Chapter 1 I Don’t Get On My Knees for No—Whoops, I’m On My Knees Cara #3
But that man out there? He’s not just six-foot-plus of golden locks, sky-blue eyes, and a panty-dropping grin highlighted by an impeccably carved jawline.
He’s also… witty. Confident. Slightly arrogant, and deservedly so.
Clever too, and all of those things put together?
A lethal combination that has me mentally rearranging my schedule for the next fifty years or so for a fucking man.
Have I lost my damn mind?
I swipe a hand through the air, waving away the thoughts running rampant in my head as Debbie comes stumbling into the room.
“Cara, I can’t thank you enough. It was such a gorgeous night.” She wraps her arms around me, and I sink into a hug that smells remarkably like tequila. “I can’t believe how much money we raised. Did you hear Emmett donated fifty grand?”
I may or may not have heard that. I may or may not have also panic vomited when Shazia Googled his salary and shoved it in my face. Thank fuck for the emergency toiletry kit in my work bag. After I brushed my teeth, I used another glass of red as mouthwash.
I mean, nine million a year? Who the… What the… I fan my face for the fiftieth time tonight as a dizzying heat rushes to my head.
Debbie gives me a loopy grin, pumping her brows. “He’s handsome, huh?”
“Is he? I hadn’t noticed.” I bury my face in a long pull of wine.
At least I’m no longer gargling it. “Hypothetically speaking, what’s your policy if, say, the Vipers were to contract Fête & Flair to do future events, and the owner of Fête & Flair were to begin—hypothetically, of course—sleeping with one of the players? ”
Debbie taps her chin. “You know, come to think of it, I don’t believe we have a policy in place for our outsourced contractors.” She winks when her husband joins us, coats in hand. “You sure we can’t stay and help you clean up? You’re all alone here.”
“Please, no. Go home and get railed, Deb. The cleaning crew is coming at one. I’ll head home then.”
Debbie squeezes my shoulder. “You’re a real-life angel. I’ll be in touch on Monday.”
When the doors close behind them, I settle into the stillness. I always like this part. The contrast of the mess mixed with the silence. Reminds me of my head some days.
My phone pings, and I sigh at the message.
Preston (finance bro, mommy issues): Please, baby. What can I do for another chance?
Jesus, again? I have got to get rid of this guy.
Me: $3000.
Preston (finance bro, mommy issues): Really???
Me: I’ll consider it.
I won’t, but there are at least twenty other texts just like this one, spanning the last month, and I simply don’t know how else to make him get it. Surely asking for money will do the trick.
My phone pings again, and I snort-choke on my wine, covering my mouth when it goes sputtering.
Sudden heat touches my back, and my brain goes haywire when large hands come down on the counter on either side of me, caging me in.
“Three thousand dollars,” Emmett Brodie whispers, chin tucked over my shoulder as he reads the brand-new bank transfer lighting my phone screen. “From?”
I breathe through the tightness in my chest, the warmth seeping through my body. “My ex. He wants to get back together.”
“I see.” His eyes come to mine. “Well, go on. Tell him you’re taken.”
I bite back my smile as I hold Emmett’s stare, so smug and sure as I type out a message.
Me: I’ve thought about it. It’s a no.
“Good girl. That certainly wasn’t an I’m taken, though.”
Twisting between his arms, I lean back against the counter. “Because I’m not.”
“Aren’t you?” He tilts his head, playfulness sparking in his blue gaze. “Hm. We’ll have to fix that.”
I lift my wine to my lips. “It’s cute you have such lofty dreams.”
Emmett wipes his amusement away with the pad of his thumb. “When can I take you on a date?”
“My schedule’s full.”
“Clear it.”
“I don’t know if I’m interested.”
“You are.”
“Am I?”
His gaze dips to my breasts, my nipples eager to meet him too. Those girls never lie. “Yup.”
I catch a drop of wine rolling down my glass with the tip of my tongue. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? You sure? Why not right now?”
“We just met. I never do anything on day one. Virtue, and all that.”
“Virtue is so important.” He taps my phone, lighting up the screen, illuminating the fact that, at 11:58 p.m. and three thousand down, Preston still hasn’t gotten the clue. “Okay then. Tomorrow.”
He dips his head, and my body seizes. When his warm lips touch my cheekbone, I come back to life, gripping my wineglass like it’s my final thread of sanity.
“This is my favorite birthday ever,” he murmurs against my skin.
“What? It’s your birthday?”
“Mhmm. For another two minutes, at least. New Year’s baby, freshly twenty-seven. Feels a lot like the first day of my life, though.”
