Chapter 17
Brynn
The tall hockey player had one giant hand clutched at my waist. His other hand, so big and warm, firmly held mine aloft. The lights were dim, the music romantic, and the crowd fawning as we slow danced our way into their adoring hearts.
All night, I'd run away from what I had to tell Shea. But I couldn't keep lying to him—I was a bad liar when sober, and twice as bad when I had enough wine in me—and he knew something was wrong.
More than anything, I hated the fact that I had to be the one to ruin this moment.
“I'm worried about Chloe,” I said at last.
Shea launched into Dad Mode. “What about Chloe? Is she in trouble?”
“No, she's not in trouble.”
“Then what is it?”
God, how do I even begin to explain this?
“Shea …” I buried my face in his chest once more. I loved his smell—was it his cologne, or his natural scent? It was so manly, so peppery, so clean. I could breathe that and only that for the rest of my life, and I'd die happy. “After you left earlier today, Chloe said some worrying things.”
“Like what?” Shea asked in a startled panic.
I felt bad. I was scaring him over something that wasn't very serious at all. Obviously, there was nothing between Shea and I, so what did we have to worry about?
“Don't be alarmed,” I said soothingly. “For all I know, it could be nothing. But she alluded to wanting to make up for something she did to you once?”
Shea's brow furrowed. “I don't follow.”
“This is sort of embarrassing to say, but she seems to think that she 'set us up' on this date—and that this somehow might make up for something she did to you once.”
Shea frowned. “Oh, Chloe … my poor girl.”
“Does that mean anything to you? She wouldn't tell me what it meant.”
“She feels guilt over the divorce. That's all.” But the heavy look on his face told me there was a lot more to the story than that. “I had no idea she blamed herself.”
“They say it can be awfully hard on kids,” I said.
He paused. “Did she say anything else?”
“A little. I don't know how much I should tell you. I think she has this idea in her head that we could end up together.”
“Ha.” Shea belted out a laugh, like a single bubble from his belly. And then a few more emerged. “Ha, ha ha. Oh, Chloe. Oh, no.”
I hated the fact that he laughed. And I hated even more how his grip on my waist loosened. I wondered if he'd consciously done that or not? I didn't want him to let go of me. I wanted him to sink his claws into my waist and really grab me, claim me, own me.
Even though it can't ever happen.
“We have to be careful how we act around her, or she'll get the wrong idea,” he said.
I felt like he was driving the stake right through the heart of my own teenage fantasy. But that was fine and healthy, right? Better than continuing on in denial.
“Yeah. I know. It's sad, isn't it?” I agreed.
“Very sad. I should've seen it coming,” Shea said, shaking his head regretfully. “It's only because she looks up to you so much, Brynn. I can't believe she'd think something like that about us. It's ridiculous, really.”
Okay—I could get behind no longer living in denial. But something about Shea's denial made me feel defiant, bitter, and unwanted. I didn't know what I'd expected him to say. Of course he didn't want me. And even on the incredible off-chance that he did want me, he couldn't outright say it was true! But still, it hurt to hear him say that the idea was ridiculous.
“You're probably right,” I said. But the combination of being hurt and tipsy put me in a feisty mood. “I don't know why she thinks we're always tip-toeing around the house, flirting with each other, for example.”
“She—she said that?”
“Oh, yeah. That, and a lot worse.”
Shea gritted his teeth. “Do I even want to know?”
“I don't know. Do you?”
Uncertain, Shea gulped. “Yes?”
“She said that she thinks you're always finding excuses to sit next to me. That you're really handsy and touchy with me. That you never behaved with the other nannies like you behave with me. I don't know—what do you think? Crazy, right?”
Shea didn't say a word. His expression grew stony and serious.
“Then, she said—” I covered my mouth and giggled. “She said she's never seen two people who needed to 'bone' more in her entire life.”
“Chloe!” he muttered under his breath.
“I'm sorry. I didn't tell you earlier because I wanted you to enjoy your night and not worry. I guess that's why you noticed I was acting strange.”
“It's okay,” he said softly. “Thanks for telling me.”
“Yeah. Sure. Figured I had to. I'd hate for Chloe to think something so outrageous could be true.”
There was a lull. I glanced out at the audience—all those people, smiling and watching us, totally oblivious to what we were talking about. If only they had any idea!
“Brynn …” Shea trailed off, his eyes heavy.
Before he could say what he wanted to say, the song faded out, and the audience stood and clapped for us. A man in a suit ran up and thrust a microphone into Shea's hand.
Shea cleared his throat and spoke into the mic.
“Wow, you really voted for me again, huh? And all this time I thought you guys were voting for my daughter, Chloe.” He paused to let the laughter die down. “Thanks to everyone for coming out tonight.” Shea turned to me. “Thanks to Brynn—who did doubly-duty as my kids' nanny by day, and my lovely date by night—for agreeing to come with me.”
At Shea's mention of my name, a rowdy, male segment of the crowd—with deep and booming voices—went wild. “Wooooooo!” “Brynn!” “Awww, yeah!”
Ah. Shea's teammates, of course.
Shea continued on the mic. “And thanks to Brawlers owner, Jim James, for throwing tonight's gala and giving such a generous gift to charity. Tonight, I'm asking Mr. James to donate that money to Hockey Fights Cancer, and I'll be matching his donation.”
