I fold them in front of my body. No matter how strongly I feel for her, if she doesn’t feel the same toward me, it means nothing.

“Landon?” Her voice is a windchime in greeting as she waits for me to say something. “What are you doing here?”

It’s now that I notice there’s a tinge of sadness in her beauty tonight. A hint of redness lines her eyes, and a remnant of makeup is smeared high on her cheek, as if she’s been crying.

I spy her shorts, just barely long enough to be decent, and a flimsy tank top that leaves little to the imagination. This puts my mind at odds with my body; while I’m nearly rigid with desire for her, I’m more concerned with the source of the tears, the reason for her pain. I want to hold her until the tears stop.

“What’s wrong?” I step into the apartment, not waiting for an invitation. I raise a hand to her cheek, brush my thumb across it. “Why are you crying?”

She doesn’t argue or pull away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does. Jocelyn—”

“I’m fine, okay?” Her voice is razor thin, a hint of danger at the edge of it. “Did you want something tonight?”

The way she phrases her question sends a lightning bolt of clarity straight through my body. “Yes,” I say, kicking the door shut behind me as I step further into the room. “I do want something. I came here for something. For you.”

Her eyes flicker in confusion.

“Tell me no right now if you’re not interested,” I say, backing her against the kitchen counter. “Otherwise, I’m going to kiss you.”

Confusion melts from her expression and is replaced by something else entirely—a warmth that tells me I’m not the only one feeling this way. But I don’t move, not yet—I can be patient. I’ve been patient for years, waiting for the right woman to come along, and now she’s here. I’m sure of it. It wasn’t love at first sight, I don’t believe in that anymore, but there’s a chemistry between us, and I’d hate myself forever if I didn’t risk exploring it.

She still doesn’t say no. As I wait, giving her time to push me away, I feel her body arch against mine, her nails digging into my shoulder as one hand comes up to balance herself against me.

I lift her up and deposit her gently on the counter so that I’m standing even closer. Stalling. Making my intentions known. Once this moment passes, things will never—can never—be the same between us.

Then her legs wrap around my waist.

“Are you sure?” I ask, leaning in, our breath mixing together as I pause there, an inch above her lips. “Because this is your last chance to say no.”

She blinks once, then nods. The sight of her full lips tilting toward me is enough to spark movement. A rush of desire courses through my body, liquid ice as our lips touch.

The moment’s frozen, suspended, like the utter stillness across that frozen tundra. Muted and tender in its fragility. She tastes sweet, like vanilla ice cream. I know then that I’ll never be able to get enough.

My hand comes up and rests behind her head, fingers weaving through the silky strands as I pull her lips off mine. Her neck is exposed, vulnerable, and I move in for a taste. When I press my lips to the skin there, she murmurs a sound that sends heat clamoring through my veins.

She hasn’t been touched like this in ages, I can sense it. I’m just glad I’m the lucky man who gets the chance to show her what she’s been missing.

“Joss.” I pull away, leaving only my fingers to dance across her collarbone. She shivers as I find the tiny strap of her tank top and ease it down over one shoulder. “Please tell me if I should stop.”

Her eyes are still closed. Instead of telling me no, her legs squeeze tighter around me. My hands reach down behind her, spread over her lower back, and I pull her to the edge of the counter.

The only thing between us is the frustrating friction of my jeans and her shorts—and whatever she might have underneath. Whatever it is, I intend to find out—but first, I need to explore, to cherish, to worship the treasure she is.

Jocelyn beats me to it. She pulls me toward her, eyes fixed shut as if this moment might shatter when she opens them. She’s perched for a kiss.

I resist, holding back and brushing a kiss to her forehead. I watch her reaction, the softening of her features, and finally give in. My lips lock on hers and all the tenderness melts away, leaving in its place a ferocious burn for more.

I hold her to me as her fingers grasp at my shirt. My tongue teases past her lips, savoring the sugary sweetness, wondering what she’ll taste like elsewhere. Sounds slip from her lips that drive me wild with need until I’m ready to shatter from the pain of waiting.

