Chapter 15
Kiyomi POV
The grand ballroom of the Cumberland Club was a fortress of polished oak wainscoting, brass chandeliers, and the clinking of cut crystal.
Outside, Casco Bay was frozen black beneath a December moon, the salt marshes dusted with crusty snow.
Inside, the annual St. Jude Athletics Winter Gala hummed with the high-dollar murmur of university regents, regional scouts, and corporate donors whose endowments funded the ice beneath our blades.
The air was heavy with the scent of white gardenias, roasted tenderloin, dry champagne, and expensive aftershave.
My posture was rigid inside my dress. I was wearing emerald silk—a bias-cut slip gown that skimmed down to my ankles, with a discreet slit rising along my left thigh and thin straps that left my shoulders and the curve of my back bare to the draft.
My dark hair was swept up into an intricate twist held by gold pins, exposing the pale line of my neck.
Beside me near the central ice sculpture, Dr. Warren Hayes adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, nodding along to a booster’s monologue about tournament seedings. I offered polite, measured smiles on cue, but the muscles along my ribs were locked tight.
Twenty compliance hours remained on Mauricio Leal’s ledger.
Four days had passed since he cornered me in his truck, laid his heavy palm at the small of my back, and dismantled my defenses with four words.
That's how it's going to be. Since then, our morning sessions had been marked by a quiet, suffocating gravity: his hands lingering on my waist during force-plate calibrations, his voice dropping into that dark, low register that made my throat dry out whenever we were alone in the basement.
Now, we were in a room of two hundred people who believed we were student technician and athlete.
My gaze drifted across the ballroom, and the breath stopped behind my teeth.
Mauricio stood twenty feet away, surrounded by Athletic Director Arthur Vance and two scouts from the Boston Bruins.
He was devastating.
The gray fleece and frayed wrist tape were gone, replaced by a bespoke black three-piece suit that fit his broad six-foot-four frame with military precision.
The crisp white collar of his shirt set off the warm olive of his skin; a matte silk tie was knotted tight at his throat.
His dark hair was brushed back, neat and dark, while the faint pink scar slicing through his left eyebrow added a dangerous, predatory edge to the clean lines of his jaw.
As if feeling the weight of my eyes, his head turned slowly.
Over the heads of donors and board members, through the glare of fifty chandeliers, his dark umber eyes locked onto mine.
He didn't blink. He didn't offer a polite nod. His gaze swept down the emerald silk clinging to my hips, lingered on the exposed skin of my collarbones, and rose back to my face with an unvarnished, heavy possession that made my pulse jump in the hollow of my throat.
A hot flush crept across my chest, burning beneath the silk.
* * *
"Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats for dinner," Arthur Vance’s voice projected through the hall’s sound system.
The crowd shifted toward the round tables draped in floor-length white damask. Dr. Hayes guided me toward Table Four, situated directly beside the dais. I pulled out my chair, smoothing the silk over my thighs, only for the hair on the back of my neck to prickle with sudden, intense heat.
The heavy wood chair to my immediate right was pulled back.
Mauricio sat down.
His broad shoulder brushed mine as he settled into the seat, the coarse wool of his suit jacket dragging across the bare skin of my arm.
The contact sent a sharp, involuntary tremor through my shoulder blades.
He brought the scent of cold Atlantic pine, iron, and clean shaving soap into my airspace, drowning out the gardenias on the centerpiece.
Across the linen sat Director Vance and Coach Henrik Lindqvist. To Lindqvist’s left was Gabriel Thorne, who offered me a knowing, amused wink that I pointedly ignored.
"Kiyomi, dear," Director Vance said, leaning forward as the waitstaff poured the first course. "Dr. Hayes was just telling the committee about your motion-capture models. He says your kinetic adjustments have stabilized Mauricio’s lateral transitions by nearly fourteen percent."
The room’s attention snapped to our end of the table.
"The credit belongs to Mauricio’s discipline, Director," I said, forcing my voice to sound cool, smooth, and professional. I picked up my silver water goblet, keeping my fingers steady. "He has complied with every mechanical protocol we introduced."
Beneath the table, where the heavy white linen fell all the way to the carpet, fabric rustled.
A large, warm hand slid onto my bare knee.
My breath seized in my throat. The silver goblet nearly slipped from my fingers.
Mauricio’s palm was burning hot against my cool skin, spanning the narrow width of my knee where the emerald slit had parted. His touch was heavy, firm, and completely hidden from the eight people watching us across the table.
I looked at him. Mauricio was staring straight at Coach Lindqvist, his expression an unreadable mask of athlete deference, his left hand resting casually beside his bread plate.
His right hand, however, began to move.
Slowly, deliberately, his thick calloused thumb traced a firm, agonizing circle against the sensitive skin on the inside of my thigh.
