Power Play (Center Ice Book 2) (5 page)

I must be losing my goddamned mind.

Following Marcus Wright back to his penthouse condominium, overlooking the Kennedy Center and the Potomac River beyond. His hand curls possessively around my waist as we shuffle through the chilly streets. Cheerful strands of Christmas lights dangle overhead, twinkling as if we’re in a fairytale land, but I have no doubt Marcus’s intentions for me as far less about innocence and childlike wonder.

“Have drinks with me at my place,” he’d whispered. His lips right against my ear. I expected him to nibble at my earlobe. Tap his tongue to it, perhaps. Did I want him to? Yes, I did. After the masterful way his fingers worked at my aching feet, and at my calves, I couldn’t help but wonder how those fingers would feel all over my body. Stroking away all the tension in me. Giving me incredible release.

And the worst part is, I know it’s exactly what he wanted me to think about. He’s playing me like a puppet on his string. I can see right through him.

And yet each minute in his presence brings a new surprise. A quick, clever mind—a tactician’s mind, as they call him in the sports section. And a tender, bruised heart. I certainly hadn’t expected that.

Well, I got what I wanted from him—the truth about why he left college so abruptly, despite having stated multiple times he wouldn’t do just that. But now I’m left wanting. Wanting
him
. Dammit. Sleeping with Marcus won’t exactly lend a credible aura to my investigative report. But then again, his story wasn’t the scandal I was hoping for, either.

God. What if I have to start from the flippin’ beginning with my story? Or worse, scrap it completely?

I shake the thought from my head. I’m being escorted home by Marcus Wright, after all, and thousands of DC women would be thrilled to be in my place.
I’m
thrilled to be in my place. I shoot Marcus a steady smile, and he laughs to himself, like he can’t believe his luck.

A guy. Not believing his luck. To be going home with
me
.

I could get used to this feeling.

“Evening, Carlos,” Marcus calls to the doorman, as we reach his condo building, just south of the Watergate.

Carlos tips his driving cap. “Good evening, Mister Wright. Miss. Anything I can do for you this evening?”

“Yeah. Buy your kids that new Riordan book they’re wanting.” And Marcus slips him a hundred-dollar bill. Carlos bows and secrets the bill away.

My eyes about pop out of my head as Marcus steers me into the perfectly climate-controlled, marble-lined foyer. “Do you always tip your doorman so well, or just when you have a female audience?”

“It’s Christmas.” Marcus waggles his eyebrows. “It’s the season of giving.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” I say.

Marcus grins. “That’s because you’re not asking the question you really want to know.”

He punches the elevator button, and a soothing British woman’s voice announces the car’s arrival. We step inside the car and he hits the button for the twelfth floor. Penthouse.

“And how do you know what I
really
want to ask you?”

“I can see it in your eyes.” He reaches for the corner of my mouth, and smooths out my stern expression with his thumb. “And in the pucker to your mouth.” His thumb hovers over my chin. “You want to know how often I bring girls home.”

I swallow and lower my head away from his hands. “Maybe.”

“I don’t.”

“Don’t want to know?” I ask, frowning.

“Don’t bring girls home.”

The elevator slides open on an immaculate modernist hallway. Marcus presses his fingers to the small of my back again, and guides me toward his front door. I blink, baffled, and follow.

But he can’t be telling the truth. I’ve seen pictures of him in nightclubs with his teammates, drinking and flirting. Is it really all a show? “Why? Are you still in mourning for your college sweetheart?”

His adam’s apple throbs as he unlocks the door. “I guess you could say that.”

“Why me, then?”

He props one shoulder against the door. I feel like an idiot for asking it—shouldn’t I be falling over myself to impress him, grateful for the opportunity to be alone with a rising hockey star? But the look he gives me is pure sweetness, raking up my body, settling on my face. He looks at me like I’m—oh god.

Like I’m my own person.

My face flushes and I glance away.

“It takes a very special woman to capture my interest. So, congratulations, Fiona. Welcome to my humble abode.”

I could use a lot of words to describe Marcus Wright’s penthouse condo, but “humble” isn’t one of them. It’s sleek modernist perfection, full of stained concrete and subway tile and stark lines. A two-story wall of windows looks out over the Potomac River, which dazzles with flecks of gold at the peaks of its waves. Black leather and chrome furniture lines the living room and dining room area, while a massive galley kitchen beckons from behind. A few doors lead toward what I suspect are offices and guest bedrooms, but above us, in the loft, must be Marcus’s master suite.

“You know,” I say, “your monthly mortgage payment could probably house an entire Syrian refugee camp for years.”