“Let me take you to the bedroom,” I murmur. “Please.”

“No,” she argues. “Here. Now.”

I bring a hand up, ease the hair back from her face. It’s messy now, uncontrolled and adorable. “Later, if you want. Not the first time.”

“But—”

“Joss, open your eyes, sweetheart.”

She shakes her head, eyes still closed. “I don’t want this moment to go away.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” I rest a hand underneath her chin, tilt her face up toward mine, and examine her lashes, still flecked with the last drops of tears. A well of frustration boils up inside of me. “Why were you crying?”

She merely shakes her head.

I kiss one eyelid, willing the tears away, then the other. It’s wishful thinking, maybe, but the dampness seems to lessen by the time I pull back.

“We shouldn’t,” she says, a hand coming to rest on my chest. “This isn’t right. We’re business partners.”

“Does this feel like business to you?”

I raise her up so that I’m holding her weight completely. Her legs are situated behind my back, and I’m absolutely positive she can feel my desire pressed against her. Judging by the soft inhalation of breath at the contact, she’s not disappointed.

I don’t give her time to speak, enveloping her mouth in a kiss that leaves my intentions completely exposed. It’s funny; when I arrived here tonight, I wasn’t sure what I’d find. I figured I owed her an apology, maybe, or an excuse.

What I didn’t expect to find was that I had no control over my feelings for her; I hadn’t expected her to sweep away my willpower entirely. But I suppose that, like hockey, relationships are an unpredictable game. Love, lust, infatuation—whatever it is, I haven’t played this game in far too long, but the one thing that never changes is that I don’t give up easily.

“Which way is the bedroom?” I ask.

She jerks her head backward toward a doorway. I stumble toward it like an oaf, moving far faster than I probably should, seeing as I have a woman wrapped around my body. So I pause, resting a hand against the doorframe, and savor the moment with a kiss as sweet as a chocolate strawberry. Dainty, delicious, and just right.

“Boxer,” Jocelyn says, breathless as I come up for air. “That doesn’t feel like business.”

“Look at me.” The weight of her in my arms is nothing. My hockey bag is heavier than her. “Joss, please.”

Her eyes finally open, and I watch as she studies me, my face, my lips, the flimsy excuse for distance between us.

“I’m here,” I say firmly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

“Second door on the right.”

I plunge onward, through a small living room where a television is flickering in the background. I can’t count in this state, so the second door is harder to find than it should be. I blame it on the scent of her pheromones clouding my judgment.

I weave briefly into the first door. “Bathroom,” I mutter, backing out and continuing onward. I’ve got no more thought power than an animal at this point, my desire laser-focused on one thing, and one thing alone—making Jocelyn Jones mine.

The bed appears like some glorious light at the end of the tunnel. It’s large, luxurious, outfitted in a way that looks and smells like Jocelyn. Sleek black comforter and sheets, with the subtle hint of sugar in the air.

I kick off my shoes, then lie her down on the comforter, pushing her hair back, savoring a moment of nothing but closeness to one another. As one, we inch further onto the bed until her head is rested on the pillow, and I’m perched next to her, one hand dangerously low on her hip.

“What are we doing here, Boxer?” she whispers in the near silence. “Why did you come here tonight?”

“I don’t know.” I move so that I’m positioned over her, straddling her, but not yet touching. We’re still completely clothed, but I need to be near her, as close as she’ll let me.

“You showed up here for a reason. What about Charli?”

“My brother stopped by to watch her for the night. They’re having a birthday celebration, and I wasn’t invited. Seemed like a sign.”

“To come here?”

“Can’t think of a better place to spend my free time.” I lean down, brushing a kiss against her forehead. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t know why, don’t ask me to put words to it, but I haven’t felt this way about a woman in a long time.”

“Me neither,” she murmurs. Then her face colors, her cheeks pink as she gives a flustered shake of her head. “I mean, about a man. A man. I’m interested in men, and do you know what? Never mind. If you could just stop me from talking—”

It’s no problem at all to stop her from talking.

