Chapter 15
Nola POV
The Great Hall of Vandermark looked like an oil painting of old athletic money.
Vaulted cedar beams arched fifty feet above the parquet floor, while three tiers of wrought-iron chandeliers threw a warm, honeyed glow across two hundred circular tables draped in heavy ivory damask.
The air was a suffocating blend of expensive bourbon, white gardenias, dry wool tuxedos, and the cold draft sweeping off the bluffs whenever the heavy entrance doors swung open.
Crystal champagne flutes clinked in rhythmic succession, mingling with the low murmur of university trustees and NHL scouts.
I smoothed the front of my midnight-green silk gown, my fingernails biting into the fabric beside my hip.
The dress was an investment I couldn't afford—cut with a high, modest neckline in the front, no back to speak of, and a sharp slit running up the left thigh to mid-thigh that exposed a length of bare skin every time I shifted my weight.
My pulse knocked against the base of my throat, rapid and uneven.
I stood near the registration desk, holding my small evening clutch like a shield, scanning the sea of black-tie attire for Athletic Director Miller.
Then my eyes caught the light at the center of the hall.
Chase Guzman was standing beside the university president, flanked by two regional directors from the Boston Bruins front office.
The sight of him hit my sternum with the force of an open-ice collision.
He was wearing a custom-tailored charcoal three-piece suit, the dark wool cut with mathematical precision across the immense, immovable width of his shoulders and chest. The crisp white collar of his dress shirt set off the sharp, sun-starved line of his jaw, and a black silk tie was knotted tightly against his throat.
His dark hair was brushed back, neat and severe, leaving the jagged two-inch scar through his right eyebrow exposed to the crystal glare above.
He looked aristocratic, brutal, and utterly lethal.
As if feeling the sudden drag of my gaze, Chase’s head turned.
Across thirty yards of polished floor, over the heads of fifty milling donors and coaches, his obsidian-gray eyes locked onto mine.
He didn't blink. He didn't offer a polite nod of recognition.
He stopped speaking mid-sentence to the NHL scout, his attention abandoning the men who held his professional future in their hands.
His gaze dragged slowly down my body—tracking the bare curve of my shoulders, the tight silk clinging to my ribs, the pale flash of my thigh through the slit—before crawling back up to settle directly on my mouth.
The heat of his look was an open flame against my skin.
My breath locked behind my teeth, a sudden, hot flush climbing from my breastbone straight into the hollow beneath my ears.
* * *
"Table Four, Wagner," Miller’s voice barked at my elbow, breaking the line of sight.
The director gave me an approving nod, gesturing toward the raised dais near the stage.
"Hastings wants you at the varsity leadership table.
We're pitching the biomechanics pilot to the regional booster committee during the entree service. "
Five minutes later, I pulled out a heavy mahogany chair at Table Four.
The round table seated eight. Miller was on my left; Head Coach Hastings sat directly across.
Chase pulled out the chair to my immediate right.
The scent of him arrived before he even sat: clean cedarwood, cold night air, and the dark, expensive musk of his skin that made my stomach dip into freefall. When he took his seat, the heavy wool of his suit sleeve brushed against the bare skin of my upper arm.
A violent, microscopic tremor skittered down my bicep.
"Good evening, Wagner," he said, his voice a smooth, low drawl that gave away nothing to the table.
"Captain Guzman," I replied, forcing my tone into crisp, professional detachment, keeping my eyes fixed on the silver bread plate in front of me.
Miller launched into a monologue about post-season conditioning, addressing an elderly alumnus in a velvet dinner jacket: "Our preliminary data from the fatigue-monitoring pilot is outstanding. Wagner here has kept our top line within peak neuromuscular parameters for three straight weeks."
"She runs a tight protocol," Chase murmured, lifting his crystal water glass with his left hand.
Beneath the floor-length ivory tablecloth, the world changed.
The heavy linen hung all the way to the carpet, forming a private, shadowed cave between our legs.
Chase’s right hand vanished below the edge of the table.
Two seconds later, his large, bare palm settled flat against my left knee, right where the slit in my silk gown had parted over my bare skin.
My breath hitched on a silent, strangled gasp. My back snapped rigid against the mahogany slats of my chair, my fingers clenching the cloth napkin in my lap until the linen creased into knots.