“Do you look at everything so zero-sum?” Marcus asks, clucking his tongue.

“The world is zero-sum. We have to fight for every scrap.”

“That sounds like your mother talking.” He moves toward the substantial wet bar and pours himself a bourbon. “Dirty martini, right?”

I swallow. “That’s right.” I bend over to unzip my boots, though also to hide the embarrassment on my face. “What do you know about my mother?”

“That she’s ruthless. Always gets her story. But doesn’t care what wreckage she leaves in her wake to get it.” He snaps the lid onto the cocktail shaker and rattles the ice around. “The way she turned right around and burned that spy who’d given her everything? That was cold.”

“Well, that’s my mum for you.”

I slip out of my boots and saunter over to the most comfortable-looking couch, a cozy black leather love seat rimmed in silver chrome trim. On the Potomac, I can see Christmas cruise ships chugging past, their dance lights swirling across the color spectrum as they drift through the inky waters. I wish I could embrace the Christmas cheer, too, and give myself over to whatever seems fun and carefree in the moment. But I’m just not built for that.

“You don’t have to be that way,” Marcus says.

He approaches the couch and hands me my martini. I quickly take a sip. Wear down the edges of this sudden bad attitude. I’ve been a bitch to him countless times in the past few hours, and as saintly patient as he’s been, I’m sure even Marcus Wright has his limits.

Marcus sits cross-legged in front of me, looking kind of adorable in his nice jeans with white cotton socks sticking out. Scratch that. Looking
extremely
handsome. The way he smiles up at me . . . I don’t know if a guy has ever looked at me that way before. Like I’m worth something to them, not for anything I’ve done or could do for them, but for who I am.

I could get used to that feeling.

I could get
way
too used to it.

“I thought you liked me better when I was all cruel disdain?” I smile playfully as I take another sip. He makes a fine dirty martini, I’ll give him that.

“No, I like you when you take charge. Big difference.” Marcus winks.

God, he’s beautiful. Those high cheekbones taper into a sturdy jaw, and the long, lean lines of muscle that disappear beneath his shirt collar . . . I can only imagine the solid wall of abdominal muscles beneath that button-down. A brief, filthy image flickers through my mind. Marcus bound beneath me, powerless, his hips thrusting into me while I run my hands over that flawless abdomen. I bite my lower lip and try to force the image away.

“Most guys hate it. Can’t stand a woman trying to be in control.”

Marcus’s gaze locks on mine. “I’m not most guys.”

“No,” I say under my breath, “you’re not.”

He sets his drink aside and cradles my bare foot in his hand. I remember the way he looked earlier tonight, when he was begging me to stay for dinner. Begging. The deep muscles in my hips tighten at the thought. It was a powerful feeling, to inspire that kind of response from someone. Not just someone—from
him.

Could someone so powerful, so dominant on the hockey rink, really want to be bossed around by me?

I press the balls of my feet into his chest and shove him over onto his back. He laughs as he topples over, narrowly avoiding knocking his drink onto the plush white rug. I set my martini aside on the coffee table, then drop to the floor, on all fours, hovering over him.

This is dangerous. This is power. This is intoxicating.

Marcus beneath me, almost certainly getting an eyeful down the collar of my blouse. Marcus, his breaths going shallow as I crawl up to meet his face. Marcus, his dark eyes gleaming, luring me in.

I lower my mouth to his ear, thrilling in just how incredible it feels to be so aggressive. So direct. “Tell me why you asked me to dinner,” I whisper. “The real reason.”

Marcus closes his eyes for a moment, then exhales slowly. “Because you’re dangerous. And I like it.”

“Dangerous how?” I ask.

“You could destroy me with a few well-placed words in the press.” He opens his eyes and looks directly at me, his gaze piercing. “And you could devastate me, just like this.”

I bring my knees in closer, pinning his hips between them. I’m shaking, terrified to be acting so boldly, but he’s gone completely still. Ready for anything I could possibly say or do.

“I’m not going to destroy you. Your story’s safe with me.” I close my eyes and trace the tip of my nose along his throat, drinking in his cedar cologne. “But I can devastate you. If that’s what you want.”

“Yes,” he whispers, rasping out the word. “God, yes.”

I lower my mouth to his.

He drinks in my kiss like he’s been parched, yearning for it for years, and not hours. His lips are so full against mine, lush with yearning, eager to please. And please me he does. Our tongues slide together, aching, a new hunger driving me on. I want to taste all of him. This strange and wonderful man who makes me feel like myself. Like I’m allowed to be me.