Treat (F.I.L.T.H. #4)

Chapter 1

1

J ude Bessonette heaved himself out of his truck with a grimace. His ass was numb, he was thirsty, and the sauna-like air in the underground parking garage made him want to climb back into his efficiently air-conditioned truck and point it at the lake he’d spent the last seven hours driving away from.

Ignoring the urge—and the sweat already dampening the back of his t-shirt—he grabbed his bag out of the back seat, shut the door, and crossed the brightly lit garage to the elevator.

He hit the button, then pulled out his phone to send his mom the requisite I’m home safe text. She wouldn’t see it until morning, but he knew the rules. She’d been disappointed when he’d left early—training camp didn’t start for two months, and he’d planned to stay at the family vacation home for another month at least. But while he’d had plenty of exercise in the form of swimming, water skiing, and games of touch football on the beach, he hadn’t hit the gym since he’d left the city. Which meant he had work to do before the season started.

So he’d left the breezy shores of Lake Superior for the humidity of Detroit in July to train, and with the most important season of his professional career looming, he didn’t want the stress of his mother’s wrath for failing to inform her that he wasn’t dead in a ditch.

The elevator gave its soft, dignified chime, the doors slid silently open, and he stepped inside. He hit the button for his floor and, circling his neck to work out the kinks from the long drive, ran through his mental to-do list. He needed to unpack and do laundry, and grocery shopping was a priority—after a month away, there wouldn’t be any food in the house. His first training session was at nine tomorrow morning, so he’d have to get breakfast out, but as soon as he was done at the gym it was off to the store—provided he could still walk. He’d engaged the services of the team’s toughest conditioning coach to get him into shape for the season, and being too sore to move was a real possibility.

He started to swipe away from his contacts to start a grocery list when a name caught his eye. He hadn’t had a personal assistant long, but he knew that grocery shopping was in her job description. Mostly because Grant kept telling him so, but his agent was used to paying someone to do everything—including suck his dick—so his perspective was skewed.

Not that there was anything wrong with paying to have your dick sucked. Your dick got sucked, the sucker got paid, and everyone went home happy. But Jude wasn’t sure he’d ever have Grant’s ease with throwing money at the simplest of problems—and he was fully capable of buying his own groceries.

He was also capable of finding someone to suck his dick, but that hadn’t happened in a while. The Detroit Cougars was one of the most storied franchises in the NHL, and playing for them meant increased scrutiny from both the press and the public. The last thing he needed was some enterprising reporter—or more likely, a fan with a phone—snapping a picture of him at a swinger’s club.

Factor in that his favorite club—the one where he could be reasonably certain no one would snap such a photo—was on the other side of the state, and it was no wonder he was in a dry spell.

He’d had opportunities, of course—willing, eager women were always hanging around the rinks, the hotels, the clubs. And when spending yet another night in a hotel room far from home had felt too damn lonely, he’d been tempted.

The brunette in Tampa came to mind.

She’d had purple streaks in her hair, a diamond stud in her nose, and a throaty laugh that made him think of low moans and dark rooms and soft, slick skin. He’d been half a beer from asking her back to his room when he’d realized who she reminded him of.

Brynn.

He stared at the numbers above the door, silently counting floors. Brynn’s nose ring was a gold hoop, and her hair had pink streaks instead of purple. But it was her face he saw when he’d looked at the brunette—her pale white skin with its delicate smattering of freckles and faint flush, her wide brown eyes behind glasses too big for her face, her lush mouth with its plump bottom lip that she nibbled when she was nervous. So he’d set down his unfished beer, paid his tab, and went back to his hotel alone.

Because fucking someone who reminded him of the one woman he couldn’t have didn’t seem like a great idea.

The elevator chimed its arrival on the top floor, and Jude put thoughts of his off-limits personal assistant out of his head.

He stepped out of the elevator, his heavy footsteps cushioned by the thick rug. Light streamed through the single window at the end of the hall, the glow of streetlamps and the steady flash of passing headlights on the street below. He winced at the glare and with fatigue mounting, stepped to his front door and keyed in the code.

