One Night with the Rebel Page 3

  She parts her knees and I touch her calf, bracing myself above her with my cock in my hand. I rub the tip of it along her damp center, and she makes a pleasure-filled sound that hits me square in the chest.

  “We shouldn’t,” I say weakly. But fuck, do I want to.

  “Just do it.”

  With a slow inhale, I steady myself above her and push in about an inch—just the wide tip—into the tightest heat I’ve ever felt. Pleasure ripples through me, and I draw in a slow, shaky breath.

  My hips flex, inching forward again, but at the same moment, Eden winces in pain. I look down to see her eyes are squeezed closed and her fingers are gripping my forearm. Immediately, I stop and then withdraw.

  She looks up at me in confusion. “I said go ahead.”

  But I’m already pulling off the condom and tossing it into the wastebasket across the room. “Not tonight. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She gives me a soft, almost grateful look, and I know I made the right call.

  “There’s no hurry,” I say, but I can barely hear my own words over of the rush of blood thrumming through my veins.

  “We can do other things,” she says.

  A chuckle pushes past my lips. “I like other things.”

  With two hands on my chest, Eden gives me a little shove. I lie down on my back and then she’s lowering herself until she’s eye level with my groin. She gives my dick a quick appraisal and then meets my eyes.

  With a smirk, I lace my fingers behind my head, and Eden laughs.

  “I’ve only done this once before,” she says, lifting my cock from its resting place on my stomach and treating it to a soft kiss. “Is this okay?”

  A war of emotions clash inside me. First, yes, this is so much more than okay. And second, the desire flashes through me to hunt down and tear the dude apart limb by limb who she did this with before.

  “It feels good,” I say instead, touching her cheek with my thumb. “Can you grip me tighter. Move your hand . . .”

  “Like this?”

  “Fuck.”

  She smiles and licks my cock while her hand continues stroking.

  It’s not long before I feel the familiar tingle at the base of my spine. Her mouth is hot and looks so pretty moving along my dick. It’s too much.

  “Eden, fuck. I’m gonna . . .”

  Her lips close around me as I erupt. The orgasm rips through me with such force that I jerk into her mouth. It seems to go on forever until I’m breathless and light-headed.

  When I look at where she’s perched between my knees, she’s smiling sweetly at me.

  “Good?” she asks.

  “Fuck,” I mutter again. “Get up here.”

  I haul her up the bed until she’s sprawled out on my chest. I want to get her off again, but Eden seems content to lie here with me. When I look down at her face, her eyes are closed. She looks sleepy and relaxed, and I smile.

  It takes me a while to relax because I still can’t believe she’s in my bed.

  Eden Wynn is in my bed. Never in all my years did I ever think this was a possibility.

  Eventually, I fall asleep with Eden resting on my chest and my arm around her waist, holding her close.

  • • •

  In the morning, the only reminders that Eden was here are her lingering scent on my pillow, my almost empty bottle of whiskey, and the torn notebook page she’s left on my desk.

  My heart rate increases as I anticipate what she could have written. Did last night mean as much to her as it did to me?

  But as I begin to read, my lungs expel a sharp breath.

  THIS WAS A MISTAKE.

  I’M SORRY. I HAVE TO GO.

  Her words are hastily scrawled.

  But their effect on my heart, unfortunately, is much longer lasting.

  3

  * * *

  EDEN

  Six years later

  Holt was right that night. Alex wasn’t worthy of the gift I saved for him, but I gave it to him anyway. Several months later, which is a story for another time.

  Alex and I dated for almost five years, and I supported him through everything. His grueling training schedule, the wins, the losses, the cross-country trades. I even moved to freaking Canada for him, which ended disastrously one season later when Alex got in a fistfight with his own goalie and was released from the team.

  Alex was the reason I became interested in hockey. My grandfather owned the team in Boston for as long as I could remember, but I never cared about hockey until I started dating Alex. Then I went to every game, proudly wearing his jersey as I cheered from the box, and cried when his team won their conference finals. My grandfather loved my newfound interest in the sport he’d spent much of his life working to further. Finally, something we could share.