His hand was an inferno.
Calloused and rough from years of composite sticks, his palm molded to the curve of my knee. He didn't leave it still. Slowly, with agonizing, measured pressure, his fingers slid four inches up my thigh, his thumb tracing wide, deliberate circles against the sensitized flesh of my inner leg.
"Wagner?" Miller’s voice cut through the roaring in my ears. "What was the recovery differential on Guzman’s shoulder after the North Dakota series?"
I swallowed hard, the muscles in my throat contracting on dry air. I forced my lips into a polite, composed smile, looking directly at the athletic director while Chase’s fingers mapped the burning skin beneath my dress.
"The... the bilateral force discrepancy dropped from twelve percent to four, sir," I managed, my voice steady only through pure, desperate willpower. "The soft-tissue compliance shows optimal adaptation."
"Brilliant," Miller grunted, turning back to his wine.
Beside me, Chase took another slow sip of water. His face was a mask of cold, aristocratic composure.
Under the table, his hand moved another inch higher.
His thick fingers gripped the soft underside of my thigh, squeezing with quiet, heavy authority, holding me anchored to his side.
I shifted my hips, pressing my knees together in a desperate attempt to dislodge his grip.
Chase didn't budge. His grip tightened, his thumb pressing firmly into the sensitive dip where my leg met my hip, his body shifting half an inch closer until the hard wool of his trouser leg was pressed flush against mine.
A hot wave of dizziness washed over my skull. My skin burned beneath his touch, every nerve ending in my lower body firing off frantic, screaming signals that made my thighs tremble against the chair.
He leaned slightly toward me, as if reaching for the butter dish, his lips passing within two inches of my ear.
"Stop moving, sweetheart," he murmured, the whisper so quiet it didn't even disturb the candle flame between our plates. "Or I'm going to take this dress off you right under this table."
* * *
By the time the university president took the podium for the keynote address, the air in my lungs was completely depleted.
The hall lights dimmed by half, focusing a golden spotlight on the wooden lectern at the far end of the stage.
I leaned toward Miller, keeping my voice to a breathless whisper: "Director Miller, excuse me. I need to retrieve an updated file from my bag in the coat check."
Miller waved a dismissive hand, his eyes on the stage.
I pushed my chair back, the legs sliding quietly across the carpet, and rose. I didn't look at Chase. I turned and walked toward the perimeter of the room, my legs feeling like hollow reeds, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
I slipped through a heavy arched service door at the rear of the ballroom, entering the long, dim gallery corridor that led to the exterior terrace.
The hallway was empty, illuminated only by the cold, blue moonlight streaming through the French doors, lined with heavy velvet drapes that pooled on the floor.
I ducked behind the thick velvet curtain of the third alcove, pressing my bare shoulder blades against the freezing glass of the terrace door.
I closed my eyes, dragging in three ragged, cold breaths, pressing my trembling palms against the burning skin of my thighs.
The heavy velvet drape rustled.
A wall of broad, dark wool blocked out the moonlight.
Chase stepped into the alcove, letting the thick fabric fall shut behind him, sealing us into the darkness.
Before I could draw breath to speak, his hands were on me.
His large palms clamped around my waist, lifting me until my heels cleared the floor, driving my back firmly against the glass. The cold shock of the pane against my bare spine contrasted violently with the furnace of his chest pressing into the front of my silk gown.
He didn't kiss me.
He buried his face into the crook of my neck, his rough jaw scraping the sensitive skin beneath my ear, his breath scalding as it washed over my throat.
"You're driving me out of my mind in this dress, Nola," he rasped, the words coming out in a broken, ruined growl that vibrated straight through my bones.
My fingers rose on pure instinct, clutching the lapels of his charcoal suit jacket, anchoring myself to the heavy wool as my head fell back against the glass.
"Chase... someone will see—"
"Let them look," he whispered, his teeth lightly grazing the leaping pulse point at the base of my throat, making my hips jerk forward against the hard line of his belt.
"Sitting there... watching you answer Miller with that straight face while my hands were between your legs... good girl. Such a good girl for me."
A helpless, broken whimper tore out of my mouth, my fingers knotting into the fabric of his jacket.
Outside the velvet drape, sharp heels clicked on the terrazzo floor, accompanied by the laughter of two trustees stepping out into the corridor.