Chapter 7

Drinking alone was perfectly okay.

That ever-so-slightly judgy statement rang in Addison’s ears as she tipped a bottle of red into her empty glass for the third time in the last hour. It wasn’t her fault she was riding this fruity little number from the New World solo. Harper had abandoned her to attend some glitzy charity gala as Kenneth Bailey’s date. That guy definitely had his eye on her as the future Mrs. Bailey, though Harper insisted they were just friends.

Since the divorce, Addison hadn’t read a single word, seen a single picture, watched a single video of hockey even though she’d always loved the game. She and her brother Jamie were die-hard Spartans fans. Growing up in Brooklyn surrounded by the fan base of the rival Boulders, it was a risk they took. (And given the state of the Boulders these days, it was a risk that paid off.) So it was hard to give it up. But the thought of being faced with photos of Michael with a younger, slimmer model-of-the-week at every game had made the decision for her. Better for her sanity to totally exorcise him from her life, and hockey with him.

But after two years, she might be ready.

It wouldn’t have anything to do with Ford Callaghan.

Clicking through the online reports of the Finals, she was struck by how often the right winger appeared in photos. Perhaps she was just acutely conscious of his outsize presence now she had seen him naked. Felt him naked. Desperate to minimize the heat blazing across her body at the memory of his perfect, chiseled body, she took another sip of her wine. No dice. X-rated images played back relentlessly. His fingers kneading her ass, his whispered dirty talk in her ear, his hard length rooting deep inside her.

Moving on.

He had scored four goals during the series and had the record for assists in all seven games, despite that being more typical of a center. A giver, in every way. Zing! She watched a few videos, marveling at the easy grace of a man so large. Skating often gave that illusion, but she’d noticed it in him the night on the balcony. Fluid, not lumbering. A man at ease with his big body.

Lost in visions of Ford and the magic he could create with those wonderful hands, it took her a moment to realize the doorbell was ringing. She remained still. What the hell? There was no one in the house but her, and whoever was out there either wanted to see Harper or was cold-calling, neither of which Addison could help them with.

Ten seconds later, it rang again, and Addison imagined she heard urgency in it. A short blast—and there it was again. Longer this time, a burst of “I’m not moving until you acknowledge me.”

She walked to the foyer, slowly, not owing anything to the impatient caller, and silently hoping the time it took her to get there would be time used by the person on the other side of the door to just go away. Harper had a one-way video intercom near the door and Addison pressed the button to activate it.

Ford Callaghan stood on the doorstep, looking directly at the camera. Shit.

“Harper, I need to see Addy. Could you open up?”

Even through the barrier of technology, she could hear the hitch of desperation in his voice. He was upset.

She shouldn’t know that. She shouldn’t understand that nuanced change in the timbre of his voice, but she did. And that frightened her more than anything.

She also knew that if she opened this door, it could end only one way.

Just one more time. Once more to feel the pleasure only this man could give.

She pulled back the bolt, keeping her eye on the video to see if his expression changed. Looking for—ah, shit. Relief.

He stood on the doorstep, wearing jeans and a plain gray tee that was elevated to a work of art because of how lovingly it hugged his pectorals and broad shoulders.

“Callaghan, what are you—?”

She had no chance to finish because he took the words right out of her mouth. His lips crushed, his tongue twined with hers. There was no gentleness to it.

Somehow, she found herself three feet back in the foyer—he must have lifted all one hundred ninety-three pounds of her—with his hands on her ass. The door was kicked close. Damn, Harper would kill her if she found a boot print on that oak.

He was everywhere at once, but it wasn’t enough. She needed to reciprocate, so she grabbed his hair, his shoulders, and his ass to just plain indulge. That’s what she wanted to do—indulge in this delicious treat of Ford Callaghan. So, so bad for her but she’d spent her life defying convention for how a woman should look and behave. If ever there was a moment she should take pleasure as her right, it was now.

“Addy, baby . . .” He halted his kisses. “I needed to see you. Tonight . . . damn, tonight, I just needed to see you.”

In those frayed words, she heard hurt. Something had happened to bring him here tonight. He’d chosen her to medicate his pain.

Before she could ask more—why me? why now?—he yanked her leggings down and grabbed her rear hard enough to leave a mark. “Love this ass. Love how it feels.”

