A sticky, oppressive heat wave has taken hold of the city. Being outside for any length of time is cruel, and I’ve just been dumped two blocks from my apartment by a cabbie who definitely did not get a tip.

There’s a very real chance I might wilt before I get home. I set my sights on the coffee shop ahead, because an iced latte just my might save my life.

At least I’m done people-ing for the day. I’ve just come from the hospital where all of my friends had gathered to welcome into the world a brand-new baby boy.

All of my friends except one, not that Tate Nilsson is my friend. But he’s been a pretty constant part of our social circle for the last year, and yet when the telephone tree spread the news that Violet was in labour, he was nowhere to be found.

So when I pull open the door to the coffee shop and find him taking a selfie with two teenage girls—gross—I’m totally ready to lay a strip into him. Who the hell does he think he is?

An NHL All-Star, the captain of the Ottawa Senators, and unrepentant, self-described manwhore, that’s who.

But when he follows me outside, he says the one thing that could soften my heart towards him.

“I was traded an hour ago to the Vancouver Lumberjacks.”

There aren’t many excuses that would have me feeling sorry for him, but no wonder he’s trying to assuage his stupid male ego by taking pictures with fans—he’s just been dealt a career gut punch.

This is not a conversation to be had in public.

You don’t need to have it at all. Except I do. I’m not going to leave him to his own devices to deal with this. If I do that, he’ll probably wind up sleeping with someone who’s bad news, or worse.

I grab his hand—ignoring how good it feels, because gross—and drag him around the corner to my apartment building.

He blessedly stays quiet. He’s not normally a private person, but I guess making a scene on a day like today might not be great for his image.

And I’m so not down for being linked to his over-the-top public persona.

At all.

My kindness has limits, and they’re bound by the gossip blogs on one side and sports talk radio on the other.

I curl up in my favourite chair and Tate takes the couch.

When he doesn’t say anything, I decide to storm ahead. That’s kind of my thing in general. “The Lumberjacks?” We were literally just with the owner of the Lumberjacks at my best friend Ellie’s wedding in June. I know business is a whole separate thing, but that feels kind of weird. “That’s Jack Benton’s team. Did you know this was coming at the wedding?”

He shakes his head. “No clue. And he’d already sold the team. This decision was made quite recently, too. It’s a long, complicated, stupid story.”

“When do you go?”

“Soon. I need to find a place to stay, because I won’t like whatever hotel the team has arranged. I have a month before training starts, but I want to find a house.”

“Do you need help with that? Maybe you could stay at Gavin’s place.” I snap my fingers together. “No, you’ll want to be closer to the arena, right?”

“Sasha.”

“Of course, you won’t want to buy right away, so maybe we can find you a sublet.”

“Sasha.”

“And—”

“Hey, Hot Stuff, settle down for a second. I don’t need you to play real estate agent for me, but I appreciate the offer of help.”

My mouth drops open. Hot Stuff? And he’s clearly not coping well with this, of course he needs my help.

“What I really needed was someone to hear it from me first. To say it out loud. I’m being traded. Now that I’ve done that, I can move forward. It’ll be fine.”

Oh, maybe he doesn’t need my help. Damn it. I’m good at being helpful. I’m less good with sticky emotions. “Right.”

After a long stretch of silence, he gives me a sideways glance. “Sorry for calling you Hot Stuff.”

“It’s better than calling me a bitch.” Which he almost did when I snapped at him about hanging on the teenagers.

“I stopped myself.”

“It was in your head, though.”

“Not really. No, seriously, I don’t think you’re…Jesus, Sasha, I promise you I don’t think you’re a bitch, not in a bad way. I think you’re made of steel and you fucking turn me on like crazy when you pop your claws out.”

I open my mouth to snap at him again, then stop. Wait. What?

My eyes bug out of my head. I turn Tate on? Tate, who goes to sex clubs and lounges like a king. Tate, who probably picks up puck bunnies by the half-dozen for adorable bunny orgies. He thinks I’m made of steel?