A wave of molten heat rushed straight up into my pelvis, loosening the joints in my hips. I tried to pull my leg back, shifting an inch to the left, but his fingers tightened instantly, his grip locking around my thigh with calm, immovable authority.
"We're seeing the results on the score sheet," Lindqvist barked, gesturing with his fork. "Leal hasn't taken a single boarding penalty in three games. The scouts are noticing the control."
"Control is everything, Coach," Mauricio said.
His voice was a smooth, gravelly rumble that vibrated right through the armrest of my chair. Beneath the linen, his hand slid two inches higher under the silk, his thumb pressing into the soft, yielding flesh of my inner leg.
My throat closed on a dry swallow. A flush climbed from my sternum, blooming hot and pink across my cheeks. I had to plant both palms flat on the tabletop to keep from trembling, my nails digging into the damask.
"Miss Blake has been very thorough with her inspections," Mauricio added, turning his head slightly.
His umber eyes met mine. Up close, his pupils were blown wide, black rims swallowing the brown, daring me to flinch.
"I ensure... the standards are met," I managed to say, the words tight, my lungs starving for oxygen.
His thumb stroked the soft skin just beneath the hem of my dress, pressing with slow, heavy rhythm that turned my knees to water. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, desperate to keep the shiver from showing in my shoulders.
He held me hostage beneath the linen for three agonizing minutes, his touch claiming me in front of the entire athletic department, until the master of ceremonies stepped to the podium to announce the keynote presentation.
The ballroom lights dimmed to a soft amber.
Mauricio’s fingers gave one final, possessive squeeze to my thigh before sliding away, leaving my skin blazing in the dark.
* * *
I stood up before the applause died down.
"Excuse me," I whispered to Dr. Hayes, my voice breathless and tight. "I need some air."
I didn't wait for his answer. I gathered the hem of my emerald gown and slipped past the round tables, moving with brisk, silent steps toward the south gallery corridor.
The hallway was deserted, lit only by low wall sconces that cast long amber pools across the hardwood runners. At the far end stood a set of tall French doors leading out to the harbor terrace, draped in heavy, floor-to-ceiling emerald velvet curtains to block the winter draft.
I ducked behind the velvet drape, pressing my forehead against the freezing glass of the terrace door.
The cold coming off the pane was an absolute relief. I closed my eyes, my chest heaving in rapid, shallow draws as I tried to force my heart rate down from a frantic sprint.
You have to keep your head, I told myself, my fingernails biting into my palms. You can't let him do this to you in public.
The heavy velvet drape shifted with a soft, sliding rustle.
The draft was cut off instantly.
A wall of heat pressed into my back as the curtain dropped back into place, sealing the narrow window alcove off from the empty corridor.
I turned around, but there was nowhere to go.
Mauricio filled the small space, his massive shoulders blocking out the faint light from the gallery. He had unbuttoned his suit jacket; the scent of his skin, cedar, and crisp wool crowded the air until I could taste him on my tongue.
He stepped into me, his heavy frame backing me flat against the cold glass of the terrace door.
"You ran again, Blake," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly scrape that rattled against my ribs.
"You touched me under that table in front of Arthur Vance," I whispered, my chest rising and falling hard against the white cotton of his dress shirt. "You're reckless. If Hayes had looked down—"
"Hayes was looking at his steak," Mauricio said.
His large hands came up, his palms settling flat against the glass on either side of my head, caging me in the gloom. He leaned down until his forehead brushed mine, his breath hot, smelling of mint and black coffee, washing over my heated lips.
His right hand slid from the glass, his thick fingers tangling into the soft hair at the base of my neck, tilting my chin up until I was forced to look into the raw, predatory hunger in his eyes.
"You're driving me out of my mind in this dress, Kiyomi," he rasped, his voice dropping into a ruined, possessive whisper against my skin. His thumb dragged across my lower lip, parting it. "Standing out there pretending I don't know what you taste like. Watching other men look at your shoulders."
"Mauricio—"
"Good girl, keeping that straight face while my hand was on your skin," he murmured, his lips grazing the sensitive hollow beneath my ear.
The rough friction of his jaw stubble made a soft, helpless sound break from my throat.
"You took it so well. Sitting there, looking right at Lindqvist while your pulse hammered for me. "
My fingers came up on their own, clutching the lapels of his suit jacket, my body arching into his warmth despite the cold glass at my back.
"You're going to get us caught," I breathed, my lips brushing the sharp angle of his jaw.
"Let them look," he growled against my mouth.
Outside the velvet drape, heavy leather soles clicked sharply against the hardwood floor.
"Arthur, the regional director is in the foyer," Coach Lindqvist’s voice echoed down the corridor, barely three feet from where we stood.
I froze, the air locking in my lungs, my fingers tightening in Mauricio’s lapels.
Mauricio didn't step back. He held my chin, his dark eyes gleaming with dangerous, unyielding fire in the shadows, his thumb resting over the frantic beat of my pulse as the footsteps drew closer.