  But then my grandfather passed away, of pneumonia of all things. He spent six weeks in the hospital, the last three hooked up to a ventilator before quietly passing in his sleep.

  And now I’m the first female owner of a major hockey team, and the youngest owner by more than a dozen years.

  My critics laugh at me behind my back. Sports commentators make somber predictions about how long I’ll last. No one has any faith in me. I’m not even sure I have faith in myself.

  Fun fact . . . After I was named team owner, protesters gathered outside the stadium. People made signs—signs with my name on them—demanding I sell the team because they think I’m going to run the franchise into the ground.

  Yeah, I might fail spectacularly, but I’m going to do everything in my power to keep that from happening.

  For the last several years, I’ve lived and breathed hockey, and shadowed my grandfather’s every move for the past three. Once he saw how serious I was about the franchise, he took me under his wing. I think we both assumed I’d spend ten or more years under his guidance, preparing for a leadership role in this organization.

  But I only got two.

  Because while Grandpa Pete was healthy, he’d also smoked for forty years. It did irreparable damage to his lungs, and he wasn’t strong enough to fight off the pneumonia-like illness he came down with last winter.

  Even when they admitted him to the hospital, our family wasn’t concerned. “He’s as strong as an ox, Eden,” my dad said, smiling. “He’ll pull through.”

  I believed that. We all did. Even when Grandpa Pete was sent to the ICU and hooked up to a ventilator. After he was sedated, I could no longer speak to him, could no longer ask him all the burning questions I still needed answers to.

  Three weeks later, he was gone. It still doesn’t quite seem real. And now I’m the owner of a struggling hockey team.

  I feel lost. Alone. And scared.

  These are new feelings for me. I’ve always been so confident, ready to tackle anything that comes my way. And of course, I can’t admit to anyone how absolutely terrified I am. Never let ’em see you sweat, my grandfather used to say. I have to make him proud . . . except there’s one more issue I have to contend with. And it’s the elephant in the room no one dares to talk to me about.

  Alex Braun has been traded to my team in the off-season.

  It was his dream to play for Boston, and now he does. I can’t help but wonder if that’s why he dated me to begin with, because of the connections I have.

  Was our entire relationship some big ruse?

  Well, too bad for him, because although he might have gotten his dream job—a spot on one of the country’s most-loved hockey teams—he now works for me.

  The Boston Titans acquired him as a new trade in the off-season before I was named my grandfather’s successor. Alex Braun is now our starting center, and I’m the brand-new owner.

  Our breakup six months ago has been spectacularly splashed across the sports media outlets, dominating the headlines. It was annoying. And accurate. Because while I once loved Alex Braun, now I can’t stand the bastard. Things ended abruptly, and with a lot of animosity between us. Cheating rumors swirled in the media and on gos
sip blogs.

  I don’t know what to believe, but I know I’ll never go back to being Alex Braun’s girlfriend. On top of that, the season is set to start next week, and I don’t know how I’ll survive the shit show that is about to become my life.

  Good times.

  “Morning, Miss Wynn.”

  Lester Benson peers at me over a mug of coffee. He manages the front office and is invaluable to me, both personally and professionally.

  Too absorbed in this expense report I’m going over, I didn’t hear him come in.

  Les pauses beside my desk, leveling me with a heavy stare. He was Grandpa’s right hand, working together with him for almost two decades. I trust the guy completely, and am so thankful he’s taken me under his wing.

  He’s almost like a father figure, which is nice, given that my own father can’t figure out why I’m interested in this sport at all. Dad wanted to sell the team off to the highest bidder after Grandpa’s funeral. I had to fight for it. And Les helped me.

  When I look up and meet Les’s eyes, he looks tired, like he hasn’t been sleeping well.

  “We need to talk about your security detail.”

