“Yes, please,” she says eagerly, but her voice tremors slightly. Tacker comes up behind her, leaning to place two cups of coffee on the table. He presses a kiss to the top of her head as his eyes come to mine. I can tell he’s glad I brought pictures and he obviously thinks it will be good for her.
For the next hour, we nibble on cinnamon rolls as we scroll through my footage. I only go as fast as Nora wants me to, starting with her childhood country of Albania before she bravely moves on to Kosovo. She studies every single picture, sometimes in silence and other times telling Tacker and me about a happy moment she remembers. It brings tears to her eyes, which makes mine reciprocate. Tacker holds her hand the entire time.
I finish the last sip of my second cup of coffee, the iPad off now as we chitchat about the playoffs.
“Where are you off to next?” Tacker asks as Nora rises to take the empty plates and cups to the sink.
I slide my tablet into my satchel. “Actually, I just had an offer come through for a job in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.”
“Why? What’s there?”
I grimace. “War, pestilence, starvation… the usual. In this case, however, unrest over upcoming elections.”
“Is it dangerous?” Nora asks.
“Could be,” I reply with a smile. “But that’s just part of the job.”
“The part you like,” Tacker guesses.
While it’s true I’m a bit of an adrenaline junkie, I don’t enjoy putting my life in danger. I just happen to love my job so much it’s a risk I have to take.
“I like the rush of jumping out of planes or diving with sharks…” I stand from the table, then grin. “But I don’t like getting shot at. I do take every safety precaution, though, and we’re always provided with our own security force.”
“So will you take the job?” Nora asks.
I shrug. “I need to let them know soon, but I wanted to take some time off over the next several weeks for the playoffs. Vengeance is making history, you know.”
“That we are,” Tacker agrees with a chuckle.
“I really need to get going,” I regretfully say. “I’ve got errands to run.”
Nora shoots me a sly grin. “Darn… I was hoping we could talk about you and Dominik Carlson.”
“Yeah,” Tacker drawls as he pushes from his chair, eyes sparkling with mischief. “What’s all that about?”
I’d wondered what people knew or suspected. It’s no secret I’ve been in the owner’s box for the games. I know Dominik has personally hounded my brother about me in a not-so-private way. Lord knows I’ve heard him bitch about it often enough. And Dominik certainly displayed quiet aggression toward Wylde at the party last week, and I personally know hockey players gossip as much as high school girls.
“Let’s just say we’re enjoying each other’s company on a temporary playoff basis,” I offer vaguely. “But after that, I’m sure we’ll be going our separate ways.”
Nora tilts her head. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why go your separate ways?”
Tacker and Nora both appear incredibly confused, but they don’t know me well. “I’m just not looking for a relationship,” I reply. “It’s not my thing.”
“It never is,” Tacker says, and the tone of sage wisdom ringing through his words causes a chill to shoot up my spine. “Until it is.”
CHAPTER 12
Dominik
I never take my wealth for granted, and this is one of those times. One of the perks of this insanely well-appointed home I bought in Phoenix is a master bath practically designed to be lived in. It’s so big it has a suite of furniture on one side with plush carpeting underneath. A couch and two chaise lounge chairs and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why seating for more than two people is needed in a bathroom.
But I can live with that oddity because the sunken bathtub, which could easily seat four people, is a perfect haven to lounge in with Willow after some extremely vigorous fucking that got us quite sweaty. With the miracle of a tankless hot water system, we have a deep pool of warm water topped with scented bubbles to soak and relax in.
Willow sits between my spread legs, reclining fully so her back is on my torso. I’ve got a sponge in one hand, running it along her arm.
“Kane Bellan seems to be fitting in nicely with the team,” she remarks.
That he does. He made a fast move from Raleigh to Phoenix in exchange for Rafe once the waivers cleared, and he’d stepped on the ice with us in time for game two against Seattle. By game four, he’d found his footing and his rhythm and had contributed a goal and three assists in the first round.
“I think his style of play matches Rafe’s so closely it’s made it a hell of a lot easier on us. It really was a good swap.”
“Which is good since Vancouver doesn’t have a deep second line.” She punctuates that with a giggle as I draw the sponge under her arm and along the side of her breast.
“You know it completely turns me on that you can discuss hockey with me,” I muse, moving the sponge to the middle of her chest. I place my mouth near her ear, murmuring, “It makes me want to do really dirty things to you.”
“Mmmm,” she replies lazily. “I’m okay with that.”
Of course she is. She’s inexhaustible when it comes to sex, which matches me perfectly. She genuinely enjoys the art of it. Loves orgasming and everything that leads up to it. She’s as much of a giver as a taker. Sometimes, she likes to give so much that I have to make her lay back and take it.
She’s perfect in every way when it comes to fucking.
When I move the sponge down her belly, she shifts against me, spreading her legs in a silent request for me to continue farther south.
When I glide it over her, she arches slightly, neck twisting to reveal the elegant slope of her neck and shoulder.
The scars I’ve noticed time and again, particularly when riding her from behind or rubbing soap over her in the shower, peek through the film of bubbles left there.
I halt my movements to trace one of the scars with the forefinger of my other hand. It’s slightly deeper than the others, completely white against the olive tone of her skin.
“Where did you get these from?” I ask.
“Afghanistan,” she replies in such a blasé tone, I’m not quite sure if she’s joking with me or not.
“Afghanistan?” Not hiding the incredulity I’m feeling.
“Yup. About three years ago, I think. Got hit by some shrapnel from an RPG blast.”
I’m so startled by this revelation I bolt up ramrod straight, which pushes Willow away from me. It’s good since I need to see her face.
She twists to frown at me.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I bark.
Her brows knit together, not quite happy with my glare. She speaks slowly… as if she needs to explain something to a third-grader. “I’m a photojournalist. Sometimes, I work in war zones.”
“The fuck you do,” I retort, not sure if I’m asking a question or ordering her to obey.
Her expression causes a tiny voice in my head to start screaming, Abort, abort, but I choose to ignore it.