By the time I pull up in front of my house, Gwen’s already waiting.

Seated on my front stoop with what I can only assume is the blueberry pie resting on her lap, she looks young and nervous and lonely.

Exactly as she’d looked at her father’s funeral three years ago.

I try not to think of that day often—not because I don’t miss Mark James but because I’ll never forget how I held Gwen in my arms and comforted her, wiped away her tears, and all over a man she barely knew.

A man who’d influenced my life in more ways than one.

Until that moment, I’d never made the connection between Mark James, a man who’d taken me under his wing and showed me that I had a future in hockey, and the girl who’d turned me inside out in college.

If there were any photos of Gwen in Mark’s house, they weren’t in the areas company visited. His desk at my high school was similarly bare of personal items. In passing, he sometimes mentioned a daughter, but never could I have put the two and two together until I’d turned around from paying my respects and saw her standing there, tears welling in her eyes and uncertainty slouching her shoulders.

In one moment, Gwen James had rendered me speechless all over again.

That day, I offered her all the comfort I could—and she never asked me why I was there or how I knew her father. I need to tell her at some point, but the worry has always lingered that I’ll make her feel even more shitty about the situation with her dad. That a guy like me had considered her father one of his greatest mentors . . . when she hadn’t even seen the man in years.

Sometimes, I can’t help but feel as though she’d rather not know of my connection to her father since she’s never once brought it up.

With a deep breath, I shove my fingers through my hair and then climb out of my truck, slinging my duffel bag over my shoulder after grabbing it from the back seat.

Her smile is slight, unsure, and it takes everything in me not to lift her up and stamp a hard kiss on her mouth. After years of waiting, though, I’m not claiming my first kiss on my doorstep.

“Sorry I’m late.” When I step directly in front of her, I offer my hand and hide a grin when she accepts the offer to help her up. “A few mutual friends of ours are the reason for the holdup.” I unlock the front door and push it open, then step to the side so Gwen can enter first. “Seems as though you have some fairy godmothers looking out for you.”

She scrunches her nose, and it’s cute as hell. The minute we step inside, she shrugs out of her trench coat and slips it over one of the hooks by the front door. With her red hair down around her shoulders and her cream-colored dress snug in all the right places, she’s also the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen. Then I notice a stain by her armpit, and I quirk a brow. “You weren’t kidding about the lasagna swimming, were you?”

“What?” Jolted out of the moment, she stares down at her dress and releases a soft sigh. “I thought I escaped unscathed.” She fingers the stain and then lets her hand fall to her side. “My mother had an accident.”

“Sounds saucy.” I wink at her, and she rewards me with a chuckle.

“You have no idea,” she says with a shake of her head. “My mom is . . . I don’t even know how to best describe her.”

Knowing now that Mark’s ex-wife is Gwen’s mother, it all makes sense. Mark’s choice words about his ex-wife tended to stay in the colored, four-lettered variety. From what I gathered, The Former Mrs. James was (and is) a little temperamental.

And that’s putting it lightly.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” I tell Gwen as we move into my kitchen. I flick the lights on and nod my head toward the counter, so she can put the pie down. “Not if you don’t want to, I mean.”

Gwen sets the pie on the counter and then lingers there, hands on the rounded lip as her shoulders draw up by her ears. “Do you have someone in your life that you don’t particularly like but you still can’t help yourself—you want to make them proud?”

Knowing it’ll make her grin, I hold up my hands, spreading them wide. “You may not have noticed, honey, but my coach isn’t the most likeable fellow.”

“Hall?” She turns around and presses her butt to the counter so she can meet my gaze. “He’s a total sweetheart. I’ve never had an issue with him.”

“To you, maybe.” It’s not exactly P.C., but I go for the truth anyway. “Anyone with a dick is usually on his shit list.”

She brings her thumb to her mouth and nibbles on the pad. My own dick rises to the occasion, wanting to be included in the conversation. Go down, man. Not your turn.

“Anyway,” I mutter, moving past her to open the cabinets. I pull down two plates, grab utensils, and set them on the marble kitchen island that’s more like its own separate continent, it’s so big. Whoever owned this house before me either had a Napoleonic complex or was a mammoth—there’s no in between. “Tell me what happened with your mom. Then I’ll make you feel better with pie and wine.”

“And kisses?”

I whip around at her sassily issued question. With her arms bent just so, and her hands perched on the counter behind her, her breasts are thrust forward. Her dress is demure, with a conservative neckline and a slim line that cuts off at her knees. But the look in her blue eyes is anything but demure and it takes every inch of my self-control not to toss the pie to the floor and hike her up onto the counter. The things I’d do to her…

My eyes screw shut as I struggle to even out my breathing. “We’ll get there, trust me.”

“Tonight?”

Opening my eyes, I find myself with my hands on her hips and pressing my hard-on against her belly. She’s inches shorter than me, even in her heels, and she tips her head back to brush her lips to the underside of my jaw.

At the sensation of her lips coasting over my skin, I almost say fuck it and take what I want. Pull up her dress. Pop her up on the counter. Strip off her underwear and pump into her slick heat.

It’d be easy to do that.

But we started on this path because I wanted to be sure she was in this for the right reasons—listening to her talk about her mom, showing that I care about more than what’s between her legs . . . that matters to me.

My control snaps when she loops an arm around me, her palm resting on my back.

I nip her to put her in place—a gentle bite to her earlobe that pulls a yip from her mouth and has her dragging her nails down my back. “Be good,” I whisper as I move my mouth lower, to the sensitive spot where her neck and shoulder meet, “or I’ll be forced to up the stakes.”

Her head lolls to the side. “Sure, whatever—oh!”

I tug down her dress, just enough to press a kiss to her collarbone. “Whatever, what?” Another kiss, this one just above the swell of her breast. “I’ve waited a long time for this, honey, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make the moment exactly how I’ve envisioned it all these years.”

Her fingers dance around to my front to hang onto me by the belt loops of my jeans. “Are there rose petals involved?” she asks in a sly voice.

“No.” My voice isn’t sly—it’s an honest-to-God rumble that sounds deep even to my own ears. “No rose petals.”

“Candles?”

“I think I’ve got a lighter somewhere.”

“No rose petals,” she mutters, her fingers sinking into my hair, “no candles. What in the world have you been thinking of all these years?”

Hell, it’s going to sound stupid. I ignore the rapid tempo of my heart and pull back, letting her dress go so that can I cup her face. Pulling a deep breath into my lungs, I go for broke. “We’re going to pretend this is the best idea you’ve ever heard.”

She turns her face just far enough so she can press a kiss to my palm. “I’m good at pretending—for a price.”

She wouldn’t be Gwen James if she didn’t challenge me every step of the way.

And I wouldn’t be me—the NHL’s best power forward—if I didn’t take risks every day in my career.

“Deal accepted,” I tell her.

She blinks up at me. “You don’t even know what the price is.”

I shrug. “Considering the topic of conversation, I figure I’m going to like it no matter what.”

“I could suggest bondage,” she says, throwing it out there like she’s brought something scandalous into the conversation. “Tie you up or whatever.”

Laughter floods my chest, and I move my hand to the nape of her neck. My thumb brushes the shell of her ear and I don’t miss the way she shivers and her lids flutter shut. Which makes it the perfect time to admit: “Honey, I’m not scared of a little bondage. So long as I’m tied up to the bed and you’re riding my face, I’ve got no complaints.”