Firebird (The Firebird Trilogy #1) (13 page)

“You’re a delightful liar, Aleksandr Volynsky.”

“I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. Then you’d know how beautiful you are. And I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”

She drew her fingertips over his scruffy cheek, his chin. He gazed at her with all the adoration the universe could hold. Opening the door and peering out, hopefully seeing in her what poured so freely from him.

“I don’t need someone to protect me, Alex. I just want to be loved. The way people
should
be.”

“I never stopped.”

She circled her arms around his neck. “This is how it was supposed to be. You and me against the world.”

“You’ll always have me, baby.”

Stephanie climbed onto his lap, straddling him. “How about right now?” she whispered against his lips. He smiled and slipped his hands beneath her shirt.

“Especially right now.”

Chapter Twelve

Stephanie’s phone alarm shrieked from her purse. She groped around the floor and shut it off. The dull hammering in the back of her skull sent pangs of nausea through her gut. She inhaled deep, slow breaths until it passed, took a sip of water from the glass on the nightstand, then lay down again. “I’ll never drink again” may have crossed her lips at some point last night. One of these days, she’d hold herself to that.

Alex was trying his best to keep things clandestine. They never ate at the same place twice, and always in a different part of town. They minimized physical contact so that anyone watching would see nothing more than a casual dinner between friends. An arduous public denial of attraction that exploded the second they set foot in his place or hers, or anywhere marginally private. They had made out, and made love, in places that would have embarrassed her to admit just a few months ago.

Alex rolled onto his back and angled his arm over the pillow, one leg escaping the comforter. His long lashes fluttered, eyes chasing whatever he saw in his dreams. His hair, unbound by styling products, flopped onto his forehead. Stubble darkened his upper lip, his cheeks, and chin. Stephanie skimmed her fingers over the curve of his bicep and shoulder, outlined his pectoral arc. She kissed his brow, his nose, each cheek.

She flung the covers aside and kissed him from his mouth to his hard nipples, to the half-erect cock that grew stiffer in her palm. His fingers formed a languid comb through her hair. His balls tightened as she sketched their shape with her tongue; he gasped and pressed a hand to the back of her head. Inhaling his musk, she licked him from base to head, collected the precum at his tip before inching her lips down. She slid her tongue back and forth over a penis far bigger than the previous two that constituted all of her oral sex experience. He bucked his hips and fed her more with each thrust. Stephanie worked him deeper, testing her gag reflex. When her jaw began to ache, she swirled her tongue over the head and underside of his shaft. Then she pressed it upward and swallowed, increased the pressure.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “
Sosat′ yego slozhneye.
” He clenched two fistfuls of her hair and compelled her to take him deeper, to suck in time with his thrusts. He pulsed in her mouth. A low noise rumbled in his throat. He clamped his hands around her head and with a loud cry spurted into her mouth, rope after rope. She swallowed and gulped some more water, then laid her head on his thigh and watched his cock flag, the head retreating into its sheath.

“You’ve never done that before. With me. And it was fucking fantastic.” Alex pushed himself up and cupped her chin. “Coach gave us the morning off. Doesn’t want us to be tired tonight with these back-to-back games. Call off. Spend the day with me.” Their tongues entwined in a slow, sumptuous kiss. “I don’t have to be at the arena until four thirty. Better yet, come to the game too. I get comped two tickets for every game, and I never use them.”

“I need an excuse for my boss. ‘I’m busy having sex with Aleksandr Volynsky’ probably won’t work.”

“Sounds good to me.” He nipped her earlobe. “Just tell him you’re not feeling well. And then…” Alex ran a finger along her inner thigh, and she shivered. “I’ll make you all better.”

“I
do
have a bit of a hangover. But don’t you have to work out?”

“There’s a certain activity that burns a lot of calories if done with enough enthusiasm.” He waggled his eyebrows.

Stephanie, giggling, picked up her phone and speed-dialed Dave. “Hey, Dave,” she said when he picked up, “it’s Steph.”

Alex disappeared beneath the covers.

“I’m feeling under the weather today, so I’m going to stay out of the office. I’ll try to get some work done from home.”