The audience went oooh and applauded.
“Thanks again, everybody. Enjoy the rest of your night—now get up here and dance, so I can stop making a fool out of myself.” Shea almost passed off the mic before he remembered one last thing to say. “This is for my teammates out there. Remember, boys, don't drink too much; we've got an early flight to Tampa in the morning.”
The Brawlers in the audience laughed and booed, and then the music started again. The women pulled their reluctant men onto the dance floor, and soon Shea and I were surrounded.
Without the pressure of all those eyes watching us and us alone, Shea and I moved closer together. My arms went around his neck. His colossal hands went to my sides. His irises smoldered with a cocky glint, and his eyes occasionally darted down to steal a glance at my cleavage.
“During our dance, you were about to say something,” I shouted at him, over the music.
He smiled coyly. “Was I?”
“Yeah, what was it?”
“I don't remember,” he said.
He was lying, but what could I do about it? I just liked being close to him.
I let it go and we danced. And as we moved, we pulled each other closer into the blistering heat that lingered between our bodies. Shea's thumbs and fingers dug and clenched at my waist. His touch was subtle, but I liked it—I wondered if he thought I wouldn't notice? It was a comforting pressure. I wanted his king-sized hands running over every inch of my body … even if I knew there were a thousand good reasons why it should never happen.
We danced the night away, until it was way too late, and we were way too drunk to think about getting in his car and driving home.
After we said our goodbyes to Shea's teammates, and my new girl friends, Shea called a cab.
***
We slid into the leather back seat of our car, the two of us giggling and laughing like two drunken buffoons. Shea gave the cabbie his address, and the driver stepped on the gas. The lights of Boston in the early morning streaked past in long trails of red and amber.
“Thanks again for coming, Brynn,” Shea said. “I hope you had a good time.”
He set his palm at my knee. His touch was electric. My legs opened the smallest amount, an inaudible sigh escaping my lungs.
“That was so fun, Shea,” I said. I laid my head against his shoulder, so firm and strong.
“Yeah. Wasn't it?” Shea freed his burly arm, wrapped it around my body, and pulled me snugly against him. He was so big and warm.
“I can't believe we had to do that slow dance in front of everybody,” I said, giggling. I set my hand on his abdomen. Through his dress shirt, I could feel the hard, sexy ridges of his washboard abs. I tasted the texture with the tips of my fingers.
He chuckled. “We made a good couple though, don't you think?” His hand traveled down my side and grazed over my ass. “Queen?”
I knocked his sneaky paw away. “Shea!”
He smirked. “What?”
“You know what.” I patted my palm against his prickly cheek. He was clean-shaven when we left for the gala, but now his cheek was already coarse with stubble. “What would Chloe say if she saw us like this?”
Shea's hand went to my face, too. Softly, his fingers stroked my cheek, and his eyes burned into mine.
“Honestly?” he whispered in my ear. The deep rasp of his gritty, sexy growl warmed my ear lobe and sent a chill down my spine. “Chloe's right.”
My nerves tingled, but I didn't say a word.
“I want you, Brynn. I want you bad.”
“Shea …!” I panted. “I don't know what to say.”
“Don't say anything.”
And just like that, the hockey player made his move.
His lips met mine, and the sucking and smacking of wet kisses replaced our silly backseat banter. I melted in his mouth—his lips so warm, his taste so right, his kisses so perfect. Two months of pent-up lust, denial and frustration flowed through our mouths. Shea's tongue searched for mine, and without hesitation, I gave him mine. Our tongues touched, slithered, and wove together.
Shea's desire grew and he kissed me with an ever-rising urgency. I yielded to him, slowly retreating under his immense weight, until my back was pressed into the seat and Shea was on top of me.
“You're so goddamn beautiful, Brynn,” he snarled in my ear.
The athlete dragged his massive hands up and down my stomach, torturing my nerves with the tips of his fingers. He had a touch as light and soft as a feather. With hushed whimpers and soft moans, I implored him to put his hands all over my body. I opened for him like a flower.
With his lips locked on mine, his hands traveled higher, higher, higher—until I was certain he'd grab my breasts. But Shea was an artful and deliberate tease. And as we kissed, his hands cruelly fell just short of my breasts. My nipples, straining against the silk of my dress, ached for his touch.
It was my turn to whisper in his ear.
“Shea, I want your hands. All over me.”
Those were the magic words.
Shea growled like an animal and cupped my tits with his titan-sized hands. He squeezed my boobs, jiggled them in his palm, pinched and tugged at my nipples. I writhed and moaned, kissing the hockey player deeper and harder, kissing him like I'd never kissed anyone in my life.
We'd forgotten where we were. I'd slid further and further under Shea's weight, and he pressed his hips against mine. My eyes widened when I felt it at last—the bulge between his legs, huge and long and hard. I wanted it. I needed it. I wrapped my legs around his trunk and pulled him deeper into me, rubbing his rock-hard manhood against my crotch.
That's when I realized the car wasn't moving, and the driver awkwardly cleared his throat.
“Ahem. Excuse me, sir, but we have arrived at your destination.”