Chapter 4
Chapter Four
God, she was stubborn…
A week later – and still she didn’t call him.
Unfortunately, she also wasn’t responding to the email or voicemails he’d left her too.
No, she was infinitely digging in her heels, fighting this – and the harder she fought, the more he was attracted.
And then, like divine providence, the universe delivered his opportunity on a silver platter.
He was coming out of the gym of his building where it was located on the first floor facing a wall of glass, his duffel slung over his shoulder, when he saw her.
She was on the steep, cobblestone street that led from the gallery to the parking garage, dressed in running gear, her hair in a high ponytail. She looked focused, driven.
And then she didn’t.
Her foot caught on an uneven stone. He saw her ankle twist at a sickening angle, heard her sharp cry of pain more than saw it in the noisy street. She went down, hard, on her hands and knees.
Eric was moving before he consciously decided to. He crossed the distance in long, powerful strides.
“Don’t move,” he commanded, kneeling beside her. Her face was contorted in pain, pale beneath her freckles. She tried to push herself up, but gasped and fell back.
“I’m fine,” she gritted out, a blatant lie.
“You’re not.” His hands were already on her, firm and sure.
He carefully rolled her onto her backside and gently lifted her injured leg.
The ankle was already swelling, a nasty purple blossom against her pale skin.
His touch was clinical, assessing, but the feel of her slender calf in his hands, the softness of her skin, sent a fresh wave of desire through him.
She was hurt, and his first instinct was primal, protective. His second was possessively triumphant.
Now, I’ve got you…
“It’s just a sprain,” he announced. “But you’re not walking on it. Where’s your car?”
She shook her head, eyes squeezed shut. “Garage. Level three.”
“Keys?”
She fumbled in a small, zippered pocket at the back of her running shorts and handed them over, her fingers trembling.
He took them, then, without a word, slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her as if she weighed nothing.
She yelped in surprise, her arms instinctively flying around his neck.
“What are you doing?!”
“Taking you home,” he said, starting up the street towards the garage, ignoring the stares of passersby.
She was rigid in his arms for a moment, then, as the pain throbbed and the reality of her helplessness set in, she relaxed slightly, her head coming to rest against the solid wall of his chest. He could smell the sweat on her skin, clean and salty, mixed with her vanilla scent. It was intoxicating.
He drove her car, a small, sensible sedan that felt like a toy around him, to her apartment—a tidy, modern one-bedroom filled with books and plants. He carried her inside, depositing her on the plush grey sofa.
“Ice,” he said, and went to her kitchen, finding a tea towel and a bag of frozen corn niblets with an ease that felt domestic, right.
He returned, knelt before her, and carefully lifted her leg onto a cushion, wrapping the ice pack around her swollen ankle.
His hands lingered, his thumbs making slow, soothing circles on her arch.
She watched him, her blue eyes huge and uncertain.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, the fight gone from her voice, replaced by vulnerability. “You can go now.”
“Let’s focus on the first part of what you said – and don’t thank me yet,” he said, his voice low and firm.
He wasn’t going to accept the casual brush off unless some other man walked out here to check on her.
“I’m just getting started. You need food.
You need painkillers. You need someone to wait on you. Looks like you’re stuck with me.”
“Eric, you don’t have to?—”
“I know I don’t have to,” he interrupted, his gaze locking with hers. The arrogance was tempered now with a different intensity, a seriousness of purpose. “I want to. This is me, wooing you. You’re a captive audience. Now, take advantage of it.”
A faint, weary smile touched her lips. “Is this your idea of a first date? Honestly, I’ve had better.”
He felt a jolt of desire – and fought the urge to smile. That sounded like a challenge and he was game…
“It’s my idea of a beginning.” He stood up, towering over her. “Now. What do you like on your pizza?”
Over the next three days, Eric insisted she stay off her foot and installed himself in her life with the strategic precision of a general who wouldn’t take ‘No’ for an answer.
He brought food—not just pizza, but proper meals from good restaurants.
He fetched her books, refilled her water glass, adjusted her pillows.
He worked from her dining table, taking calls about training schedules and sponsorships, his deep voice filling her quiet space.
He brought her laptop to her so she could stay busy, carried her to the restroom, then to her bed or whatever she needed while also giving her a little space.
Eric was a constant, overwhelming presence – and he talked.
He told her stories about hockey—the brutal, beautiful chaos of it, the camaraderie, the relentless drive to win.
He spoke of his family, his ambitions, his grandiose plans for a future that was as large and uncontainable as he was.
He was, by his own admission, arrogant, controlling, and openly admitted he was perverted in his tastes.
He laid it all out, like a challenge. This is what you get – can you handle it?
To his delight, she responded.
Lana, in turn, began to thaw. The jaded, serious shell cracked under the relentless, focused heat of his attention.
She talked about art, about her quiet, analytical world.
She spoke, haltingly, of past relationships that had left her feeling like her passion was a flaw, her seriousness a burden.
“I was told I came on too strong,” she admitted one evening, staring at her hands as they picked at pad Thai from one of her favorite places that she’d requested. “That I… wanted too much.”
Eric reached over from his chair and took her hand, his large, calloused palm engulfing hers.
“Whoever said that was a coward,” he said, his voice utterly certain.
“Maybe you were too strong for him - but not for me. I want everything. I want that strength. I want the desperation I see in you when you think no one’s looking.
I want it all, Lana - and I’m not asking. I’m telling you I’m going to take it.”
She didn’t pull her hand away. She looked at their joined hands, then up at him, and for the first time, the defiance in her eyes was gone, replaced by a desperate, submissive longing. The wall he had been fighting to climb?
It was rubble.
On the third night, as he was preparing to leave, she spoke from the sofa, her voice barely a whisper. “Stay.”
He turned, one eyebrow raised. “What?”
“Stay. The couch is comfortable. Or… there’s room.” She gestured limply toward her bedroom door, her face flaming with the brazenness of the offer.
Eric looked at her—the pale, freckled skin, the big blue eyes wide with a mixture of fear and desire, the full lips parted in invitation.
The simmering tension of the last few weeks had finally ignited into a roaring flame.
He walked back to the sofa, knelt before her again, and cupped her face in his hands.
“Are you sure? This isn’t because you feel indebted. This isn’t because you’re hurt or you think you owe me something, right?”
“I’m sure,” she breathed, her gaze unwavering. “I’m done running.”
His kiss was not gentle. It was a conquest. It was demanding, deep, and hungry, his tongue claiming her mouth with the same confidence he claimed everything else.
She whimpered into it, her hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders, her fingers digging into the hard muscle.
He tasted of mint and whiskey and pure, male desire.
She tasted of spices, heaven, and sweetness that he’d never imagined.
When he finally pulled back, both of them were breathless.
“Good,” he growled. Then he stood, lifted her into his arms once more, and carried her to the bedroom. “No more running from me anymore, Lana.”