So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(47)

Spent, he lay his forehead against hers, panting his way back to even. Their breaths found a steady tempo, a strange peace after an encounter that had felt like a battle.

Still buried in her, he kissed her softly. “That is why I left your arms.”

“Because I don’t deserve sex this good?”

He smiled at her take on it. “I knew I could not be gentle. It would be an invasion. A conquest.”

“Good thing I have this need to be conquered.” She stroked a line along his jaw. “You’re the one who said we should be honest.”

“Men will say anything to get what they want.”

“So will women.” She pressed her lips to his. “You know, I thought you woke me up. I could’ve sworn I heard you saying, ‘Bella, I am here. Wake up.’ I must have dreamed it. I was so confused that you weren’t there in bed with me.”

“You have a common condition called orgasm brain.”

“Let me guess. The cure is more orgasms?”

“How did you know?” Chuckling, he slipped from her and disposed of the condom. Then he scooped her up into his arms.

“Vadim! I’m too heavy. And you have to watch your knee.”

“Yes, Coach.” Ignoring her protests, he carried her back to bed. She was as light as air, and he felt invincible with her in the cradle of his body.



A satiated and showered Isobel found Dante in the hotel restaurant, fully suited up, perfectly put together, slicing into his eggs Benedict with a strange formality. Evidently the man was incapable of leaving his room without looking like David Gandy’s runway understudy.

He’d had a short but successful career in the NHL until a bum knee—the same injury as Vadim’s—prompted his retirement. Contrary to the image he presented now, he was known then as an enforcer at a time when there had been more violence in the league. She’d seen videos—this guy knew how to fight. Hockey brought out the darker, baser instincts of a person’s personality.

She sat opposite him. His heavy sigh was a smidge over the top.

“If you wanted to eat alone, you should have ordered room service.”

“The eggs are always better in the restaurant.” He placed his knife and fork down. “You’re late to the begging party. I’ve already had St. James and DuPre knocking down my door this morning, not to mention the whole defensive line stopping by to give their opinion before I had my coffee.”

“Then you won’t mind one more. Not a peep on social media, so we’re in the clear. You need to reinstate Vadim for tonight’s game.”

“The decision has already been made. We have a zero-tolerance policy for violence”—he acknowledged her brow lift with one of his own—“off the ice. It would be one thing if no one had witnessed it, but there were other players there. We can’t be seen to favor one team member over another.”

“If it hasn’t made it online by now, then it won’t at all. Reinstate them both. Put it down to bad judgment, crappy alcohol, cabin fever. This game is important, Dante. We have to win twelve of the next fifteen to be in with a chance of qualifying for the play-offs. Petrov needs to be on the ice tonight.”

She’d left him in the early hours, sleeping off a night of use and abuse by hers truly. Hopefully he’d have enough energy left to play if Dante made the right call. And on the subject of use and abuse, she shifted in her seat, her body sensuously sore after the night’s exertions. The Czar of Pleasure had finally lived up to his royal title.

“You know what I said when I came on board, Isobel. I’m not taking orders from the owners.”

“I’m not asking as an owner, Dante. I’m asking as a coach, a team player, and a Rebels fan. We’ve all got something to prove, but let’s not allow what I need to prove to be at cross-purposes with what you need to prove. The team is all that matters.”

He smoldered in her general direction for several seconds. Fortunately her time with Vadim had built up in her a semidecent immunity to hot masculine glaring.

Finally, he muttered, “I’ll take it under advisement.”

“Dante—”

He held up a hand. “My eggs are getting cold, Isobel, and whining only makes them inedible.”

Sensing victory, she hid her smile as she stood before she and her whining left the restaurant, feeling pretty damn optimistic.





FIFTEEN




Two months.

Two months since Vadim had skated onto the ice as part of a starting lineup. Tonight against the Spartans should not have been that night, but Coach Calhoun had approached him during morning skate and given him the news.

His temporary suspension was lifted.

Vadim sensed the hand of Isobel here. He had sent her a text of thanks. She had responded with: Thank me with goals, Russian.

There was no sign of her before the game. Usually she would show up in the locker room, or at the very least, rinkside, but no. Perhaps she was worried he’d be unable to hide what had happened last night.

And this morning.

And this morning, again.

Warmth flushed his veins, and it was not because the crowd had cheered his name. It was the memory of Bella’s heavy-lidded gaze as she arched into his hand, her body seeking his magic fingers, her inner walls tightening around his cock.