I sleep in Sunday, after watching Tate finally—finally!—kick some ass against Edmonton the night before. The only thing on my agenda for the day is a girls’ night at Ellie’s place later in the evening, but before that I should do some shopping, and I’ve got some writing to do, too.

My dissertation is coming along nicely. Secretly, of course, because I’m in no hurry to graduate. But since my advisor approved the framework, I’ve been steadily writing away at it and it’s probably more than half done now. I’ve got a goal of another five pages today, and unless something comes up, that’s totally going to happen.

I can feel it. Today is going to be a rock awesome day.

But as I make my second coffee, there’s a knock at the door, and as soon as I open it, I’m reminded that I do not, in fact, have the ability to predict if a day is going to be awesome or not—because something has most definitely come up.

Something—someone—who knows he shouldn’t be here.

“Tate.” I say his name just like that, a flat acknowledgement that he’s standing on my doorstep.

He ducks his head and gives me a totally calculated, perfectly bashful grin. “Hey, Sasha.”

“This is a surprise.”

He nods. “We have a game here.”

In two days time, but I’m not going to show my hand. He doesn’t need to know I’m following the Lumberjacks’ season. Tate’s season.

“But not here in my apartment,” I say dryly.

“No.” His grin widens. “I’m here to see you.”

Oh, crap. “You want a repeat.” Another flat acknowledgement. He’s made no secret of that fact.

He glances around the landing, and I reflexively step back, letting him into my apartment. This isn’t a conversation for the hallway.

But it’s not a conversation I want to have in private, either. I don’t want to have it at all. “Tate…”

He closes the door behind him, and instead of moving into my living room, he just leans back against the heavy wood and holds up his hand. “Hear me out.”

I cross my arms. “Okay.”

“I know you’re not up for…” He swivels his wrist in an encompassing motion. “Whatever. A relationship, public exposure, or regular text messages.”

I nod. “Yep, and everything in between, too.”

He gives me a baleful look. “Well, not everything. I think I can make a solid argument for an orgasm exception.”

“Pardon?” I blink at him. “A what?”

“I don’t want to push you, Sasha.” He drops his voice, his words sliding into a lower, sexier pitch. “I just want to make you come. On your terms, whatever you want.”

“I—” I gape at him. I’m speechless.

He waits for me to catch up, and I take my time. I look him over. Expensive jeans, perfectly cut to his narrow hips and powerful thighs. Even more expensive boots and belt. A casual Henley stretched across his chest and arms—sculpted muscles I haven’t forgotten since the last time he was here.

Haven’t stopped thinking about, to be honest.

I just want to make you come.

Of course it’s that simple for Tate. He’s an unrepentant sexual being. He’s so orgasm-centric that it’s probably an offer he makes to everyone.

“No thanks,” I finally spit out. I’m not interested in being a casual hook-up for an overgrown boy-child who gets everything he wants. What we did in August was a very hot exception to my no celebrity rule.

He nods mock-solemnly. “No hat trick for Sasha, then.”

And then he smiles, and it lights up his eyes. They’re hazel, but today there’s a mossy green glint to them that is too fresh, too pure for someone as deviant as Tate.

I can’t believe I’m falling for this. “What’s a hat trick?”

“Three orgasms. One with my tongue, one with my fingers, and one with my cock.”

“That doesn’t sound so impressive.”

He grins. “Of course it is. I’m the Gordie Howe of sex.” He holds up three fingers and ticks them off, one by one. “The first one’s in your clit. The second is in your pussy. And the third one, the one that makes you scream so loud your neighbours call the cops? That’s where I’m buried deep in your ass.”

“That is never happening.”

“Never say never.”

“You’re a pig.”

“Definitely. But your panties are soaked right now.”

He’s not wrong.

Why am I more turned on by his disgusting over-the-top ways than I ever have been with anyone else? This is the universe punishing me for setting aside my principles to sate my horny curiosity.

I need to change the subject. “Why…” God, my voice sounds weak. I frown and try again. “Why does that perverted monstrosity of an answer make you the Gordie Howe of sex?”

He winks. “Because Howe’s version of the hat trick was an assist, a goal, and getting in a fight.”

Oral, vaginal, and… “Are you saying that anal with you is like getting in a fight?”

He frowns. “No.”

I laugh, and he scowls at me.

“Anal with me is excellent.”

“I bet it is. You need to work on your advertising.”

“I don’t need to advertise my abilities.”

“And yet you’ve got a little catch phrase for your sex trick anyway.”

I point to the door. “Out you go.”

Yes, I’m showing him out. No, I don’t care that he flew across the country to see me. He didn’t ask first, and if he had, I’d have told him to stay in Vancouver.

To try his hat trick pick-up line on someone who would fall for it.

“Sure thing. You’ve got studying to do, I bet.”

I nod, because it’s a good excuse.

He reaches for the handle, and pauses. His expression shifts, from playful to serious. “You must be getting close to the finish line on your dissertation, eh?”

I take a deep breath, and it catches in my chest. I don’t want to think about that. “Yeah.”

“You want any help?”

I try to laugh, but I can’t. “Uh…”

He moves closer—something he hadn’t done when he was offering me anal sex. Heat radiates off his big, broad body. “All joking aside, Sasha. I’m here for two more days. If you need a distraction, feel free to call.”

I won’t. I can’t.

“Or you know…any time. If you just want to talk.” I must have done a terrible job of hiding my surprise at that, because he reaches out and brushes his thumb against my hand—the slightest of touches before he retreats again. He’s knocking me off-balance with this good guy routine, and I don’t like it. “Hey, don’t be so surprised. I like to talk.”

“About sex.”

“About anything. I’m a social guy.” Something flickers in his eyes and I’m reminded again, for a second, that Tate might be lonely out in Vancouver. But then he winks, and I remember that if he were lonely, he could just pick up a puck bunny or three and fill that void with blow jobs and spanking, or whatever else he likes.

Nails in his back, pleading for release…

He’s not done with his full-court press, either. “Let’s have dinner tonight.”

“I’ve got plans.”

His jaw flexes. “Break them.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Whatever they are, I’ll do you one better. I’ll take you to the nicest place in the city.”

I bet that line works on a lot of women, but it’s the exact wrong thing to say to me. I point to the door. “See you never, Tate. Don’t let the door smack you in the ass on your way out.”

He gives me a long, hard look, then nods. “All right. But I’ll see you round, so…you know. Friends?”

I can’t handle his relentless optimism. “Sure.”

He gives me a long, curious look, like he’s not sure if he believes me. That makes two of us. “You know what? You should come to Rapscallion tomorrow night.”

That doesn’t sound like something I would touch with a ten foot pole. “What is Rapscallion?”

He grins. “Max’s new sex club.”