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

While Heather auctions off another doctor, I drag Volkov out of the ballroom, pushing him through the nearest door.

It’s a library, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, dark wood paneling, and soft, dim lighting. Through the walls, we can hear Heather in the ballroom as the bidding continues.

“What was that?” I demand.

His eyes burn me. “A tax write-off.”

In the low lighting, the planes of my husband’s face look especially sharp, his under-eye circles even darker, and that pissed off, jaw-clenched expression only makes him hotter.

Anger pools in my abdomen. Or arousal. I’m not sure.

“That was you getting territorial. Control yourself, you animal.”

He glares down at me, stepping into my space. “That asshole was making a move on my wife. I had to do something.”

My stomach flips. “I’m not your wife.”

“Yes, you are.” He takes another step forward. My back hits the wall.

He looks to my mouth. Is he thinking about that kiss again? My pulse races with fury. He’s such an asshole.

An asshole who just spent a lot of money on me because he was jealous. I want to be mad—I am mad—but a tiny, miniscule part of me preens.

“I can’t stand you,” I whisper.

His fist comes to the wall, beside my head. “I hate you, too, Hellfire.”

He brings his mouth down to mine, hovering. It’s a new game for us—who will break first?

It won’t be me. I press my hand to his hard chest. Under my touch, his heart pounds. His scent makes it hard to focus.

“No more kissing,” I remind him, and his eyes flash.

His fingers trail along the neckline of my gown, sending sparks over my skin. I think my lashes flutter, like some swooning leading lady in an old Western. Holding my eyes, his fingers drag lower, beneath my neckline, challenging me. Daring me. Under his rough fingertips, my heart races, but I give him a cool, disinterested smirk.

I will not back down. I will not let him win.

“Tell me to stop.”

No. God, no. “I don’t care.”

I can play this game of chicken all day.

My gaze drops to the front of his pants, stretched out with an impressive erection. I swallow hard, heat moving through me. Volkov’s huge.

His fingers reach the valley between my breasts. Blood whistles in my ears, but I lift a hand and fake a yawn.

His lips come to my shoulder, stubble brushing my skin as I burn hotter. “A bow on each ankle like you’re pretending to be a good girl or something.” I shiver, and he makes a low noise of amusement. “Like that, do you, Hellfire? You like being called a good girl?”

The words good girl make my stomach dip. “No. I hate it.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m bored.” My full focus narrows to his lips following my neckline, moving down my chest. Between my legs, heat swirls, and—oh god—I’m actually wet.

This horrible game is actually turning me on. It’s not possible. There’s no way.

His fingers hook into my neckline and he pulls it down an inch, lips latching onto the sensitive skin between my breasts before he sucks. My eyes close, but I don’t dare make a sound. I’d never give him that satisfaction.

“Last chance,” he says, voice low and rasping, his eyes are dark like sin. Dark like midnight. Pupils blown wide, eyes glazed with desire.

“It’s okay if you’ve never gotten past this part.” My voice comes out breathier than I meant. This level of adrenaline in my bloodstream can’t be healthy. “I’ll point out where the clit is.”

He gives a short, unamused laugh before he drags my neckline down more, taking my bra cup with it, and pulls the stiff peak of my nipple between his lips.

My teeth clench at the intense sweep of pleasure through me as he sucks. Every roll and slide of his tongue on my breast tugs at my clit, like there’s a cord between the two. My panties are wet. My heart races harder than ever. Alexei Volkov, supreme asshole and controlling dickhead, has my nipple in his mouth, but I’m finding it difficult to care. This feels too good to string thoughts together.

His hand comes to my thigh, skimming over me, sending goosebumps across my skin. I vaguely remember wondering if the slit in this dress was appropriate for a work event.

“What are you doing?” I ask. “You hate me.”

“I do hate you.” He doesn’t look away. Why is that so hot? “But I still want to fuck you.”

“Maybe I should go get Dr. Handsome,” I say for some reason. I like playing with fire, I guess.

His gaze sharpens. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

His hand slips higher, pressing between my legs, over my damp panties, and hot, delicious sensation shoots through me.

Holy hell. Volkov and I are actually messing around right now. My body responds, insides turning molten, blood thickening, and intimate muscles clenching around nothing.

A low, stifled noise of pleased surprise rumbles in his chest. God, he’s tall. So broad, towering, and powerful. His fingers slip beneath the fabric of my panties. Immediately, he finds my clit, working it with the perfect friction. My knees wobble at the growing ache, and I bite back a moan.

It’s not because of him. I’ve never done this kind of thing with all my colleagues in the next room. It’s a thrill. Perhaps I’m an exhibitionist.

Clarity slices through my blurred thoughts. “Anyone could see.”

His strong throat works, eyes clouded with lust as his fingers work tight circles that make me feel like I might explode.

“After what just happened, do you think anyone would be surprised to find me in here, fucking my wife?”

Another shocking clench of heat. With his free hand, Volkov reaches for the door we just came through, flips the lock, before he waits, not moving, just watching me, breathing hard, searching my eyes.

“Tell me to stop, Hellfire.”

Inside me, something snaps. I want to fuck him, too, and it’s not just this messed-up game we’re playing. I want to make him lose control. Every time he looks at me, I want him to remember that the woman he finds so repulsive made him lose it.