I turn him on?

We exchange wordless looks, because seriously, what the fuck?

But he recovers sooner. “Ignore me. I tend to just say shit like that.”

That’s a lie. He’s totally lying, I can see it on his face. And in that moment, a few things slam together.

The memory of sitting next to Tate on a couch in Max’s basement for the kinky holiday play party. What that felt like, the sexuality that radiated off of him.

My general dislike of everything that he is, but my personal, grudging like for who he is. I’ve never had a hate fuck, because principles and all that, but…Tate could be that guy. Check off that fantasy.

Add in the fact that he’s leaving the city, and I hear myself offer him a single night before I can stop the words from sliding out. “One night.”

He does a double take, because really, who saw that coming? Not me. But his double take comes with a side of guarded interest. “Pardon?”

Oh yeah, hockey boy. I glance out the window and school my features. Can’t be too excited about this. I’m a bitch, after all. And a whole night is excessive. “One afternoon.”

“I don’t follow.”

If he’s going to play hard to get, I’m out. “Never mind.”

He grins. Right, he likes the claws. And he’s not playing hard to get any longer. “You’re talking about sex? I’m in.”

I hold up my finger. “I want it officially noted that I still don’t like you.”

“Noted.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“Hot Stuff, I’m more than okay with that. If you want to tell me that you hate me while I’m balls deep inside you, you’ll feel just how much I don’t mind that kind of smack talk.”

“This is a terrible idea,” I whisper.

He stands up and peels off his t-shirt.

Okay, no, it’s a crazy good idea. I point toward my bedroom. “Just this one time, you understand?”

“Perfectly.” He gives me a wicked, wolfish grin that lights up his eyes. We definitely don’t need to exchange any lingering looks. I drop my gaze to his body instead. Good lord, he’s unreal. His torso is all cut lines and hard ridges. When he turns around, his back is more of the same sculpted perfection, and my tongue slides out of my mouth all on its own.

I want to lick him.

I want to bite him.

I want to ride him hard and shake this secret crush I’ve been harbouring since Christmas, when all those muscles kept shifting next to me on a couch as we watched people get flogged at a kink party.

And more than anything, I want to get up close and personal with the hard, straining bulge I notice out of the corner of my eye.

“Where do you want me?” he drawls as he stops beside the bed. “And what do you want to do?”

“That’s good,” I say, my heart hammering in my throat. I stop a few feet back and look at him again. Tate is not my type. He’s big and brawny and full of ego. I bet he doesn’t have a sensitive bone in his entire body. “And I want to have sex.”

“That’s a big category of activity.”

Right. He’s into some kinky shit. “Uh, just sex. But nothing boring. I like…athletic sex.”

His eyes darken. “Got it. Interesting, vigorous fucking.”

That sounds perfect. I lick my lips, and he doesn’t miss it.

“You want a taste of something, Sasha?”

Dirty, twisted heat blooms low in my belly. “Maybe.”

I get another wolfish grin at that, and he unbuttons his cargo shorts. They drop to the floor, and he steps out of them. Long, solid legs. The muscles of his thighs are clearly defined even under a light, golden dusting of hair.

And as I drag my gaze up his body, there’s that bulge again, obscenely stretching out the front of grey boxer briefs.

I lick my lips. Again.

He groans. “Do that again on your knees.”

I’m not going to pretend I don’t want that as much as he does. I drop in front of him, and he helps me tug his waistband down.

His cock is hard and heavy already, a straining weight in my hand as I give him a first squeeze. What do you like, Tate?

Luckily for me, he’s not shy about vocalizing anything.

“Yeah, hold me nice and tight. Gah. Just like that. Fucking hell, Sasha. Stop licking your lips unless they’re against my dick.” He chuckles as I do it again, but seriously, I’m excited about tasting him.

That’s kind of different.

I like sex as much as the next person, but I tend to be kind of bossy. The best sex I’ve ever had has been when I’m in charge and the person I’m with is a quick study.