This ass. She should feel objectified. God knew she was fluent in the language of reduction to her measurements, her body parts, her so-called representation of BBW everywhere. But she was more. She knew that. She suspected Ford also knew it, but this rough, elemental version had primal desires that needed to be slaked.

This man wanted this woman. Needed her. In this moment, she was a great ass, stellar tits, and a riot of curves that pleased him.

As for how he pleased her? The man was six feet four inches of upright perfection. She pushed him back toward the door he’d slammed closed, stalking him with his T-shirt fisted in her greedy grasp. Over his head, she pulled and it got stuck for a couple seconds and he might have grunted at her enthusiasm—sorry, sorry, it’s okay—and then, it was definitely okay. It was more than okay.

She managed a sound. More akin to a gurgle, really, and she wasn’t particularly proud of it. But, you see, his chest had entered the scene from stage left and was stealing every line of her script. A sculpted model of beauty that gushed wetness between her legs.

He didn’t give her time to enjoy it because he was returning the favor, grabbing at her flimsy tank and tearing it apart. She would have just taken it off, if he’d asked or tugged, but his passion turned her on so much. She stood before him in tatters and her bra—not the prettiest one she owned but with breasts like hers, underwear couldn’t compete.

He fell to his knees.

Oh, that was good.

With hands in a possessive grasp of her ass, he positioned his mouth over her damp satin-covered mound and sucked through the fabric right at the cleft.

That was more than good.

Her groan emerged full-throated, like an animal’s.

Moving the fabric aside with his thumb, he licked, then seemed to realize that such limited access wasn’t enough. Those panties didn’t last another second.

Neither did her legs. Lingerie model down.

Luckily, there was a plush rug keeping her ass from meeting cold tile, and now it was just a frenzy of how to get completely naked in four seconds flat. There, that, now, now. Off came her leggings, down came his zipper, on went a condom, and then—yes, yes, fuck, yes. One long thrust and he was inside her, the stretch of her muscles perfect, the way they fit together so, so right.

He set up a steady rhythm of push and pull, invasion and retreat, and how the hell had she gone from Internet surfing to fucking a hockey player on Harper’s Persian rug in the span of a few ragged breaths? Something had been set in motion that night on the balcony, and she wasn’t sure how to go back to before—or if she even wanted to.

She was hooked.

His mouth crashed down over the plush mounds above her bra cup, before he nudged the silky barrier aside and drew her nipple into his mouth. This new source of pleasure near killed her. His suckle on her breast, his plunder between her legs, and then one hand clasped to her ample ass and squeezed hard. His other hand moved to her throat, holding her with a sure, but gentle grip, his thumb moving up to force her lips apart to complete the pillage. She was entirely immobilized, every part of her in his masculine grip. His control was absolute, his need intense.

She loved it. She loved giving him this.

The thrusts became less smooth, more jerky, and she recognized he might not be in as much control as she’d thought. But then neither was she.

He unlatched his mouth from her breast and affixed it to a place much more dangerous—the lips that were about two seconds away from screaming his name. Making this personal. It wasn’t supposed to be this personal.

He’s inside you. That’s pretty damn personal, Addy.

Through soul-searing kisses and bone-melting stares, he pumped harder and faster, so hard and fast she worried he might burrow through to the wine cellar beneath their joined, sweaty bodies. A babble of mostly incoherent words gutted from him. She heard her name and “sogoodsogood” and then what was formerly the ass-owning hand became the clit-stroking hand. It glanced softly against her then pressed hard above the spot where they had become one and she left this world for another dimension.

There was no doubt whose name she shouted when she came. Now that she knew it and what its owner was capable of, she suspected it would always be his name on her lips.

She expected him to explode now that he’d taken care of her, but he seemed content to slow it down, almost as if he could relax now her pleasure was achieved.

That selflessness only hiked her desire further.

He rolled onto his back, pulling her with him, ensuring their bodies were still melded, and reached for her breasts with both hands. Hands big enough to cover her ample rack.

Had she mentioned she liked a guy with big hands?

This position was heaven, the penetration deeper, the view out of this world.

“That’s it, Bright Eyes. Ride me to the end.”

So she did, squeezing and slipping and sliding until she hit that pinnacle again, not knowing how, not caring why, and only then did he finally let go, emptying inside her, the force and heat palpable even with the condom.

