Crew (Hockey Royalty #3)

5. Crew

Chapter 5

Crew

T here is something about this girl that's different. I mean I could list a bunch of superficial stuff like how skittish her body language is, but how ballsy her brain is. She says stuff that a lot of puck bunnies wouldn't dare, even though they think it, yet she's kept her hands to herself since our kiss and her eyes constantly dart to the exits, first in the lobby, and now in the hallway as we step off the elevator. She definitely knows who I am, and knows hockey, but isn't a bunny. Yet she's taking me to her hotel room.

I’m so confused. But I’m also trusting my instincts, like my dad told me to earlier, and I don’t feel like she’s a risk. She’s something… But it ain’t a threat.

I'm about to ask her if she's sure about this because honestly, I am so not about persuading a partner. They have to be all in on their own. But then she reaches out and takes my hand. I lace our fingers and it makes the corners of her mouth perk up a bit.

A room service guy passes us in the hall pushing a cart of empty dishes and he smiles fleetingly. We look like a couple stumbling home after a night out in Sin City. I can tell by the way his smile is sweet and not snarky. We don't look like a debaucherous one-night stand, but that's what we are. I have to admit I don't usually hold hands with hookups but this feels right.

She pulls her room key out again and stops at the last door in the hallway. Instead of swiping the key card, she presses her ear to the door. I smirk. “Making sure my… suite mates aren’t home yet.”

"Pretty sure Vegas is big on the soundproofing."

“Because of all the mafia hits that used to happen here?”

I blink and a gust of laughter huffs out of my lungs. “No. Because of privacy and the whole what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas thing. Your mind is dark, Fireball.”

"I've been gently reminded recently that the world is dark," she mutters, and before I can ask what the hell that means she swipes her key card and pushes the door open.

The only light in the suite is what filters in from the strip below the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the wall in the living room.

There are three doors, two on the right and one on the left. She leads me to the one on the left, opens it, and tugs us inside, closing and locking it immediately. There are no lights on and the curtains are pulled tight so it’s dark. I use my free hand to grope for the light switch. I find it and the room lights up. There’s a queen-size bed, and in the corner of the room, under the window, is an open suitcase. Beside it, in a pile, I see the workout gear she was in earlier at the hotel gym.

I let go of her hand, turn to face her, and cup her cheek. She looks up at me with big, petrified chocolate brown eyes. My heart skips in my chest. “Hey. Are you okay?”

She nods.

My heart stutters again and I drop my hand. “You know there’s no gun to your head and as much as that kiss was incredible, and I know anything else would be too, I am okay with calling this a night.”

She blinks and swallows so hard I can almost hear it. Why is she so afraid? “No. I want to have sex. With you.”

Whoa. Okay. I guess? That glimmer of uncertainty in those beautiful eyes is throwing me off. “What’s your name?”

“Never mind that,” she says, shaking her head and then stepping toward me.

I gently palm her shoulder to keep space between us. “I mean I know this is a one-and-done type of night but I should at least have a first name, right?”

“Wrong.”

“You know my name.”

“Half the world knows your name. And your dad’s. And your brother’s and your uncle’s for that matter.”

Oh. So she doesn’t just know hockey. She knows hockey. The world might know I’m Avery Westwood’s son and have a twin brother I play with, but you have to dig deeper into the sport to know that my mom’s brother, Seb Deveau, was also a pro.

“Are you a closet puck bunny, Fireball?” I flash her a smirk so she knows I’m teasing.

“I am probably the farthest thing you can get from that,” she replies with a sheepish smile. “I avoid hockey like the plague but… well I have…”

“Let me guess,” I interrupt because I’ve heard this before. “You have brothers or uncles or your dad who are hockey fans?”

“All of the above.”

She looks away. Suddenly she seems skittish again. “I make you nervous.”

She shrugs a little and looks around the room, but I don’t know why. I think she’s just trying to avoid eye contact. “Everything makes me nervous. I’m horrible that way.”

“I’m sorry. Anxiety sucks,” I tell her. “I’ve had some incredibly intense bouts of it in my life. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

She finally lifts her gaze to me. “You? Mr. Cocky Confidence? Son of the King? Born with blades strapped to your feet and athletic excellence in your bloodstream? So hot that you probably dehydrate any woman that looks at you too long?”

“I’m sorry, are you my new PR person? Because you should be.” I smile at her. She’s stroking my ego and I have to admit it’s almost as appealing as if she was stroking something else.