  “Not this again.” I roll my eyes. “I don’t need a babysitter, Les.”

  Oh, that’s the other thing. Apparently, I’ve been getting threats. Nothing credible, as far as I know, just a couple of angry fans most likely looking to stir up trouble. Some people don’t like the idea of a woman in charge, especially a young woman with perky breasts and no wrinkles.

  But I know hockey, and I love this team and won’t let us fail. I’ll make my grandfather proud. And I’m certainly not about to let one dickhead of an ex-boyfriend, or a couple of cranky fans, stop me.

  Les sets his mug on my desk and gives me that fatherly look that always melts my heart. “With the season opening days away and your schedule jam-packed . . . traveling and staying in hotel rooms, living alone when you’re here . . . it’s the smart move, Eden. You know it’s what Pete would want.”

  I swallow. Grandpa Pete would have been adamant about my safety . . . Les is right about that. There would have been no room for negotiation on this topic if he were still alive, and yet that’s all I’ve been doing for two weeks. I don’t want to give in, but I’m tired of arguing.

  The team already has a security crew. All they’re pushing for is to add a security contractor to look after me.

  “Fine. If you must. But he’d better know to stay out of my way and let me do my job.”

  “Of course, Miss Wynn.” Les’s bushy gray eyebrows lift. He was close with my grandpa, and I know Les misses his presence in these offices almost as much as I do. “It’s already been arranged. Your new head of security will be here in fifteen minutes so you two can get acquainted and set up some parameters.”

  I heave out a long exhale. “Fine.”

  Pressing my fingers against my temples to stave off an impending headache, I blink at my laptop screen. It’s been so hard to focus since Grandpa died. It’s like all my motivation up and vanished. I can’t concentrate on one task for longer than ten freaking minutes, and it’s driving me insane.

  Somehow I doubt that that’s going to get any easier with some bodyguard watching my every move. I value my personal space and my independence, and I’m not in the mood to play nice right now. There’s too much to do. Too much riding on this.

  The intercom on my desk phone buzzes, and my assistant’s voice rasps pleasantly through the speaker. “Miss Wynn, I have a Mr. Rossi here to see you.”

  Rossi.

  My eyes widen, and I glance at Les.

  “Oh, good. He’s early.” Les nods, oblivious to my sudden panic. “He’s the best there is, just like Pete would have wanted for you.”

  “Thanks, Aspen.” Swallowing, I straighten my knee-length pencil skirt as I rise from my desk. My high-heeled feet carry me toward the door on unsteady legs.

  Les follows, and we both pause as my fingers curl around the doorknob.

  “Les, what’s my new bodyguard’s first name?”

  “Not a bodyguard. Think of him as extra security. You’re an extension of the team now.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fine. What’s my new head of security’s first name?”

  “Holt, ma’am. Holt Rossi.”

  4

  * * *

  HOLT

  Eden made her choice all those years ago. She left my bed, with a hastily scrawled note as her only good-bye, and it was Alex she ultimately chose.

  Even then, I couldn’t bring myself to regret that night we shared. I knew I was on borrowed time with a girl like her. There’s no way a guy like me, an imposter, would wind up with her in the end. The real world doesn’t work that way. I was nothing more than the blue-collar guy providing a cameo in her too-rich-for-my-blood world.

  But for one blissful night, she was mine. She bandaged me up and laid her head on my chest, the scent of her floral shampoo filling my head and affecting my judgment.

  On paper, we don’t make sense. Her family is practically royalty, her father the former governor of Massachusetts. Old money, with a mansion in the city and a vacation cottage in Chappaquiddick. Yeah, they’ve had their fair share of scandals, but that’s how it is with the wealthy. Sometimes they get caught, and other times their transgressions get swept quietly under the rug. That’s just the way it is.

  My family? It’s a stretch to even call them that. We share DNA and nothing else.

