Page 70 of Holding Penalty

Nash’s voice is a lewd purr in my ear, like he’s paying me back for making him sweat with my riding comment moments ago. Flames lick through my core as I imagine him finding the right angle with his hips between my legs.

Nash maneuvers Milly so we’re facing the camera. He leans his scruffy chin on my shoulder and whispers, “Smile.”

I try to push the heat out of my cheeks and smile as we hold the pose for a couple seconds.

“Alright, that should do it,” I say, my voice sounding too squeaky in my dry throat. “We can get down now.”

But just at that moment, Milly bellows a loud neigh, her head rears back, and her front hooves come off the ground.

I gasp, falling back against Nash’s chest. He straightens his posture, and his muscles coil and dance as they fight to maintain balance. His thighs flex into rock-hard slabs as his legs squeeze against my hips to hold me in place. His knuckles turn white, pulling heavily on the reins, trying to wrestle some control over Milly.

“Whoa, girl,” he says, his voice firm but soothing. He sounds entirely too much like an experienced cowboy, and it turns me on entirely too much, especially with my heart already tap dancing in my chest.

He manages to restrain her, and she settles back on the ground. When her hooves land on the grass, my body shifts forward, the saddle’s pommel pressing hard between my legs, and a wave of pleasure expands through me.

The sensation is so intense, heightened by Nash’s body covering me, his muscles so corded and tight that I feel their sharp outline underneath his clothes. I clench my teeth to bite back a whimper.

Marco returns at just the right moment to help Nash calm the horse.

But my body doesn’t calm down for a long time. Not as we leave the zoo, not when we get home, not after I post the picture of us on Instagram, not after I crawl into bed.

Not until I succumb to the winding ache between my legs and get myself off in Nash’s bed for a second time, with him sleeping on the couch right outside the bedroom door.

32

NASH

The first regular-season game of the year.

The ice is actually vibrating under our blades from the noise of the crowd when we skate onto the rink. I’ve never seen anything like the level of excitement the Austin fans have for our team this season.

The city is starving for pro sports success at the top level, and this year, the Alligators are in the perfect position to feed them. We’ve got an incredibly talented roster, and the strong ending to last season proved that we’ve finally found our rhythm and learned to put it all together on the ice.

The sight of us lifting the Stanley Cup trophy at the end of the season flashes in my mind, and it looks so believable, so real, that a thrill runs through me.

But that’s not the only reason I’m brimming with excitement right now.

Tonight is the first time Piper’s here to see me play.

My eyes scan the crowd, where almost every fan is on their feet. I know it’s a long shot to be able to spot any one person from out here, especially with the lights shining above and obscuring my vision, but …

My breath stalls in my chest. My gaze falls on Piper, jumping up and down, her mouth open in a cheer, and wearing the team jersey.

She looks at me, our eyes catching. She turns around to show me her back—and my name written across it, above my number.

Time stands still. My jaw drops, mouth hanging open in wonder. A feeling I’ve never felt before and can’t describe sweeps through me. I could swear that the blades of my skates were floating above the ice right now.

This marriage is fake. Totally, completely fake. But seeing Piper Dashwood wearing my name on her back feels so fucking right. I don’t know how to square the fact of what this arrangement is with the overwhelming feeling that seeing my wife wearing my jersey awakens in me.

A sharp determination threads through me as I join the pregame huddle. Feeling Piper’s attention still on me, I’m swelled with a superhuman sense of purpose.

I need to score a goal while my wife’s watching me. I don’t just need it—I’m going to. I feel it with irrational conviction.

“Get the puck to me,” I say to the team, body humming with energy that I’m dying to burn off by firing the puck into the back of a net.

Cooper, who usually handles our face-offs, arches a brow at me. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I nod. “I’m putting it in the net.”