So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(36)

“Suck me,” she begged, and then his mouth closed over her tit and suckled hard. His moan on tasting her sounded like he was in pain, but she didn’t care; all she cared about was this mindless grasp at pleasure.

The insistent pulse thrumming through her body beat louder, stronger, showing no sign of stopping and heading for the one place she’d never visited with this man. She rolled her hips and hiked her suggestive rubs into a dirty grind. He was huge against her, toting this hard, hot instrument of pleasure that stroked her just right.

Still not enough.

“Please,” she begged as she rode him harder. Faster. Dirtier.

“Da, da, da,” he said. Yes, yes, yes.

No. A loud noise shook her out of the madness. Though the window was steamed up Titanic style, she could make out the shape of a face. Lenny, the facility’s head of security, jumped back.

“Ms. Chase! Shit, sorry. I thought you might be—uh, sorry about that,” he called out, his voice receding as he was already double timing back toward the facility.

Shocked back into reality, her heart in a mad clatter, she placed a hand on Vadim’s shoulder to leverage herself back. His mouth made a popping sound as it dragged off her breast. Oh. God. She scrambled out of his lap, which meant she had to avoid several “sticks” poking her on the way back to the driver’s seat. Vadim’s penis, the gearshift . . .

Was she out of her mind, making out in the parking lot of the Rebels’ practice facility? So the players—except the one she had just dry humped in the passenger seat of her Camry—were out of town, but security was here.

She’d need to double the number of cupcakes she brought next time.

“We’re going to forget about that,” she said while she shoved her breast back into her bra, the abrasion of her nipple still deliciously sensitive.

He touched his lips, then licked as if savoring her taste. “Are we, Bella?”

“Don’t call me that. It’s ‘Isobel’ or ‘Coach.’ That’s all there is.” She slashed a hand through the air. “I know you think you’ve got something to prove because of what happened last time, but it won’t be at the expense of your recovery. Your bruised ego will have to take a backseat to getting you on the ice.”

“You think this is what that kiss was about? My need to prove something?”

“Of course it was. That’s all any man’s kiss is about.” And that was a damn sight more than a kiss, mister. She pointed at the door. “Out.”

He placed a hand on the handle, a slight curve to his lips that said This ain’t over.

Oh, but it was. It had to be.

He climbed out, which took a while because he was tall and the car was small. Once outside, he held the door open, letting all the heat escape.

Unfortunately, her embarrassment chose to stay right here.

“I will see you for practice tomorrow, Bella. Do not be late.”

With the grin of a wolf, he closed the door too quickly to hear her unbelievably witty response of, “Shut the hell up.”





ELEVEN




At 8 p.m., Vadim walked into the bar at the team hotel in New York, feeling light of heart. This was new to him because 1) Russians did not suffer joy gladly and 2) the last year had been hell on his body, his spirit, and his sanity.

Tomorrow he would play.

This morning, a summons to Coach Calhoun’s office had ended with this good news. Isobel had been there, too, nodding her head seriously while Coach yammered on about a testing phase and the need for Vadim to prove himself. And Vadim could only think of Isobel, how her tits tasted, and her soft moans as she straddled him.

Have I proved myself worthy yet, Bella?

For the past week, they had continued with their practices. Isobel wanted their relationship to be all business, and he was trying to respect those boundaries. He understood that she was under scrutiny by everyone, especially the other players. But that did not mean he couldn’t dream. Fantasize.

For the next hour, he would set his dirty dreams aside and bond with his teammates over alcohol.

On Vadim’s entry, Cade waved from the corner where he was sitting with Ford, Erik, Violet Vasquez, and Kelly, the trainer. Vadim raised a hand back, but instead of going over, he stopped in front of another booth. It was occupied, but Vadim figured the more mature conversation of the team’s elder statesmen was preferable to sitting with his rival for Isobel’s bed.

“Well, if it ain’t our brand-new left-winger,” Remy said with a big grin. “Take a load off and rest up that knee before it starts givin’ you trouble, Petrov.”

Amused, or as amused as someone with Russian DNA could be, Vadim sat in the booth beside Bren St. James, who nodded his approval. Fans claimed he resembled Khal Drogo in Game of Thrones—Vadim didn’t really see it. More unusual was the fact that St. James was a Brit in the NHL.

“Captain,” Vadim offered with a wry salute. “Another round, gentlemen?”

A waitress appeared in a flash. “Hi, there, handsome.”

“Hello. Fat Tire, please, and whatever these guys are drinking.”

“No vodka for you?” Remy asked.

“We don’t carry Vesna,” the waitress answered before Vadim could comment. She dipped close, displaying stellar cleavage that would normally have sparked his interest. Unfortunately his mind was stuck in a compact-size car with steamed-up windows as Isobel Chase ground her strong, fuck-me-baby body on his dick.