"So, this is where you're planning to seduce me?" Sloane asks, eyebrows raised as she takes in the bunk beds. "Bold choice."
"Just living out a summer camp fantasy," I say with a grin. "Though I promise I've graduated from the awkward teenage fumbling."
She laughs, the sound sending a pleasant warmth through my chest. "Good to know."
I walk to my duffel bag, unzipping the side pocket. "Anyway, I wasn't kidding about the condoms." I pull out a small box with ‘THIN ICE PROTOTYPE - NOT FOR RETAIL' stamped across it. "They sent me samples to 'test' and give feedback. These are the new ultra-thin ones."
Sloane steps closer, taking the box from my hands. "So, you really do sell condoms."
"And socks. Though I don't have those with me." I watch her examine the box, struck by how utterly normal this interaction feels. She's not swooning over my stats or asking how much I'm being paid. She's just... interested. In me.
"Do you always carry prototype condoms with you?" she asks, setting the box on the nearest nightstand. Her hair is a mass of big, bouncy blonde curls—a soft, voluminous mass of natural springs. She is stunningly gorgeous.
"Professional responsibility," I say with mock seriousness. "I take my market research very seriously."
"I'm sure you do." She steps closer, until we're nearly touching. Barefoot, the top of her head barely reaches my chin, and I have to resist the urge to lift her to my level.
Instead, I reach out, running a finger over her collarbone like she did to me earlier. "You're gorgeous," I tell her, the words coming out more reverent than I intended. "And not at all what I expected to find at my cousin's stuffy law party."
"What did you expect?"
"Not you," I say simply.
Her eyes darken, and she places her hands on my chest.
She sighs. “I … know who you are.”
Damn. Not so anonymous after all. Oh well. I shrug. “That happens a lot.”
She shakes her head. “No. I … my last name is Grentley.”
“Grentley?” I clench my stomach, like I’m waiting for our surly goalie to punch me or something. I take a step back and really look at Sloane. “You’re Grentley’s wife?”
She shakes her head, curls bouncing. “Ex-wife. We are divorced. Everything’s final. My name change is just taking a minute, that’s all.”
I am in the basement with the ex of a guy who hates my guts.
Josh Grentley, who was a dick to my brother Gunnar and has all sorts of things to say about how I spend my time off the ice. Holier-than-a-priest Grentley, whose wife never came to games. Grentley, whom I’m supposed to protect, even though he acts like I’m beneath him.
Sloane takes a step toward me, closing the space I made, nudging my duffel bag with her polished toe. “I’m not trying to start anything lasting. The exact opposite, actually.”
My mouth drops open of its own accord as I search for something to say. I’m not used to being the one requiring encouragement to be bad. Sloane puts a warm hand back on my shoulder, the heat of her skin soaking through the damp T-shirt that’s annoyingly in between our bodies. “Do you want to be irresponsible with me, Tucker?” Her lips curl into that smile again as she slides her hands up to loop around my neck.
And that’s just it. I do. I want to do everything with her. From the moment I saw her, sunlight gleaming off bronze skin, her bold approach in the water … I feel drawn to her. The sunburst pendant around her neck pulls me like a tow line.
Grentley has never done me any favors or been nice to anyone in my family. He’s a jerk, and he doesn’t like me anyway.
Fuck it.
I lean down, capturing her mouth with mine. The first touch of her lips is electric, soft, warm, and faintly tasting of bourbon and fig. I meant to start slow, to savor this, but the moment she responds—pressing herself against me, opening to me—allrestraint evaporates. This is worth whatever Grentley comes up with for payback.
My hands find her waist, then slide lower to cup her ass, lifting her against me. She makes a small sound of surprise when she feels my hard-on, then wraps her legs around my hips, deepening the kiss. The weight of her in my arms, the press of her core against my thickening cock—it's intoxicating.
I walk us to the nearest bed, lowering her onto it without breaking the kiss. Her hands are everywhere—tugging at my shirt, tracing the muscles of my back, threading through my hair. When we finally part for air, her chest is heaving, her lips swollen.
"Too fast?" I ask, bracing myself above her.
She answers by pulling my shirt over my head and tossing it aside. Her eyes roam over my chest, lingering on the tattoo again before she traces it with her fingertips. "Not fast enough," she says.