Flicked his tongue over her clit.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, hopefully. Bye.” She set the phone back on the nightstand and huffed out a moan.

“Sorry, did I interrupt your call?” he said between kisses along her thighs.

She threw the blanket back. He licked his lips, his mouth and chin slick with her natural lubrication, then gripped her thighs and plunged back in. Blood rushed into her tissues, inflaming her already full, aching labia, the sandpaper rasp of his whiskers alleviated by the tender flicker of his tongue. She cradled his head between her hands and jammed his face into her, then let out a scream.

Alex, grinning, raised his head. She sat up halfway.

“You are entirely too good at that.”

He inched forward on his knees, pinioning her to the headboard as he pulled her legs around his waist. Hard again. “I’m good at a lot of things.”

She crossed her ankles at the small of his back, and Alex thrust full force into her. Sighs wafted across sweating skin. She was starved for him, for his mouth and his hands and his body and his heart. Tongues delved, probed. Licking and lapping. Moving together in fluid swells, innate synchronization. His back muscles tightening and relaxing, his abs rippling with each surge. Her moans punctuated each lunge. His hot skin sliding against hers, she became more conscious of each cell, each nerve, touch-sensitive. Sweat trickled down her belly. He licked a droplet from between her breasts.

Lips parted against each other’s, exhales flowing from one into the other. Then skimming her cheek, her ear, her neck. Alex kissed her chin and throat and shoulders, skidding his hands along her sweat-slick skin. A soft groan as he plunged deeper. Lost in one another, in the fundamental rhythm of all living things. He brought one hand to her cheek, traced her lips with his thumb. His heartbeat throbbed inside her, so full, swollen, and gorged with him. He tipped his head back and moaned, shifted his hands under her knees to lift her legs, then pounded her, his mouth agape. The moment of stillness, a sigh against her ear, then a cry and a warm, thick gush into her.

The distinctive bouquet of sex anointed the air. She cupped his face, kissed it all over, and tasted his lips and his tongue again.

“Stay here.” He pulled on a pair of flannel lounge pants—no shirt, as if he wasn’t stunning enough with one on—and left the room. She heard things rattling in the kitchen, the refrigerator opening and closing.

She put on the shirt he’d worn last night, the scent of him infused in the fabric. Buttoning up, she tiptoed through the hallway and paused outside the kitchen. His iPhone was streaming an internet radio station, and he sang along, shaking that callipygous ass as he opened a package of turkey bacon. Stephanie pressed her forearm to her mouth to smother a laugh, then crept back to the bedroom to pretend she hadn’t gotten out of bed.

Alex carried in a serving tray upon which perched two coffee mugs and two plates loaded with bacon and what appeared to be blintzes. He set it on her lap and climbed into bed beside her. “I hope it’s edible.”

“You’re spoiling me.”

“I want to. Do I make you happy?”

The earnestness was disconcerting, though Alex danced around few subjects. Stephanie pushed his hair back from his forehead. “The happiest,” she said.

She would have said it a thousand times to see his smile.

***

Stephanie settled into her seat in the lower 100s behind the team’s bench. The Jumbotron was broadcasting an interview with Alex as fans funneled in. Sipping beer from a plastic cup, she glanced at the women around her. Young and most of them, admittedly based on appearance alone, weren’t the sharpest crayons in the box. Puck bunnies caring little for the game, only for the bad-boy hockey image.

She returned her attention to the warmup as the PA system blasted the players’ chosen mix, to Alex shooting pucks at his goalie. How remarkable to sit there with the other WAGs—wives and girlfriends—so soon after she and Alex had strayed into each other’s lives again, but it had also been inevitable. The heart wanted what the heart wanted.

A woman a handful of years older than Stephanie at most sat to her right. She offered her hand. “Nicole White. You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Um…sort of? How do you know I’m—?”

Nicole laughed and flipped her rich brown hair off her shoulder. She wore the elegant, trendy cream-colored pantsuit of a professional. A seen-it-all, heard-it-all smile graced her regal face, its high cheekbones and dark eyes suggesting Asian ancestry. “I know all the regulars. He never brings anyone.”

“You mean Aleksandr.”