It swung open with a beep that seemed too loud in the cushioned quiet. He stepped inside, kicking off his shoes as the door swung shut behind him. The shades were up on the ceiling-height windows, bathing the living room and open kitchen in moonlight and neon, and for the first time since he’d started driving, he felt himself relax.

He'd only lived in the apartment for six months—and for half of that he’d been on the road—but it felt like home. When he’d been called up to Detroit mid-season last year, it was only supposed to be for a few weeks. But when the player he’d been filling in for needed surgery, and it soon became clear he’d be with the Cougars for at least the rest of the season, he’d wanted out of the apartment provided by the team. So Brynn had handled the paperwork to terminate his lease in Grand Rapids, arranged for his things to be packed and shipped, and found him this place.

In the high-ceilinged, loft-like space the sofa and two chairs that had filled up his Grand Rapids living room almost looked like doll furniture. He’d considered buying new, but the familiarity of his things had helped make the apartment feel like home—and being able to rollerblade circles around the sofa made it easy to get in a workout when it was too cold or wet or snowy to get outside.

He dropped his bag on the sofa and headed for the kitchen, skirting the long, narrow, stainless steel work counter that separated it from the rest of the open-concept living space. He plucked a glass from one of the open shelves lining the tiled wall, filled it from the filter spigot at the sink, and drank. When it was empty he refilled it, turning to face the room as he drank, and noticed the counter.

It was clean. Too clean.

Not that he’d left it a mess. He’d been raised too well—and feared his mother too much—for that. But his focus had been on making sure he wouldn’t come home to rotting garbage and funky laundry, and after more than a month away, he’d expected a layer of dust. But there wasn’t a spec—and sitting in the center of the counter was a potted plant covered in delicate white blooms.

He lowered the glass to frown at it. Nestled in a short, square pot painted sunny yellow, the blooms gave off a pleasant, faintly sweet smell. It was a nice plant—but he knew as well as he knew his own name that he hadn’t put it there.

He lifted a hand to scratch his head, muttering a curse when the glass he still held banged against his temple. He set it down and walked into the living room, eyes narrowed as he honed in on the details. The thick throw he’d left balled up in one corner of the sofa—a housewarming gift from his friend Esme—was artfully draped over the cushions, the throw pillows plumped and carefully placed. The ancient steamer trunk he used as a coffee table held a couple of small candles, a green glass bowl filled with shiny red apples, and another plant. The game controllers that usually lived there were nowhere to be seen.

He frowned at that, a spurt of panic lighting up his tired brain before he spotted the controllers sitting on the low shelf under his wall-mounted television, the trio of remotes that controlled his entertainment system lined up neatly next to them.

Relieved, he turned in a circle, cataloging the rest of his belongings. As far as he could tell, nothing was missing—his books were on the shelves built in under the windows, his game consoles and electronics were all in place. He hadn’t been robbed, but someone had been in to clean.

He had a dim memory of Brynn telling him she was going to hire a cleaning service, but it had been during the grueling push to make the playoffs at the end of the season, and he hadn’t been paying much attention to anything but hockey.

A vague sense of unease stirred in his gut. He needed to pay attention to the tasks Brynn was handling and the expenses she was incurring on his behalf—it was irresponsible not to, and he knew it. But every time he was near her he went witless with lust, and with his career on the line he’d needed his wits. The safest thing to do was stay away from her as much as possible, so that’s what he’d done.

It had worked for a while. He’d been busy getting settled into his role with the team, and she’d been busy handling the move, and by the time all that had settled down they’d been pushing for a playoff spot and then in the playoffs, and there had hardly been time to breathe much less lust inappropriately after his personal assistant.

But a new season was on the horizon, with new goals and new opportunities for him both on and off the ice, and he was going to need her help. Which meant he was going to have to learn how to talk to her without wanting, to work with her without yearning.