I don’t remember the last time I wanted like this. Wanted a cock in my mouth, hands in my hair. Maybe some thrusting I don’t expect… And now my mouth is watering again.

I don’t test his limits. I lean in and give him that lick instead, wide and wet, all the way around the head of his shaft. He tastes clean and masculine, and I breathe in the scent of his skin. It’s always good when you like the smell of a person, and the faint edge of musk and heat rising from his body swirls into my brain in a yummy way.

I wrap my fist around his heavy length and stroke him against my parted lips. I bring him into my mouth, one slow jerk at a time, until I’ve enveloped the thick head of his dick with my lips.

Then I swallow.

He shouts in surprise, and his hands tangle in my hair.

I work my tongue against the underneath of his erection, tasting him as my hand moves faster, slicked now with my spit. I jack and suck him at the same time, bumping my lips into my fingers in a way that I know makes him feel like the king of the world.

It’s almost predictable how he starts groaning the dirty talk to me. “Take it all. Yeah, just like that. Your mouth is so fucking hot. You’re a good cocksucker, aren’t you? Fucking full of surprises, Sasha. Love that. Ah, fuck yeah. Your tongue. So…good…” But then he surprises me. “Fuck. Slow down, tiger. Make this last. I gotta get my mouth on you. Fuck.”

He hisses and fists his hand tight in the loose strands of my hair, then he growls an apology before gathering it up all up in a ponytail, which he uses to tug me back.

My lips slide off him with a wet pop, and I chase a bead of pre-come that forms at his slit as he holds me a few inches away from his cock. “Why’d you stop me?” I whisper playfully, batting my eyelashes up at him.

“You want my come in your mouth?”

Yes. “Sure.”

He smirks down at me. “Maybe later. Up.”

Oh, he’s so bossy. I roll my eyes as I stand, and he lets go of my hair, only to pull me close. His mouth covers mine, going from zero to kisses-that-taste-like-cock-sixty in a heartbeat. He presses hard into my mouth, his tongue fucking against mine. Tasting me where I’ve just tasted him, where I’ve swallowed his pre-come. I can still feel where his cock bumped against the top of my mouth, against my tongue, and now he’s there too, savagely marking those same spots with rough licks that make me squirm and want to climb up his body so he can fuck my pussy, too.

“Condoms,” I breathe as I break away. “Bedside table.”

“Excellent.” He pushes me onto the bed and yanks the drawer open. He grabs the box and rains a handful of condoms down on my belly. “That’ll get us started.”

He stands at the side of the bed for a moment, looking down at me with a fondly dirty smirk on his face. His cock is still hard, standing obscenely out from his body, and the whole scene makes me hot and achy. His eyes darken as he reaches for the button on my shorts. “Time for you to get naked.”

I couldn’t agree more. I shiver as he strips me. Panties go with the shorts, and his eyes hood as he leans in and presses a hot, wet kiss to the bare skin of my mound.

“You are so fucking hot,” he whispers, his breath licking against my skin. “From the inside out, you’re full of surprises.”

He works his way up my torso, pushing up my shirt with each hungry, pulling kiss. He sucks at the skin on my belly until I arch beneath him, then he bares more and more of me until my shirt is gone and then his mouth is on my breasts, biting at my bra and sucking on my nipples through the silk.

“Rip the bra and I’ll kill you,” I whisper.

He chuckles. “Noted.”

“I’m serious.”

“I get that.” Bracing one hand beside my head, he levers up with ease, and smiles down at me. “Like I said, you being a spitfire turns me on.”

“Tate—” I cut myself off, and he makes an approving sound. He holds my gaze, and slowly I find myself melting for him. I don’t want to be an ice queen today. Although spitfire has a nice ring to it. I give him a slow, real smile. “It’s a front clasp. Just FYI.”

“Excellent.” Sliding my bra strap down, he leans down and kisses my shoulder. His nimble fingers pop the clasp on my bra and my breasts spring free.

He groans and cups my flesh, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Underneath it all, you’re soft as can be, aren’t you?”

