Chapter 7 #2
"Faye. I see you managed to scrape together a dress. Vintage?"
"It’s mine, Daddy," she said, her voice shaking but defiant. "From before."
"I heard you were sleeping in the gym," Silas said, taking a sip of his drink. "I expected you to come home and apologize. Instead, I hear you've shacked up with my Captain."
He turned his cold eyes to me.
"I pay you to play hockey, Vane. Not to run a halfway house for wayward girls."
I felt the rage spike in my blood. Hot. Violent. I wanted to drop the facade and hit him. I wanted to show him exactly what kind of violence his money had bought.
But that’s what he wanted. He wanted a reaction. He wanted to prove we were children.
I smiled. It was a shark’s smile.
"Faye isn't a charity case, sir," I said, keeping my voice level. "She’s my partner."
Silas raised an eyebrow. "Partner? In what? She has no money. She has no degree. She’s a liability."
"She’s the reason I’m going first round," I lied smoothly. "A happy player is a productive player. And Faye..." I looked down at her, softening my gaze intentionally. "She makes me very happy."
Silas looked between us. He saw the way I was holding her. He saw the way she was leaning into me for protection.
He sneered.
"Enjoy it while it lasts," he said. "But remember, Vane. I own the contract. And you, Faye..." He looked at her with disappointment that cut deeper than any shout. "You're still just a girl playing house. You’ll get bored. You always do."
He turned and walked away.
Faye let out a shaky breath, her knees buckling.
I caught her.
"I’ve got you," I whispered. "I’ve got you."
"I want to leave," she said, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Please, Graham. Get me out of here."
"Way ahead of you."
The drive home was silent.
Not the comfortable silence of the dance floor. A heavy, charged silence. Faye stared out the window, watching the snow blur past. I drove fast, my knuckles white on the steering wheel.
I hated him. I hated him for hurting her. I hated him because he sounded exactly like my father.
We pulled into the garage. I killed the engine.
"You were great back there," I said into the quiet.
Faye turned to look at me. The streetlights from the garage cast shadows across her face.
"You lied," she said softly.
"About what?"
"About me making you happy."
I unbuckled my seatbelt and turned to face her. The leather seats creaked.
"I didn't lie."
She froze. "Graham."
"Do you want to know the truth?" I asked, unbuckling her belt. "The truth is, before you broke into my locker room, my life was a spreadsheet. It was grey. It was efficient. It was miserable."
I reached out and cupped her cheek.
"You are chaos, Faye. You are messy and loud and you leave paint on my counters and you argue about dusting. And..." I ran my thumb over her bottom lip. "I rush home every day just to see what you've destroyed."
A tear slipped down her cheek. "I’m a liability."
"You're an asset. The most valuable one I have."
She let out a sob—half laugh, half cry—and threw herself at me across the console.
Her mouth crashed onto mine.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't the chaste, public display from the gala. It was desperate. It was a collision.
I groaned, burying my hands in her hair, pulling her deeper. She tasted like champagne and tears. Her hands were everywhere—clawing at my shoulders, gripping my neck, tugging at my bowtie.
"Take me upstairs," she commanded against my lips. "Now."
I didn't argue.
I got out, walked around, and ripped her door open. I didn't wait for her to step out. I reached in and hauled her out, lifting her into my arms. She wrapped her legs around my waist, the gold dress riding up, her skin burning against my palms.
I carried her to the elevator. I kissed her the entire way up. She bit my lip. I bit hers back.
When the doors opened into the penthouse, I didn't put her down. I carried her straight to the living room, kicking the door shut behind us.
I set her down on the edge of the island—our spot, apparently.
" The dress," she panted, turning around. "Unzip me."
I stepped behind her. My hands were shaking.
I kissed the nape of her neck, right where her hairline ended. She shivered violently.
"Graham," she breathed.
I found the zipper. I pulled it down slowly. One inch. Two inches. The gold fabric pooled at her waist.
Her back was bare. Smooth, pale skin interrupted only by the line of her spine.
I pressed a kiss to her shoulder blade. Then another. Then another, tracing the path of her spine down to the small of her back.
She leaned back against me, her head resting on my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her waist, my hands resting on her stomach, holding her close.
"Faye," I whispered into her hair.
"Don't stop," she begged. "Not this time. Please don't stop."
I wanted to. God, I wanted to strip the rest of that dress off and take her right here. I wanted to erase her father's voice from her head and replace it with my name.
But I felt the tremor in her body. She was reacting to the trauma. She was seeking oblivion. She wanted sex to numb the pain of rejection.
I knew that feeling. I had used puck bunnies for that exact reason for years.
But Faye wasn't a puck bunny. She was... she was everything.
And if I took her now, while she was hurting, while she was trying to prove she wasn't broken... I would be taking advantage of her.
I rested my forehead against her temple. I kept my hands still on her stomach, grounding her.
"I want you," I rasped, the truth scraping my throat raw. "I want you so bad I can’t think straight."
"Then do it," she whispered.
"No."
She stiffened. "Why? Because I'm a mess? Because my dad was right?"
"Because you are worth more than a distraction," I said firmly, spinning her around to face me. I held the bodice of her dress up so she wasn't exposed. I looked deep into her eyes. "You are not a quick fix, Faye. You are the endgame."
Her eyes widened. "The endgame?"
"I’m not going to sleep with you to make you forget him. I’m going to sleep with you when you’re ready to think only about me."
I kissed her forehead. A soft, lingering kiss.
"Go change," I said gently. "Put on my shirt. I’ll order pizza. The greasy kind. With extra pepperoni."
She stared at me. She looked confused, frustrated, and... relieved.
"Pizza?" she asked weakly.
"And beer. Cheap beer. We’re going to sit on the couch, watch a terrible movie, and make fun of rich people."
A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"You really are a control freak," she murmured.
"I know." I smirked. "But I'm your control freak."
"Yeah," she whispered, leaning forward to peck my lips. "You are."
She grabbed her dress and headed for the hallway.
I watched her go. My body was aching. My blood was on fire. I was a sexually frustrated martyr.
But as I pulled out my phone to order the pizza, I realized something terrifying.
I was happy.
Just standing here, knowing she was coming back to sit on my couch and eat pizza in my shirt... I was happy.
The bubble hadn't popped. It had just gotten stronger. And now, it was impenetrable.