“Might as well wish to win the Norris trophy,” he muttered, and shoving aside the combination of lust and despair he’d become all too accustomed to over the last nine months, he retrieved his duffle and headed for the bedroom.

The shades on the windows were drawn tight, the bed a king-sized shadow in the middle of the room. It was the only piece of furniture he’d bought new for the move to Detroit, taking advantage of the space to get the biggest mattress he could find. The modern platform bed had a headboard with built-in shelving, eliminating the need for bedside tables and extending his rollerblading path.

There was plenty of room for more furniture, but Jude hadn’t seen the need. He used this room for sleeping and fucking, so who needed more than a bed?

Not that he’d fucked anyone since he’d moved here, which would’ve been depressing if he hadn’t been too tired to think about it. Since he was, he just carried his bag into the closet.

Dim lights along the baseboards flickered on automatically upon his entry, and since it was enough to keep him from tripping over something, he didn’t bother with more. Like the rest of the apartment, it was much bigger than he needed—even with all the new clothes Brynn had bought for him it was only half full. Dropping his bag on the padded bench that ran down the center of the space—another Brynn purchase, none of his other closets had been big enough for furniture—he dug his phone out of his pocket, then stripped out of his clothes.

Wearing only his boxers and moving with the disjointed shuffle of exhaustion, he headed for the bathroom. With under cabinet lights illuminating the way, he emptied his bladder and brushed his teeth, then shuffled back into the bedroom and aimed for the bed.

He moved slowly, not sure exactly where it was in the dark room. He reached out a seeking hand, swallowing a curse when his knuckles rapped against the wood of the headboard. He set his phone down and then slid his hand lower over the soft, cool cotton-covered pillow, the fluffy duvet. With pleasure and anticipation, he pulled back the duvet with a sigh.

Something sighed back.

Jude paused, his fatigue-fogged brain taking a beat to register the sound. He frowned, eyes burning as he tried to see in the dark, but all he could make out was the big, square shape of the bed. He waited a few moments, ears straining for a repeat of the sound, but nothing came.

He shook his head, feeling ridiculous. He was so tired he was having auditory hallucinations, he thought with a silent, self-deprecating laugh and lifted the covers to slide into bed.

A rumbling snore had him leaping back.

He fumbled for his phone, panic tightening his chest. With visions of some overzealous fan having snuck into his bed—and the media nightmare that would follow—he held his breath and turned on his phone’s flashlight.

It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the bright glare. Then he just stared while the basset hound occupying his bed blinked droopy brown eyes, yawned, and let out a soft woof while wagging its tail and rolling onto its back in a blatant bid for belly rubs.

He didn’t know what he would have done in response—besides rub the belly, rules are rules—but before he could think of something, a sleepy voice mumbled, “Shut up, Tilly,” and he realized the dog wasn’t the only occupant of his bed.

“What the fuck?” he said and aimed his cell phone flashlight at the far side of the bed just as the person in it sat up and screamed.

Covers flew, and Jude caught a flash of blonde hair and a white shirt, then it all disappeared over the side of the bed, followed by a loud thump. The screaming cut off abruptly, leaving only the swish of the dog’s tail against the sheets and the hammering of his own heart to fill the silence.

He leaned over the bed, aiming his light toward the floor on the far side. But whoever was there had fallen too close to the bed for him to see them.

“Hello?” he called, then sputtered when a long, wet canine tongue lapped at his face. He ducked, trying to evade the affectionately aggressive slurps, then cursed when a tooth caught his nostril. Nose stinging and face dripping, he planted a hand on the dog’s nose and shoved. The dog, who had reared up on its hind legs to better cover him in slobber, fell slowly backward onto the bed and farted.

Jude would’ve laughed, but whoever was lying on his floor moaned, and he remembered he had a real problem on his hands.

With the light from the phone guiding the way, he strode over to the light switch beside the door and slapped it on, then turned to face his intruder with his best don’t-fuck-with-me-or-I’ll-put-you-through-the-boards glare, his thumb poised to dial 9-1-1.

Then he blinked. “Brynn?”