“Let me guess. You work in local media, and your relationship is a conflict of interest. Not the first time one of the guys has fallen for a journalist, so your secret is safe with me. Mine is Jacob, number twenty-four. Married five years already. I knew Jake long before all this, so it doesn’t impress me the way it does these girls.” She gave a dismissive flick of her wrist.

Stephanie couldn’t put a finger on why this woman had already earned her trust. Something about the way she spoke, her blasé attitude toward the lifestyle. She didn’t take any shit.

“Bagged yourself the NHL’s most eligible bachelor. Good for you. I hope you’re ready for it.”

“In terms of the NHL in general, or of Aleksandr personally?”

“You
are
a journalist, aren’t you?” Nicole laughed. “These girls don’t understand. They hook up with a pro athlete, they see the money and the jealous glares from their friends, and somehow they convince themselves they’re The One. You’re obviously smarter than that. I don’t know Aleksandr, only met him once or twice, but he and Jake are roommates on the road. I’ve heard the stories.”

Who hadn’t? “We knew each other a long time ago. Life took us to different places for a while.”

“Maybe there’s a reason it brought you back together too. A hot-blooded guy like that needs someone to balance him.”

Alex soared past the glass. He wasn’t wearing his helmet yet, and his black hair fluttered in the breeze generated by his own speed. One more circuit around the ice, and this time he looked right at her. Still trying to play it cool, but one corner of his mouth cocked, and he winked.

The first period passed with the Earthquakes falling behind by two goals. At the beginning of the second, on the first faceoff, Alex was jawing at Vancouver’s winger, a Russian named Boykov, and jostling his stick. The gloves dropped, then the helmets. Alex had the guy by four inches and twenty-five pounds easy. Clutching the front of Boykov’s sweater, he swung his right fist into Boykov’s face in an attempt to spark the team, who from the bench beat their sticks against the boards. She hadn’t seen a skill player willing to throw down since Jake Voracek, but if Alex didn’t do it, no one would.

“He’s playing for you.” Nicole smiled. Heat stole into Stephanie’s cheeks.

He kept punching until Boykov was sprawled on the ice and the referees pried them apart. Despite the two refs between them, one with a hand on Alex’s chest, Alex was still trying to swat at him. “
Ma′mkoo tvoyu′ yeba′l!
”

Boykov’s face bloomed a shade of plum. “
Ya sovat′ vashi glaza, ublyudok!
”

Shouting at Alex, the refs dragged him away and pointed at the sin bin. Boykov was bleeding from his nose and mouth.

“Vancouver, number twelve, five minutes for fighting. Seattle, number nineteen, ten minutes for unsportsmanlike conduct.”

Alex skated across the ice to the penalty box. Once inside, he hurled his stick at the door. He bellowed through the glass at the penalized Boykov, sneered, and spit, then spurted water from a water bottle onto his face and spit again.

All right, so the bad-boy thing
was
a little sexy.

His ploy worked. The Earthquakes rebounded with two goals of their own and, late in the third period, Alex shot high blocker side on Vancouver’s goalie for the go-ahead goal.

“Let’s go!” He slammed his hands against the glass, rousing the fans in the front row, who cheered and pounded on the barrier between him and them. Alex raised his arms in victory, his smile brighter than the arena lights. His linemates swarmed him for helmet taps and hugs. The period’s remaining minutes trickled away, Vancouver unable to score again to force overtime.

“It was very nice to meet you,” Nicole said. “I hope we’ll start seeing each other at the charity events.”

“Same here.”

“We’re trying to start up a carnival like some of the other teams have. We’d love any help you can offer.” She gave Stephanie a business card, and they shook hands.

Stephanie trailed the crowd to the main concourse. Alex would be a while yet, signing autographs for enthusiastic fans waiting for their favorite player to emerge from the arena’s bowels, and giving interviews. She browsed the team store until closing, unable to repress a smile at the Volynsky bobbleheads and even action figures, his image on the team calendar, his name on jerseys and T-shirts. She was tempted to buy something, silly as it was for someone who had the privilege of making love to him every time they were together.

She decided on a pair of woolen Earthquakes socks, then headed to the parking lot, which had mostly cleared, and got into her car. She turned on the radio. An hour passed.