I smile again. “Lies.”

He circles my nipple with his finger, his expression lust-drunk and careless as he flicks a glance up at my face. “Nah. You’re silk beneath steel. And if I’m the only one who can see that, then I’m fucking lucky.”

“Enough,” I whisper. Enough poetry, enough sweetness. I arch my back, desperate now for his mouth to replace his too-gentle touch. I need a hard suck, something—

He ducks his head and closes his teeth about my flesh.

“Ah!” I’m startled, that’s all. As I gasp, I realize it doesn’t hurt. But still... “You bit me. Hard.”

“You liked it.”

“We didn’t discuss biting.”

“Mmm. Right. We should. How do you feel about biting?”

“I like it.”

He laughs. “Okay. Now can we discuss a ball gag?” He swings his head away from my swatting hand, then catches my wrist and pulls my fingers to his mouth. He bites them, too. Just enough snap to send shivers down my spine, but nothing else.

“Is sexy biting your superpower?”

He grins. “One of them.”

“Show me the rest.”

Returning to my breasts, he sucks on my nipples until they’re swollen and hard, then he covers those peaks with his hands and rolls me over. Still squeezing them, he teases the nipples between his fingers as he bites and licks his way down my spine.

When he lets go of my breasts, it’s only so he can squeeze my ass instead. The hard press of his fingers sends a hot, skittering tremble under my skin.

That’s nothing compared to how I feel when he slides his tongue down the cleft between my cheeks. I groan and bury my face in the pillow as he eats me out. Definitely a superpower. His mouth is everywhere, his tongue firm and wide and hungry as he licks everywhere between my legs.

My thighs are shaking by the time he flips me over again, and I scramble back up the bed so I can have something to lean against as he dips his head between my legs again.

His thick, wavy brown hair glints with natural highlights in the afternoon sun streaming in my window. I reach for him, and he lifts his face just enough to give me a sloppy, happy smile.

“Ready to get fucked, Sasha?”

So ready. “Bring it on.”

He hauls me back down the bed, my legs splayed wide on either side of him. He stares my swollen, soaked pussy as he rolls on a condom, then he palms my hips and hitches my lower body up.

I secretly love how he can manhandle me with ease.

The head of his cock lands heavy against my clit, making me jerk because I’m sensitive now. Sensitive and ready and aching to be filled. “Now,” I plead.

He grins and notches us together.

Time seems to pause as I follow his gaze to where we’re connected now. The tip of his cock hidden inside my body, the thick, long stretch of his erection a promise of more to come. Athletic sex. Ha. I had no idea what I was asking for. Every muscle in his body is locked and flexed, ready to pump into me as soon as a starter’s pistol fires, or I say the magic word, whatever that might be.

He pushes in another half inch, and I groan.

“You want this?” he purrs the question, his gaze hooded behind heavy eyelids as he looks down at me.

“Yes.” I stretch my arms above my head. “I want you, Tate.”

Those are the magic words. He thrusts hard, filling me in a single pump of his hips. He falls forward, covering me with his body, too, and then it’s on. He’s fluid and intense, a rolling thunder of sex and sensation. My legs crawl up his body, my thighs gripping his waist as he moves above me. Thighs, pelvis—cock, hard and deep, nailing every single pleasure point inside my body—abs, chest, arms. Over and over again, he moves his body in a wave that drives his cock into me, then out again, and it’s all I can do to hold on.

I curve my hands over his shoulders, sinking my nails into his back. He grunts as I squeeze, and I make myself let go.

“Sorry,” I gasp, and he bites my ear.

“Never be sorry about leaving your mark on me,” he growls, his breath hot against my neck. “Claw me up all you want.”

That’s a hell of an offer. I clutch my arms around him again and do just that, and as he slams into me, I know he was right to grab a fistful of condoms.

I’m not going to be done with just one orgasm.

And since we can’t do this again—ever, no matter what—I’m going to have to make sure we go through the entire pack before I kick his tight, perfect ass out the door at the end of the night.