That’s accomplished with a touch to her forehead, brushing a wisp of blonde out of her eyes. Once I’ve cleared the way, I let the threat of a kiss torture both of us for a long moment, the desire between us thick enough to slice with an ice skate.

“What will happen after?” she asks.

“Mmm.” I don’t process the question, my hand now trailing past the edge of her tank top. “After what?”

She begins to say something, but my thumb accidentally slides across her breast as I’m exploring, and she sucks in air like it’s her last breath on Earth. It’s erotic, the way she reacts to my every move.

As a hockey player, I’ve dated my share of women. Sure, it was back before I had Charli, but I can remember bits and pieces. Puck bunnies—those women intent on snagging players for a night only, for the fame, the glory, the notch on their bedposts. We’re guilty too, those who fall for it, but in the end, that’s not what makes a woman attractive to me.

What’s attractive to me looks suspiciously like Jocelyn Jones who, despite her buttoned up approach to business, is malleable beneath my hands, sensitive to my touches in unparalleled enthusiasm. She’s incredible.

And I don’t want to let her down.

I’ve already forgotten her question, and I think she has too because her hands come to clutch at my hips and pull me closer. I lower myself until I’m covering her with my body, balanced above her with my arms on either side of her shoulders.

Her hands caress the muscles taut along my biceps, testing the strength there. Her skin burns against mine, fingertips leaving scorching trails as she moves them lower, past my wrists, down to my stomach where she hooks a finger into the top of my jeans.

Though I’m itching to touch her, I surrender myself to the moment, let her explore for as long as she likes. The second her eyes flick to mine, however, I’m done for; it’s my turn to take over.

My fingers run along the thin swatch of skin visible between her shorts and her tank top, and when I dip underneath, I brush against the smoothest bit of lingerie. I tense at the impact, she arches her hips upward, toward me, and it’s everything I can do not to rip off her clothes.

Instead, I slide down and let my lips have their turn. The first kiss lands on the outside of her little shorts and on the inside of her thigh, but it’s not enough, and she makes sure I know that. At the guidance of her hand, I slide the shorts from her legs and am left with the most delectable sight in all of this world.

A half-naked Jocelyn Jones.

Well, maybe it’s only half of the most delectable sight in the world; a fully naked Jocelyn Jones would be ideal. In order for that to happen, I need to rid her of the rest of the pajamas, no matter how sexy they are.

However, there’s a fair chance I might have a heart attack at the sight of her naked, so it’s probably best if we take things slow.

The second kiss lands low on her stomach, just beyond the edge of her panties, heat radiating as I linger there, my fingers trailing a dance up the insides of her legs. This time, her words are laced with pleasure as she urges me for more.

I’m trying my best to be patient, to enjoy every moment—but another part of me is ready to combust. If I don’t get my pants off shortly, I will be missing circulation to an essential member of my body. So I stand, remove my jeans and shirt, and return to the party, letting my kisses speak for me.

“I want you more than anything in this world,” I grit out, holding her close. I let myself press against her, swallowing her groan of pleasure with a furious tangle of lips.

“But what...” she whispers, grinding her hips against me. “What about after?”

“After?”

“After...” She stills somewhat, her arms still wrapped around my neck. “If we do this?”

“Who cares?”

Immediately, I know that’s the wrong response. I hate myself for it, but I wasn’t thinking. I’m about to take off like a bottle rocket, and all of the blood that’s supposed to be helping my brain is somewhere else entirely.

There’s no way I’m capable of conversation right now, but that’s not an excuse, either, and the worry that I’ve ruined everything hits me like a semi-truck.

“That’s not what I meant,” I say, watching as the lust in her eyes flickers, falters, and then begins to vanish. “I didn’t mean who cares, I just meant that I want you so badly, I’ll do anything...”

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” she says, but her voice is an icicle—thin, on the precipice of hurtling toward the ground to shatter for good. “I’m sorry, this is all my fault. I let you in, and I basically attacked you, and—”

“God, no. Joss, you didn’t attack me. If anything, I’m the one who attacked you. I showed up without an invitation, without warning, and I invited myself in. I’m so sorry.”

