Gloves Off: a marriage of convenience hockey romance (Vancouver Storm Book 4)

Volkov’s kiss is hard, urgent, and desperate, like he has a point to prove. His tongue slides against mine, his stubble scrapes my skin, and a low, hungry groan rumbles in his chest. His fingers flexing on my scalp, sending sparks of pleasure down my neck. My thoughts whirl, pinwheeling and spinning out.

For someone who didn’t bat an eye at me laying in lingerie next to him three nights in a row, Volkov kisses me like he wants me. Heat spills through my limbs, rising on my skin, settling between my legs.

He said he wasn’t attracted to me, but he kisses me like he’s powerless. He kisses me like this is going to go so much further, like we’re seconds from tearing our clothes off.

My backside hits the car. I didn’t even notice him walking me backward.

Another noise slips out of him—kind of a huh, like he’s surprised but not upset about it. Like he knew it.

The memory of the team dinner kiss rushes back at me, full force. I was wrong about that kiss. It was that good. Just like this kiss is that good.

I hate that I’m clawing right back at him, tugging his hair, feeling his hard chest, his soft T-shirt, inhaling him, letting him coax my lips apart and taste me.

Letting him take control. He kisses me like he’s in charge, and deep down, a tiny speck of me likes that.

The kiss changes, turning deeper, like he’s trying to consume me. My thoughts blur, my skin goes hot, and every nerve in my body feels charged. My brain is full of Pop Rocks, sparking and cracking as Volkov kisses the hell out of me.

How am I going to coach soccer tonight? After this, I won’t be able to see straight.

His big arm loops around my waist, hauling me to him, our hips flush against each other. Something hard notches between my legs, and my eyes go wide and unseeing.noveldrama

He’s hard. I want to say something cool and witty, like how’s that for a sack of potatoes.

I don’t, though, because more than anything, I want to keep kissing him. Helpless, I melt into him.

Who kisses like this? Where’d he learn these moves? I scrabble at his chest, fisting his T-shirt in my hands.

A startling realization hits me—his arm around me feels familiar. Too familiar. My eyes go wide, gazing up into his with shock. I stiffen; he drops his arm and steps back, breathing hard.

Any problems last night? I’d asked the first morning. Nope, he’d said, but he didn’t meet my eyes.

I did sleepwalk. He lied. Oh god. My face burns hotter. Who knows what I was doing all night? Oh god oh god oh god.

I hate being out of control like this in front of him. I hate him seeing my weakness. He was probably saving it for the right moment so he could wield my humiliation like a knife.

He’s still breathing hard, watching me with a slant to his mouth. His throat works. “Have a great night, Hellfire.”

Without another word, he gets into a waiting car and I watch it drive away, arousal, surprise, and confusion swirling through me.