She gives me the cheekiest grin while rolling her eyes at the same time. Her hands go to her tiny hips as she tilts her head. “Tell me more.”

“Well, first off I wasn’t born with skates strapped to my feet.” I walk toward the bed. I can feel her eyes track me. “Although technically they did put very tiny knitted booties made to look like skates on our feet for our newborn photoshoot. And that was released to the media so they keep posting it and I will never live it down.”

“I meant tell me more about the anxiety.”

I quirk my lip. “I knew what you meant.”

I sit on the bed. I can see her tense up. She is not ready for this. “Well… there was a time in my life when I… made some wrong choices and instead of admitting defeat I doubled down and went the fake-it-till-you-make-it route. And spoiler alert: sometimes you do not, in fact, make it. But you develop a shit ton of stress and anxiety trying.”

“Huh.”

“Do you know enough about hockey and my family to know I was once married?”

“Married? Wow.” She cocks her head again and folds her arms across her chest, not in a defensive way, but a protective one. “And a failing marriage gave you anxiety.”

I lean back on my arms, my spread fingers sliding easily across the five-star sheets. “Actually giving up was the least stressful thing about my marriage. The holding on was the anxiety part.”

She nods slowly. I have no idea why I'm word-vomiting my failed marriage to a stranger I'm just supposed to be getting naked with. But the more I share the less tense she looks. And I’ve got an idea on how to make us both less tense.

“Got any alcohol?”

“It’s a suite in a luxury hotel. Duh.”

“Grab some of those fancy liquors off the bar. I promise to pay for them.” I use my index finger to make a cross over my heart.

She hesitates a half-second but then walks over to the minibar in the corner of the room and surveys the selection. She walks back over to stand in front of me at the foot of the bed and presents the stash.

Spiced rum. Premium gin and…. Fireball.

I grin. “Good girl.”

I gently sweep the bottles out of her open palm. I tilt my head to find her gazing down at me, looking almost sad. “I am so sick of being a good girl.”

“Then let’s play a game, Fireball,” I suggest and pat the bed beside me. “Ease you into your bad girl era.”

She slowly turns and lowers her cute behind onto the edge of the mattress beside me. Her bare thigh brushes mine and a warm tingle settles in my lower abdomen. I crack the seal on the bottle of Fireball. “Two truths and a lie. Know it?”

“Yeah.”

"Well, we're gonna play two lies and one truth. Similar premise. If we guess the wrong thing as the truth, we drink."

“Okay…” She’s skeptical but she’s willing. I’m down with that. I may not get laid tonight but I am going to have some fun. This girl intrigues me and I’m enjoying just hanging with her, to be honest. “You go first.”

I smile. “I once got caught having sex by my coach. I have a pierced cock. I once turned orange.”

She blinks those deep, delicious brown eyes before letting them drop directly to my cock. I wiggle my eyebrows when she looks back up. “You… pierced it?”

“Is that your guess?”

“Umm… yeah. Sure.”

I hand her the Fireball. “Drink.”

She looks so relieved I laugh. “I thought about getting it pierced. They say the pleasure is off-the-charts, even made an appointment once but chickened out because my brother Nash kept sending me stories about infections and one dude had to have his penis amputated.”

“One dude out of millions has an extreme issue and you chicken out?” She looks adorably judgy right now.

“One amputated dick is one too many, Fireball,” I say in a deadly serious tone that has her bursting into giggles. The sound makes my cock jump. It’s hot. She is hot. So fucking hot. “The truth is my skin once turned a very pale orange color because of a natural supplement I was taking. It lasted over a month and I was only fifteen and wanted to die.”

Her giggles subside. “Fifteen is a tough time to be orange. I’m sorry.”

“Your turn,” I say and wait as she thinks way too hard about what she’s going to say. “How about throwing some names out?”

I don't know why I want to know her name so badly. I've slept with people whose names I never got before. It's not ideal but it's not a deal breaker. She stares at the half-empty mini bottle of booze in her hand. Her nails aren't painted, which is different. They're perfectly shaped and glossy like they have clear polish on them, but most girls I pick up in bars have brightly painted nails. Some of the dudes too. Her fingers are long and narrow like a piano player and she doesn't have a single visible tattoo—even in the short dress she's got on. I'm still hoping I get to discover if there are hidden ones.

She nibbles her bottom lip again, but then tucks her dark silky hair behind her ears and steadies her gaze on me. “My name is Olivia. My name is JoAnne. My name is Callie.”