“Happy birthday,” I breathe, heart pounding at the feel of him pressed against me, his fingers dancing down my hair. “What did you get?”
His palm settles in the curve of my lower back, his whisper pressed to my ear. “You.”
My heart thuds as I press my hand to it, willing myself not to call after him, ask him to stay. He doesn’t give me the chance.
Before he disappears out the back door, he winks. “Good night, Mrs. Brodie.”
I open my phone, ignoring the message from Preston asking if another two thousand will do the trick, and head to Olivia’s contact. It’s 11:59 p.m., and there’s no way she’s going to answer, but I call her anyway.
I’m just about to leave her a scathing voicemail about having the audacity to sleep through such a monumental moment when there’s a knock at the back door. And when I open it?
Emmett Brodie waits there, head down, gripping the doorframe.
There’s not an ounce of remorse in those beautiful eyes when he peers up at me from beneath thick lashes.
Those eyes are nothing compared to the smile this man hits me with.
“Good morning, beautiful.” The sweet words skate roughly down my sides as he steps inside, gently forcing me backward. “It’s tomorrow.”
My jaw dislodges, and he grins, gripping it as my back hits the counter.
“Ah,” he whispers, thumb tracing my lower lip. “I was worried my cock wouldn’t fit in there, but now I see. Perfect mouth, just like the rest of you. You’ll have no trouble, will you?”
Fire ignites in my belly, and I fight the urge to squeeze my thighs together. “God, you’re arrogant, aren’t you?”
“Now, I know what you’re thinking.” He shifts me up onto the edge of the counter, hand slipping from my jaw down to the base of my throat where he grips me gently.
“But one look is all it took to know you had to be mine. I don’t deserve you now, but I’m gonna spend the rest of my life making up for that, and when I die, I’ll be a worthy man.
” He tilts my head back, mouth hovering a breath from mine.
“Tell me I can have you, gorgeous. Because it’s you or no one. ”
“What happens if I say no?”
“Then I call it. Pack it in. Quit the team, quit hockey. Sell my house and move back home, live in my parents’ basement for the rest of my unfulfilling life while I pine after the woman who got away.
” His face dips, just a touch, lips grazing mine in a way that sets my soul on fire.
“But you’re not going to say no, are you?
You want to be worshipped. Crave it. Deserve it. And you want to let me do it.”
The thin strap of my dress slips off my shoulder, and Emmett’s eyes ping there.
He keeps my throat in his grasp as his free hand coasts up my side, dotting every inch of me in goose bumps.
Broad fingertips dance over my shoulder, catching that strap, but instead of setting it back in place, he grips it in his fist.
My chest heaves, heart hammering. “This dress is a masterpiece,” I barely breathe.
“Nah.” His lips ghost along my jaw, pausing at my ear. “It’s you who’s the masterpiece.”
I sling one arm around his neck, gliding my hand up the back of his head, over the cropped hair, sinking my fingers into the thick waves up top.
It takes every ounce of willpower to pull his mouth away from mine, and I smile at the hint of panic that creeps into his stare.
Shifting my ass further back on the counter, the satin strap of my dress rips in Emmett’s fist as I go.
Shimmying the smooth red material up my legs, I wiggle out of my black thong, tuck it in his shirt pocket, prop my heels up, and spread my thighs. “Prove it, Mr. Brodie.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” His lips part on a heavy, desperate breath, pupils blown as they zero in on where I want him. “I won’t be gentle.”
“Don’t worry. I like it rough.”
He drops to his knees without hesitation, grips my thighs, jerks my ass to the edge of the counter, buries his face where it belongs, and I die.
I die, right here in a kitchen that doesn’t belong to me, bare ass on the counter, with a hockey player feasting on my pussy.
I die over and over, a beautiful, star-filled death as Emmett Brodie thrusts his tongue inside me, flicks at my clit.
As he sucks me into his mouth, mutters about knowing I’d taste like this, like his last meal on death row.
As his fingers work their way inside me, plunging, curling, demanding.
As his thumb finds my clit, and then my ass, making me gasp.
As I tell him he’s the first person to touch me there, and he promises he’ll be the only.
As he grins, watching me moan and arch my back, inviting his thumb deeper, pussy clenching around the two fingers he sinks inside me, his trimmed beard glistening and his eyes dancing when he calls me his filthy wife and promises to spend the rest of his life fucking me wherever and however I want.
I die, and I come, and I die, and I come. When I come again, both holes filled and his mouth suctioned over my clit, he finally grants me mercy. Pulls his fingers free, presses his tongue to my center, and licks me slowly, bottom to top.