  I have an older brother doing time for armed robbery, a father who split when I was little, and a mom who’s been in and out of rehab so many times, I’ve lost count. We didn’t have big family gatherings or a turkey on the table at Thanksgiving when I was growing up, and there weren’t wrapped presents under the tree for me when I was little. By the time I hit my teens, all I wanted in the world was my shot to get out.

  In high school, I applied for every scholarship I could find. When the letter from Sutton University came offering me a full ride, for a second, I almost threw it in the trash. It was too good to be true. My older brother was probably fucking with me, sending it as a joke.

  Except it wasn’t a joke. The letter was real, printed on Sutton’s letterhead. I ran my thumb across that raised emblem so many times, I wore it down to practically nothing.

  The email address for the lady in admissions was real too. She replied two days later with all the details about my financial aid package.

  Going to Sutton got me out, just like I’d always wanted. But the girls I met there, girls like Eden? Well, I knew they’d never want a guy like me, not once they learned the truth. And I told Eden so much of my truth that night.

  Looking back, I have no idea why I even did it. Normally, I’m so guarded with my history. The less people know, the better. But those big blue eyes locked onto mine, and all this shit started spilling out like word vomit. I couldn’t lie to her. And having the chance to keep that pretty blue gaze directed my way for a while . . . it felt damn good.

  But just as I predicted, by morning, the spell was broken and Eden was gone. Never to return to my bed.

  I have to say, though, I didn’t expect her to be the one to tame Braun. The guy was a douche and a player, but it seemed, at least for a time, that he set aside his playboy ways and became devoted only to her.

  Seeing them together was a punch to the gut. Catching glimpses of them on campus was one thing, but seeing them together on the news sites was another.

  Eden only grew more beautiful with age, and my resentment for Alex Braun deepened with each passing year. They were the media’s golden couple, constantly photographed together at hockey games and charity events. Paparazzi hiding in palm trees even caught shots of them stealing relaxing moments at a tropical resort in the Caribbean.

  Fucking annoying is what it was. Especially because the closest thing I’ve ever had to a tropical vacation was that time I took a wrong turn on the interstate and ended up on Long Island.

  And now I’m here—at Elite Airlines Stadi
um—about to come face-to-face with Eden Wynn again.

  I don’t follow the news coverage of her these days like I used to. But I know she and Braun broke up. That her grandfather died, and she’s now the owner of the Boston Titans.

  Her high-profile job means she’s attracted some enemies, and it’s going to be my job to protect her.

  Time will tell if I can do that without losing a piece of myself again.

  • • •

  Six years is a long time. I should have been more prepared. But maybe you never fully get over the one who got away. Maybe there will always be some small part of me that wonders . . . what if?

  And when I enter Eden’s office, my first thought is not a very professional one.

  Holy hell. I want to bite into her like a cookie.

  My greedy eyes drink her in . . . from her long dark-blond hair that curls slightly at the ends, to her killer figure encased in a simple black pencil skirt and a silk top. Her eyes are as blue as I remember, but they seem deeper, wiser somehow.

  I guess that makes sense. She’s been through some shit since I last saw her, losing her grandfather and enduring a very public breakup. Things like that can take a toll on a person.

  “Miss Wynn.” I tip my chin in her direction, keeping my expression cool.

  A smile lifts her full mouth. “Really, Holt? I think we’re beyond last names at this point, don’t you?”

  I return her easy smile, pretending I’m not basically losing my shit right now. “I don’t know. It’s been a minute.”

  “A minute . . . or five years?”

  “Six,” I say, correcting her. Shit. I sound like I’m keeping score, and I guess I am.

  Eden’s smile widens a little more at my admission. “You’re right. But at any rate, call me Eden.”

  “Of course,” I say, and then my next thought manages to slip out. “It’s good to see you again.”

  She motions me over to the empty chair at the conference table in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows in her office. There’s no handshake or friendly hug, and I’m grateful for that. Because while I’m holding it together, I don’t know how I’d manage touching her.