I study her. What does she look like? I rule out JoAnne almost immediately. It’s too old soul for her. She’s too skittish to be an old soul. Callie is nice and more modern but… she doesn’t feel like a Callie.

“This is doing nothing to curb my anxiety,” she whispers, and I see her cheeks are pink under my scrutinizing gaze. It is a bit ridiculous I’m putting this much effort into it. There are no real clues.

“Olivia.”

Her startled expression morphs into a pout. “No fair. You got it right. How did you know?”

“Shot in the dark,” I tell her with a cheeky grin. “I have a lot of dumb luck.”

She makes an incoherent noise and flops backward on the bed. "So now what? I lost so do I have to drink again? Fair warning I am not a big drinker. Already had more than my fair share tonight so I'm going to have to forfeit the game."

“That isn’t what happens when you lose a round.” I slide back, lowering myself and turning so I’m beside her on the bed, elbow bent, head resting on my hand as I stare at her. “If you lose a round, I get to kiss you.”

Her eyelashes flutter as I lean in, and she wraps an arm around my neck, which I take as the go-ahead. The kiss is heavy and hot, right out of the gate. She’s kissing me back with the same horny energy I am kissing her with and so I slide over, moving my body so a leg is over hers and my torso is pressed into her side. She keeps kissing me, her tongue dancing with mine. I slide the rest of my body on top of hers, and she doesn't stop me. In fact, she loops her other arm around my neck and keeps me in place.

“Well that hardly feels like losing,” she whispers when our lips finally break apart.

I wink at her. “I’m glad I know your name.”

“Why?”

“Because I know what to moan later.”

“Oh god would’ve done just fine.”

“Goddess,” I correct.

“Sexist,” she all but pants as I nip at her earlobe and brazenly grab a handful of her perfect ass in my palm.

“Nah. I’m okay with gods too,” I reply and wait… for the muscle tension of shock I expect that announcement to bring.

But there isn’t any. I watch her face. She’s focused on the tip of my only chest tattoo. I have the first two buttons of my shirt undone and gravity must have it gaping so she can see that over my heart are two crossed hockey sticks with initials in each quarter made by the crossed sticks. Well, except for one.

I lie flatter on her so that she can’t stare into my shirt and when her eyes meet mine, she repeats my words. “Gods?”

I don't always tell one-night stands I'm bi. In fact, I used to never tell anyone. It was my dirty little secret. Now… since my marriage imploded, it's not so much a secret as a fact that I am soft-launching to the world.

Nothing tenses. Not a single part of her body. Instead, she slides her lips to my ear and sucks so gently and sweetly on the lobe it sends surges of warmth zipping through my veins. This isn't the usual one-night stand behavior, and that's kind of cool. This woman is an enigma and I didn't realize how much of a turn-on that is.

“Gods. Goddess. You’ll call me anything, won’t you?”

Okay, so the subtle meaning flew right over her head. So much for soft-launching my sexuality. And I'm enjoying her lips on me too much to derail this moment to make a statement. I'll never see her after tonight anyway, so might as well stay on topic. And the topic is pleasure.

“I’ll call you Olivia,” I murmur, my hands in her hair. “After I make you come so hard you forget your name.”

“Oh Jesus, this is happening…” she whispers. I stare at her and she bites her bottom lip as she gazes right back at me from under her thick, dark lashes that don’t look like they’ve got a lick of mascara on them. Natural beauty this one.

“It’s only happening if you want it to happen. Do you?”

“Yes.” She says it with confidence as her hands slide down my back. “You. Just you. Tonight. Just tonight.”

I really like the confidence in her voice. She’s choosing me and I know that’s important. She’s fucking gorgeous and charismatic. She could have brought that other guy to her hotel room tonight. Hell, I doubt there is a single straight or bi man in Vegas who wouldn’t want to be here. But she wants me and that feels great. I kiss her again. The taste of cinnamon from the Fireball is still on her tongue.

I roll my hips, gently, slowly. Normally I’m not this casual with hook-ups. There’s usually a sense of urgency on both our parts. We know what we’re here for and we’re ready to get to business. But Olivia isn’t rushing so neither am I.

Her hands land on my ass and she squeezes. I respond appropriately by rolling my hips again. Her legs have spread to either side of my hips and there’s a short, sharp intake of breath as my very hard cock ruts up against her very soft center.

“Fireball, I’m gonna need to loosen my pants or take a cold shower,” I confess against her cheek. “Your call.”

And that’s when I feel her hands slip around my waist and start unbuttoning my fly.