She collapsed over his chest, her breasts happily smushed, her ear at the base of his throat listening to the pulse kicking hard against her cheek. Moments of precious quiet passed, the only noise their thunderous hearts and a sense of wonder at what was happening here.

Testing the waters, she shifted slightly, knowing she’d eventually have to unhinge from him. He held on tight.

Test passed.

“Stay. Just a little while longer,” he whispered.

A plus, Callaghan.

Buried in Addy.

Ford wanted to write a sappy song with that title. He could think of no place he’d rather be, and after the night he’d had, this felt like a much-needed sanctuary. He didn’t want to think of his brother or the argument that brought him to Addy’s door. Maybe because he didn’t want to think he might have used her to shift that hurt from his heart to his dick.

But the reality of this journey to the best orgasm of his life, not to mention sex on the floor in a house belonging to neither of them, intruded. He assumed there was no one else at home, a state of affairs that would likely not last.

“Sweetheart, I should take care of business.”

She lifted her head, honey-coppery strands curtaining her eyes. “You already did, Callaghan. Twice.”

Hell, that made a man feel good.

She sat up and eased off him while he held the condom in place. This was going to be tricky . . .

Or not. She unrolled the rubber carefully and stood.

“Back in a sec.”

He watched/ogled while she walked to the first-floor bathroom—scene of the crime last night and hey, look at them making more criminally sexy memories—and went inside. All while gloriously naked.

He liked that. The nakedness, natch, but the fact she took care of the rubber. Took care of him. It had been a while since someone had done that. Gave him hope that messy consequences were something she’d take in her stride.

And they had some exceedingly messy consequences right here.

She returned, grabbed the shirt he’d ripped from her body and held it up with a cute smirk of that just happened. She put it on backwards and it barely covered what he had just feasted on, then added the leggings. Standing, he pulled up the jeans he’d shoved to only mid-thigh because he wasn’t fuckin’ around.

Wordlessly, she led him by the hand to a room just off the main hallway, a cozy living space he hadn’t seen on his party-crash last night. A laptop was open along with a bottle of wine, a glass of red half-gone.

“Now, tell me about your day,” she said, gesturing at the sofa.

He laughed at her no-nonsense take on it. “All that matters is how it ended.”

She sat, curling her legs under her body, compassion shining off her. He wanted to lay his head on those gorgeous breasts and fall asleep.

“Callaghan.”

“You can call me Ford.”

“Have a seat, Callaghan.”

He did, though her reluctance to use his first name rankled. When his tongue had delved inside her body, she’d shouted it out. When she shuddered and shook around his cock, she’d screamed it loud. He’d get it again from her before the night was through.

“Glass of wine?”

“I don’t drink. I come from a long line of alcoholics so I prefer not to risk it.”

She nodded. “Something upset you tonight.”

“It’s nothin’. Just family stuff.”

Those gorgeous eyes of hers carved right through him, so he looked away, not enjoying the scrutiny. It was one thing to be locked in those crosshairs while inside her, but outside of sex, the exposure was less of a comfort. His gaze fell on her open laptop and the big image of Ford Callaghan hugging . . . team owner Michael Babineaux.

Babineaux wasn’t exactly a friend—their relationship was more complicated than that. While there was nothing in his contract that said he couldn’t screw the boss’s ex-wife, Ford knew that the legal niceties would not prevent Babineaux from making his life a living hell. Trading him would be an option but the boss wouldn’t go that easy on him. More likely, he would play out the rest of his two-year contract warming the pine.

But only if he found out. Which he wouldn’t.

“Catching up on your reading?”

She flicked a glance to the laptop. “I haven’t been following hockey much in the last couple of years. Not since the divorce.”

“And now you are.”

Her look said it all. This is madness.

“You think I shouldn’t have come.”

She peeked up at him through long, golden-brown lashes. “No, you shouldn’t have. But you did and then you did. Come, that is. You needed to be here and now . . .” She placed a hand on his chest. “What happened before can’t unhappen, but neither can it happen again. What I can do is listen. Whatever’s got you all twisted up, I can hear you.”

His heart rumbled like a jet engine in his chest, the effect of her touch, her nearness, both incitement and salve. Christ, he wanted to tell her everything.