Eyes squeezed shut against the glare of the light, her pink-streaked blonde hair covering half her face, she lifted a hand. “Hi, Jude.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked, but it was automatic, knee-jerk. Because she was wearing a thin, white t-shirt, and as far as he could see, nothing else.

“I needed a place to crash for a few nights,” she said, struggling to sit, her voice tight. “I thought you weren’t coming back until August.”

“Change of plans,” he said faintly, mesmerized by Brynn in motion. The t-shirt didn’t move much around her thighs—it was too tight for that—but it was considerably looser up top, the stretched-out V-neck sliding off one shoulder, making it uncomfortably clear that she was braless, her tidy, barely-a-mouthful tits poking against the thin white fabric, and he was suddenly and painfully aware that all he wore was a pair of cotton boxers. Which, if he kept staring at her boobs, were going to be no help in keeping his dick in check.

He shifted his gaze to her face just as she managed to shove herself upright to lean against the side of the bed. The dog, who’d been watching them with a sort of lazy curiosity from atop the mattress, trotted over to rest its chin on the mattress next to her and licked her cheek.

Brynn sighed and lifted a hand to give the dog’s long, floppy ear a pat. “Hi, Tilly.”

“Since when do you have a dog?” Jude asked, wondering if he could casually grab a pair of pants while she was distracted.

“I don’t,” Brynn said, swiping at her cheek. “I’m dog-sitting.”

Then she winced and lifted a hand to the back of her head, and he remembered how hard she’d hit the floor.

“You’re hurt,” he said, and with all thoughts of her tits and thighs forgotten—or at least shoved to the background—crouched in front of her.

“I hit my head when I fell,” she confessed, looking up at him, and he realized she didn’t have her glasses on.

He’d never seen her without her glasses.

He knew her eyes were brown, of course. She had what his dad called Bambi eyes, big and velvety soft, and they’d starred in his dreams almost as often as her tits and thighs. But he’d never seen them naked before, with no glasses or makeup, so he hadn’t known that her thick lashes were only a shade or two darker than the hair on her head, or that they could look this vulnerable, this helpless. They were a little unfocused, too, and he wondered if that was the pain or if she couldn’t see.

“Can you see me?” he asked. “Without your glasses?”

“I’m nearsighted.”

He didn’t know if that meant she could see or she couldn’t, but decided it didn’t matter. “Let me check your head.”

Her eyes widened, and she blinked. “Oh. Um. It’s fine.”

“Humor me.” Ignoring her protest, he braced one hand on her shoulder to hold her still and slid the other into her hair.

Brynn was dying. She wasn’t sure if it was from humiliation or lust, but either way, she was about to shuffle loose this mortal coil, and she had regrets.

She’d never been to Paris. She’d never seen the Tigers win a World Series. And she’d never ridden Jude Bessonnette’s dick like a Grand Canyon mule.

Which had seemed like the smart thing to do—or the smart thing to not do—but with death staring her in the face and Jude wearing nothing but blue boxer shorts, she was having a hard time remembering why she’d wanted to be smart.

He was so pretty it almost hurt to look at him, even when her head wasn’t throbbing from violent contact with the floor. His hair was a deep, burnished gold, currently sporting some lighter blond streaks courtesy of his summer at the lake, and he had a mustache that hadn’t been there when he’d left town. It was thick and lush, almost totally obscuring his upper lip, and seeing it did things to her insides that she was all too familiar with. He was tanned, too, his usually pale white skin a sun-kissed bronze. She wanted to scold him about sunscreen because what the fuck, but his biceps were bunching as his fingers carefully probed the back of her head, and she was a sucker for biceps.

And thighs. Jesus God, the thighs.

He was crouched in front of her with his feet flat on the ground, which was impressive. She’d played catcher on her high school softball team all four years, and she knew the burn of the flat-footed squat. But his legs were rock steady, not a tremble or a quiver in sight—not from him, anyway. She was quivering plenty, because she was all but caged in by those thighs, close enough for her to see the dusting of blond hair covering them, to feel the body heat radiating off him like a furnace.