“This is just sex,” I whisper.

We need to relieve the tension so we can spend the rest of this fake marriage ignoring each other. There’s no way I’m going to come from this, with him, but the urge is still there, shoving me forward.

“What else would it be?”noveldrama

“Just so we’re clear.”

I reach for his belt, fumbling. He pushes my hands out of the way, pulls himself out of his boxers, and I gape at the size of his thick cock, jutting out with moisture beading at the tip.

Every quip I made about his age, about his difficulty in the bedroom, skips around my brain, taunting me. Volkov having a cock like that has got to be a joke from the universe.

“Intimidated?” He arches an eyebrow.

“Hardly.”

A low, quiet laugh. A condom appears, he rolls it on, before he hoists my thigh up, slides my panties aside, gaze lingering on my heels for a moment before he nudges inside.

My head falls back, eyes closed, jaw slack as I accommodate the intense thickness. My god, he’s big.

“Okay?” he grits out, and deep in my chest, something twists. He’s not supposed to be checking in on me during a hate fuck.

“Barely feel it,” I gasp, palms flat against the wall. “So tiny. Like a baby carrot.”

I can barely string words together, it feels so good, and he’s not even fully in. He lets out a low, silent laugh like he knows I’m a dirty little liar, his hips thrusting and his cock stretching me until he’s fully seated.

Pleasure spirals around the base of my spine at the deep, intense fullness. Oh god. My pulse pounds in my ears. He pulls out and sinks back in with a hard thrust, and my spine bends at the urgent, delicious heat spreading through me.

He thrusts again, and then again, finding a punishing pace and dissolving my thoughts. The weight of his gaze winds me higher. The pressure inside me grows, doubling, tripling, electric currents running up and down my spine, a desperate ache gathering between my legs.

I stare at his mouth, slanting and taunting me, and desire pounds through me. His eyes burn, pupils blowing wide.

“We said no kissing,” he reminds me in a low voice.

“I know.” I swallow.

His head falls forward, resting his forehead on the wall as he tilts his face into my hair, inhaling deeply. “I’ll make an exception if you ask very nicely.”

“No, thanks.” I try not to moan the words.

“You want to.”

“I don’t.” I do.

“Beg me, Hellfire. Beg me to kiss you and I will.”

I’m so, so tempted, but I’d die before I gave him the satisfaction. “Never. You’re bad at it anyway.”

“Keep telling yourself that, good girl.”

My muscles clench around him. Volkov fucks me harder, like he hates me. Like he’s putting all his frustration into this. His bowtie has come loose, dangling around his neck.

I hate that I’m going to be thinking about this for the rest of my life.

A spark ignites low in my abdomen. Oh god. This is actually working. No—absolutely not. I don’t come during sex. Like he can tell I’m having an existential crisis, my husband fucks me harder, faster, with more urgency.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself, Doctor.”

There’s something about his sarcastic, knowing, high-handed tone that makes tension coil tighter between my legs. I shouldn’t like being spoken to like that, by him, but I do.

“Go fuck yourself,” I whisper. Not my wittiest insult but I’m struggling to remember my name. I’d rather burst every blood vessel in my brain than give him the satisfaction of a moan, though.

His mouth hooks in a cruel smile like he knows I’m holding back. “It’s okay, you can admit it.”

Hot. So fucking hot. Who knew he had this in him?

I stare at a spot on the other side of the room, unseeing, thinking about the grossest things I’ve seen in my job, scrabbling for control. Anything to distract myself.

Orgasms are mental. I hate him and I won’t come. He’s not even touching my clit. He’s using me like a sex toy, hardly even touching me.

Another swirl of heat. Oh god. Do I actually like that? What’s wrong with me? Sensations swirl together, tightening and clenching. My skin burns hotter. I can’t think. I suck in a sharp breath. Oh my god. Not going to come not going to come not going to come. Not here. I can’t. I hate him. My eyes close as the heat inside me gathers, that intense unfurling feeling starting. I can hear myself panting.

Is this what sex is like for other people? Because it’s never been like this for me.

“Oh, no you fucking don’t,” he growls in my ear, and a jolt of lust spikes through me at the low, hungry tenor. “Don’t you dare come.” He fucks me harder. Harder. Oh god. I can’t hold back. “This is for me,” he rasps.

His thrusts turn jerky and urgent before he tenses. With a stifled groan, he buries his face in my neck. Inside me, I feel him pulsing.

For a long moment, we’re frozen. He’s still inside me, we’re both breathing hard, and in the ballroom next door, I hear Heather wrapping things up. I have the sensation of stopping short at a cliff’s edge, pulse racing with adrenaline, left completely unsatisfied.

I look up, and my heart stops at the surprise in his eyes. So that wasn’t normal for him, either. I don’t even want to think about that.

Alarm bells go off in my head. What am I doing? I can’t be having sex with Volkov. He didn’t even let me come, the asshole.

With a sharp, sobering breath, I press a hand to his chest. He steps away immediately. Arousal still twists low in my abdomen as I put myself back to rights, adjusting my dress and neckline, feeling the weight of his gaze before I walk back through the door without another word.