“Addy, I’m—”

The sound of the door opening forced them apart. They both turned to the inevitable appearance of the lady of the house. There was no good way to explain why he was sitting in Harper Chase’s living room with a beautifully flushed Addison Williams, draped in a ripped-to-shreds tank.

“Oh, hello, Ford,” Harper said over-brightly. “In the neighborhood, were you?”

Addison pointed at Harper. “Can it, Chase. He’s leaving.” She took his hand and led him past Harper, who held his gaze with an arched raise of her eyebrow. He didn’t know her well, but he knew a smart-ass when he saw one.

At the door, Addison stopped, still holding his hand. “I meant what I said.”

“No more sex on hallway rugs.”

“What?” An out-of-hearing-range Harper was apparently not the same as an out-of-sight Harper.

“Have a drink, Harper,” Addison called out, cool as the other side of the pillow before turning back to Ford. “That, and I’m here if you need to talk.”

He didn’t want to talk. He wanted her body lying next to him while he kissed every inch of it. He wanted to lose himself inside her until they both forgot who they were because if they could do that, all their problems would be solved. Maybe world hunger and peace in the Middle East while they were at it.

She wanted to talk.

Ladies and gentlemen: the difference between men and women in a nutshell.

“Give me your number.” At her frown, he added, “The exchange of phone numbers is the best way to prevent further exchange of bodily fluids.”

She laughed, and he loved that sound. Loved that he’d produced it.

“I would think exchanging phone numbers would lead to the other type of exchange.”

“Not the way we’ve been doing it. But then this isn’t exactly conventional.” He grinned, feeling strangely better that they were able to make jokes of it. Then it hit him.

He wouldn’t be able to touch her again.

She had decided that the complication of her ex being his boss was a bridge too far. The potential of them—of Ford and Addy—was not enough to overcome that obstacle.

It seemed to dawn on her at the same time, or at least, he chose to credit that wrinkle of her brow to the state of suckage they had both found themselves in.

“Your number, Addy?” There was a little grit in his tone because hell and damn, he was not leaving without that number.

She hesitated for a soul-numbing moment, but then rattled it off. He nodded, memorizing each digit, the way her mouth shaped it, and the sexy clamp of her lovely white teeth on her bottom lip when she was done.

“Not going to put it in your phone?”

“I won’t forget it.” And if he did—if he chose to—it would be because self-preservation beat his cock to the mat.

Before his libido got the better of him again, he left without another word.

Addison put on her game face and headed into the living room, where Harper was seated on the sofa with brows drawn and mouth pinched. She patted the seat cushion beside her.

“Let’s chat, honey.”

Blowing out a breath, Addison sat down beside her and launched into her defense. “You’re right, I have no idea what I’m doing here.”

“He’s got it bad.”

“He has?”

Harper gestured at the open laptop, still showing that photo of Ford hugging her ex as they celebrated the Finals win.

“This is his career and yet he’s willing to risk it for a fling. Unless, he wants . . .”

“What?”

Harper cocked her head. “More.”

Time to shut that nonsense down. “He does not want more. Tonight, he was upset and there’s no risk of Michael finding out. It’s not as if we’ve been seen in public.” They wouldn’t be either.

“You gave him your number.”

There was that. “I think he needs someone to talk to.”

Harper could make a career out of those eyebrow scoots.

“He does. And it’s not as if Michael will check his players’ phones.” Hell. “Would he?”

“I make my players take regular drug tests. Monitoring their phones isn’t such a stretch.” She grinned to let Addison know she was kidding. “Seriously, though. I’m thrilled you’re getting some long-needed action, Addy, but could you not have chosen someone less unsuitable?”

“Well, if I’d known the first time . . .” Another eyebrow of judgment. Addison had filled Harper in on the down ‘n’ dirty details of her first meeting with Ford, and was now wishing she’d been a bit more circumspect. “It’s done. I won’t ever see him again. And now that I’ve gotten back on the horse—”

“A well-hung horse.”

“Stop. It. I’ll be able to jump right into dating once I’m settled in Chicago.” Dating someone suitable: older, more stable, and most definitely not an employee of her husband.

A secretive smile lifted one corner of Harper’s mouth. “I’ll draw up a list immediately.”