She slides out from underneath me, situating herself against the headboard. She pulls a pillow out from underneath her and clutches it to her chest. “You didn’t do anything wrong, I’m just...I let myself get carried away.”

I force myself to stand. This is an incredibly awkward conversation to be having with a raging boner. I’m trying to be contrite, but it’s basically like pointing a loaded gun at her face while saying I’m sorry. It just doesn’t work.

Not to mention, the way she’s got her legs crossed and pulled into her body gives me an excellent view. Not one I am supposed to be appreciating right now, that’s for sure.

“I feel horrible.” I start talking and busy myself putting my pants back on so I don’t have to meet her eyes. “For putting you in this position, and—”

“And I liked it.” She looks up, a hint of a smile on her face. There’s something in her eyes—a sadness that doesn’t slip by me. “Please, Boxer, this is not your fault. I didn’t mean to be a tease, or to let things get this far. I really did—do—want you. It’s just complicated.”

“I came over here to apologize for calling you beautiful earlier,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “Well, not about the beautiful part, but to apologize for stepping past the line of business professional. And now look what I’ve done.”

I can’t help but notice that Jocelyn’s eyes follow the ripple of muscle, the curves of my chest before they land on my hair. If I’m not mistaken, a shadow of lust returns, before finally, she shakes her head.

“Whatever this is...” she gestures between us. “It’s a two-way street. One of us is not more at fault than the other.”

“Well, I still think it’s my fault, but whatever makes you feel better.”

She laughs, a light sound that breaks some of the tension in the room.

“Look, I honestly didn’t mean what I said a few minutes ago,” I add. “About what happens after.”

“I know, it was a stupid time for me to bring it up. Neither of us were thinking straight.”

“Maybe I can get a second chance?”

“At what?”

“What I should have said is this...” I exhale, and begin again. “I like you, and I care about you, and I’m so damn attracted to you that I can’t think. Which is why I say things that make me sound like a dumb teenager when I should be sounding like a grown-ass man.”

Another smile lights her face, and I’m tempted to hope that maybe, just maybe, I can still recover from this.

“I probably shouldn’t have started a serious conversation while you had your hand down my pants,” she says, still grinning at me. “I didn’t mean for it to be serious, I was just... I’m scared.”

“Joss.” I let myself fall onto the bed, the longing to wrap her in my arms too strong for words. So I let my body take over and pull her to me, guiding her head to rest on my shoulder. “You have no reason to be scared. What did I do or say to make you feel that way?”

“It’s not you.”

“Is there...” I freeze, a nightmare I hadn’t imagined taking over. “Someone else?”

“No, no,” she says quickly. “Of course not. Never... well, not for a very long time.”

“Thank God.”

We sit in silence, the only sound in the quiet room are the tiny puffs of air fluttering against my chest. My fingers trail lazy lines through her hair. I let my eyes close, basking in the all-encompassing sweetness of her scent.

“His name was Donovan,” she says finally, and I feel my shoulders tense. “He was one of my clients, once upon a time.”

I sense she’s just gaining momentum, so I keep my mouth shut and continue stroking her hair.

“He was an up and coming player, and I was an up and coming agent,” she says, her voice brittle. “It was a match made in heaven, or so we thought. And then I fell in love.”

My heart aches for her, as if I know what’s coming next. I don’t. I’ve heard rumors, but I don’t believe in rumors. I believe in learning the truth.

“I fell in love with him, and we kept our relationship secret for a long time. After six months or so, when we were starting to talk about moving in together, the media got wind of it. A flurry of articles, photos, paparazzi, everything brought it to the spotlight which, at the time, hadn’t seemed like a big deal.”

I vaguely remember the flurry of photos, but I hadn’t followed the story. I don’t make a habit of diving into others’ personal lives, especially not their romantic business.

“A month after we went public, he out of the blue dropped me as his agent. He signed with Rumpert and stopped taking my calls. Then he met someone else, and ran away with her two months later. It was a disaster professionally, personally, and publicly.”