She drew in a careful breath to steady herself—a mistake, because with oxygen came his scent.

He smelled like toothpaste with faint hints of sunscreen and sweat, a combination that no one ever had described as sexy, but her heart was hammering like he’d bathed in pheromones and fresh basil, and if she was going to die anyway, what was she waiting for?

She could fuck him now. He was only wearing boxer shorts—the ones she’d bought because they matched his eyes—and she was only wearing panties and a T-shirt, and the bed was right there. But with her luck she’d live, and then she wouldn’t be able to work for him anymore, and her already considerable financial problems would be even more dire.

She let out a groan, part despair and part lust and all raging disappointment, and the hand carefully probing the back of her head stilled.

His gaze dropped to hers, concern darkening his cornflower blue eyes. “Does it hurt?”

It didn’t, not really. But since pain explained the groan a lot better—and with less humiliation—than the truth, she nodded.

“There’s a bump, but it didn’t break the skin,” he said, and to her combined disappointment and relief, pulled his hand away to hold up two fingers. “How many fingers do you see?”

“I don’t have a concussion,” she told him, trying to sound confident. It was tough because the toothpaste/sunscreen/sweat combination was really very nice, and the mustache was still wreaking havoc on her hormones, and all of that combined with the thighs was making it hard to concentrate.

“Okay, then tell me how many.”

Deciding to humor him, she focused. “Two.”

“Any nausea? Dizziness?”

“No.”

“Who won the Stanley Cup last season?”

“The Yankees.”

He frowned. “That’s a baseball team.”

She widened her eyes in an expression of exaggerated surprise. “Really?”

“Ha, ha,” he said, then paused. “You do know who won the Cup, though, right?”

“Well, I know it wasn’t you.”

“Ouch.”

“Sorry,” she said, biting her lip. He looked genuinely pained, and she had to quell the urge to cuddle him. No cuddling, you slut. She cleared her throat and tried to come up with a neutral topic. “You grew a mustache.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He reached up to stroke it. “My sister made me grow it.”

She jerked her gaze away from his stroking hand. “Why?”

“Because we were playing Insult Scrabble, and I lost.”

She waited a beat. “Okay, maybe I do have a concussion because I didn’t understand any of that.”

“Insult Scrabble is just Scrabble, but you can only play words that are insults,” he explained.

She nodded, like this was a thing normal people did. “Sure, sure.”

“I played ‘dick’ and she added ‘cheeze’ with a ‘z’ for a triple word score.” He scowled. “Little shit got ninety-six points.”

She frowned. “That’s now how cheese is spelled.”

“I know, right? But the judge overruled me, and now I have to keep this thing for six months.”

“Who was the judge?”

He scowled even harder. “My mom.”

“Your family sounds…”

“You can say it. They’re assholes.”

“I was going to say nice.”

He smiled, dimples appearing at the edges of his mustache. “They’re that, too.”

Okay, she couldn’t just sit there and look at a mustache and dimples while wearing just a t-shirt and panties. There was only so much a person could take. “Can I get up now?”

“If you’re sure you’re up to it.”

“I am,” she assured him. “Um, can you move?”

He pushed smoothly to his feet, reaching down a hand to help her to hers. With no other choice, she took it.

“Thanks,” she said breathlessly when she was standing—way too close to him—and tried to take a step back only to collide with the bed.

“Whoa.” He grabbed her shoulders before she could fall again. “Are you dizzy?”

“No, I just forgot where the bed was.” Damn, damn, damn. Her shirt had fallen off her right shoulder and his hand was warm and firm and gentle, sending tingles racing under her skin.

God, so many tingles.

“I think you should sit,” he said, guiding her to do just that, and since the tingles had reached her knees, she let him.

“I’m fine.” Tilly waddled over to plop down beside her, her heavy and surprisingly bony chin resting on Brynn’s bare thigh. “Really.”