“I’m sorry, Jocelyn,” I tell her. It feels too generic to say, but I can’t think of anything else to fill the silence. “It’s not your fault. He’s an idiot. A jerk.”

“I was the idiot,” she says. “I never should have mixed business with pleasure, but I did. And that’s what happens. That’s why I told myself I’d never do it again.”

“And then...”

“Tonight,” she says. “I’ve never broken my rule except for tonight.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say again. “If I hadn’t shown up here—”

“Stop,” she says. “If I didn’t like you so damn much, I wouldn’t be frightened.”

“I like you, too,” I tell her. “A lot. I haven’t dated since Charli was born much at all—a handful of times—but never anything with a spark. The dates were never worth the effort, the time away from Charli, the... everything. But with you, I don’t have those thoughts. I enjoy every minute we’re together. None of it feels like wasted time, like wasted effort—you’re worth it. All of it. It’s easy, and that has to mean something.”

“Maybe, but I don’t know what we can do about it.”

“Well—”

“Besides sex,” she says, with a roll of her eyes. “What comes after? You have Charli, and I have my job.”

“Forget your job. I have enough money to support both of us if it comes to that.”

“It’s not like that,” she says, a bit of sharpness in her voice. “I’ve worked my ass off to get where I am, and I won’t throw it all away for a guy.”

I blink, stunned into silence.

“I mean, I’m sorry, Boxer. I didn’t mean it like that. I just—I can’t yet. What if I’d given up my career to be with Donovan and he’d left me high and dry? I love my career, and I love what I do. I want to work.”

“I shouldn’t have said that in the first place,” I say. “You’re fantastic at what you do. But I’m not going to leave you like Donovan did.”

“But what if we don’t work out? What if you decide things aren’t going well? What if I decide that? I don’t have family to fall back on; I hardly have friends, Boxer. I have to take care of myself.”

“Fine,” I say, more quietly. “I understand that.”

“Please don’t be mad. It’s nothing personal, but we just can’t do this. Not right now.”

“Okay.” I stand, letting my hands slide off of her soft curves. “I won’t pressure you into anything. That was never my intention.”

“Boxer—”

At that moment, my phone rings, sparing us both further conversation. I turn my back to her and answer the familiar number. It’s my brother.

“Hey, Charli’s asking for you. I think she’s sick,” Steven says into the phone. “Where are you?”

“I’ll be right there.” I hang up and turn to find Jocelyn’s eyes filled with tears. It kills me to leave her like this, but at the same time, she has made it clear she doesn’t want me to stay. “I have to go.”

“Charli?”

I nod.

“Is everything okay? Can I do something?”

I shake my head. “She’s fine. It’s nothing. I’ll see you.”

“Boxer—”

I stop in the doorway, then turn to face her. I spy my shirt on the floor and realize I probably need that before I hit the streets. I wait for her to speak as I retrieve the shirt and slip it over my head. She doesn’t.

“Joss, you know how I feel about you,” I say into the silence. Her eyes flash crystalline blue at me. “You know how badly I want you. If you change your mind, or your policies, come find me. Please.”

“And in the meantime?”

I give her a tight smile. “I’ll see you around.”

I let myself out of the apartment, closing the door behind me before jogging to the car. I’m aching inside to turn around, to go back to her, but Charli needs me now. I only wish Jocelyn would follow.

I navigate home, turn into the driveway, and climb upstairs only to find my pink-cheeked girl smiling and faking sick. I let out a sigh of relief. I tuck her into bed and read her a story, which was her whole plan from the start. She could be an evil genius, I’m convinced.

However, once she’s sleeping soundly, the threat of illness dispelled, I swing downstairs to find the bag of supplies on the counter. Charli’s birthday party is this Saturday.

My heart soars. I just might be more excited about this party than Charli, which is ridiculous. But Jocelyn Jones strikes me as a woman of her word. And if that’s the case, I’ll be seeing her sooner than I imagined.

After all, she volunteered for cake duty.