Jude peered into her eyes, then shook his head. “Maybe, but I don’t think we should take any chances.”

“I’m not going to the ER,” Brynn said, swallowing panic. She could not afford that. “It’s barely a bump.”

“You know how many guys I’ve known with ‘barely a bump’ who’ve ended up puking and cross-eyed at three a.m.?”

“Yes, but they’re hockey players. They’re…” She struggled for something to say that didn’t call into question the intelligence of those in his chosen profession.

“Yes?” he drawled.

“I’m not going to the ER,” she repeated.

“Okay.” He sat down on the bed, Tilly between them, a distance that felt like not nearly enough. “Then we’ll do the at-home version of concussion protocol.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ll check you regularly throughout the night,” he said. “Make sure your pupils are equal and reactive, that you’re orientated to time and place?—”

“I get it,” she interrupted, holding up a hand. But it was trembling, so she dropped it again. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”

“Maybe,” he allowed. “But believe me, you don’t want to take chances with your brain. It’s either this or the ER.”

Damn, damn, damn . “Fine,” she sighed and started to stand.

His hand shot out to grip her knee, holding her in place. Tilly stretched forward to sniff at his wrist. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to sleep in the guest room,” she said, ignoring the weight on her knee and the drool on her leg and looking around for her leggings. They were on the end of the bed, behind Jude—to get them, she’d have to either reach past him or get up and walk around the bed with her ass hanging out of her nightshirt.

Not happening.

“What’s wrong with here?”

She stopped trying to figure out how to get her pants to frown at him. “I can’t stay here. It’s your room.”

“Sure, you can. You already were,” he pointed out.

“That’s…different,” she said feebly.

“How?”

“It just is,” she insisted. “You weren’t home, and…you weren’t home.”

“It’s fine, Brynn. I’ll stay in the guest room.”

“It’s full of boxes,” she reminded him. “And old hockey equipment.”

He shrugged. “So?”

“A lot of it is piled on the bed,” she pointed out. “Which isn’t even made.”

“I’ll deal with it. You’re hurt, so you’re staying here.”

She should’ve just died of embarrassment and gotten it over with. “I’m really not hurt, I just?—”

“And I’ll be in every two hours to check you,” he continued, shifting his hand from her knee to Tilly’s head. “Will she bark at me?”

Brynn eyed Tilly, currently doing the doggie equivalent of a swoon while Jude rubbed her ears. “No. She might fart, though, and then you’ll wish you were dead.”

“This sweet girl?” He bent to give Tilly an affectionate nuzzle that sent her into a tail-wagging frenzy of joy. “I don’t believe it.”

Brynn, who in the week and a half she’d been dog-sitting had been on the receiving end of more gas than Exxon, snorted.

Jude grinned, flashing his dimples again. “You mind if I take one of the pillows?”

“Um, no. No, of course not,” she said, and when he stood to circle the bed, tugged her t-shirt down over her knees. Then she realized it dragged the loose V-neck so low her nipples were visible and let it go.

“Do you need anything?” he asked from the foot of the bed, far enough away now to be fuzzy without her glasses, a fact which should’ve helped her lust problem but didn’t. It apparently didn’t matter that she couldn’t make out his biceps or his thighs, or see his mustache as anything but a blonde smudge on his face anymore, because she had an excellent memory that hadn’t gotten the no-lusting-after-Jude memo, and was, to her chagrin, gleefully filling in the fuzzy blanks.

“No,” she said, concentrating on his fuzzy nose instead of his fuzzy boxer shorts. “I’m fine.”

“Okay, well. See you in two hours.”

“Right. Two hours,” she echoed, watching his fuzzy, blue-clad ass walk toward the door .

He paused, and though she knew he was looking at her, he was too far away for her to see the expression on his face. “Goodnight, Brynn.”

“ ’Night,” she said, then he hit the switch and plunged the room into darkness, and the door clicked shut behind him and she was alone with her impure thoughts and Tilly. Who promptly farted.

“I deserved that,” Brynn muttered and burrowed under the covers.