Wild Zone (Rough Riders Hockey 4)

to her lips. “Cairo? No, no. How many years ago is that?” She sighed. “I think I was somewhere in the Middle East. I have it all in a travel diary.”

“Fascinating.” He shook his head, again wishing they had more than two weeks to get to know each other.

But they weren’t on a date. As they took the path to his front door, Tate reminded himself they were here to fuck, not talk. And as he climbed the stairs with her by his side, that was beginning to bother him more and more. Because he was beginning to like her more and more. He didn’t know how the other guys did it—night after night. Woman after woman.

On the porch he paused, leaned against the railing in the warm night and drew her into his arms. She came to him exactly the way he’d already come to expect, easily, fluidly, happily. She pressed her body to his, wound her arms around his waist and smiled up at him. Tate brushed a strand of her hair off her forehead and ran his knuckles down her cheek.

He just wasn’t fucking built for one-night stands. And it seriously sucked to find that out here, now, with this woman, because he wasn’t about to let her go and he sure as shit couldn’t keep her.

“First thing tomorrow,” he said with a smile, “I’m sending that caterer the biggest damn bunch of flowers I can buy. Hell, I’m going to fill her fucking hospital room and the nursery with flowers.”

One of Olivia’s golden brows rose with a little shake of her head. “Why?”

“Because keeping you in the kitchen also kept you away from the party, where there were dozens of guys who would have eaten you up in a hot second.”

She chuckled low in her throat, her humor growing as the idea gelled.

“I’m serious.” He lifted the hand holding his keys and searched for the one to the front door, then pushed off the railing. “You don’t know my teammates. And, baby, you could have had your pick.”

Olivia pushed Tate back against the railing, holding him there with a hand at his chest. And she was looking up at him with a no-fucking-around expression he hadn’t seen yet. “I got my pick. I always get my pick. I never settle, Tate.”

Her voice was compassionate but firm. Her gaze steady and serious. “So don’t think for a second you were a fluke or a second choice or consolation to me being stuck in the kitchen. I had you picked before I ever got pulled away. I’ll always choose to go home alone over going home with someone I’m not one-hundred and fifty percent into just to be with someone. I’m not a woman who needs a man. I’m not a woman who settles for anything but exactly what I want. I’m here because I want you, Tate, not because I couldn’t have someone else.”

He felt something inside his chest melt. Felt his rough edges softening. Olivia never looked away. Never hedged. Never backpedaled.

“You are something really special, Olivia. I know we just met, but…” He shook his head.

Her hand relaxed on his chest, and she eased closer with an almost imperceptible nod of agreement. “But sometimes, you just know when you’ve found someone who clicks.”

He lowered his lips to hers. Her tongue stroked his bottom lip, then dipped into his mouth and swirled lazily, sensually. But the heat rose and in seconds their sexy kiss had turned erotic and edgy again. The blood that had temporarily returned to his brain was back in Tate’s pants. And there was a new intimacy between them that fueled the need.

Forcing himself to break the kiss, Tate had to clear his head with a shake to get the key into the lock. And with Olivia at his back, her hands all over him, Tate still struggled. The man with finesse and grace and lightning moves under pressure couldn’t keep his hands from shaking while a woman he barely knew grabbed his ass with one hand and groped his package with the other.

By the time he pushed the door open he was hard and throbbing again. He grabbed Olivia’s wrist and pulled her hand off his cock, then had to take two full breaths before his vision cleared. When he focused, Olivia stood in front of him. She curled her hand into the front of his shirt and pulled him into the house.

What Olivia had told Tate was true: she had never been indiscriminant in choosing lovers. Still, she’d been with a lot of men. She’d always had an open soul and enjoyed sharing the pleasures of sex with another open soul. And Europe was chalked full of open souls because Europeans were raised with an entirely different outlook on sex than Americans. Far more casual. Far more prevalent. Easy-come easy-go. No commitment.

Her personal issues fit in well with that model. If she didn’t love, she couldn’t lose. If she didn’t trust, she couldn’t be betrayed. And her nomadic lifestyle kept everything in sync.

Olivia was happy to hold onto her fluid, no-drama romances. She was proud of her sexual independence. Loved the way sex never interfered with her life or her goals. Was proud of the way she controlled when she allowed a man into her life and for how long, not the other way around.

Now, she was allowing Tate into her life, and while she was doing her damnedest not to look desperate, when the door closed, and he didn’t slam her up against the wall and fuck her right there, she knew she had to take action.

Olivia gripped the lapels of his blazer and pushed Tate back against the closed front door, wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and lifted on her toes as she pulled his head down to bring their mouths together.

His hands stroked down her sides, up her back, down her spine and finally—finally covered her ass—pulling her hips into his. His erection indented her lower belly and a surge of need washed her body. Olivia moaned, circling her arms back and around his neck.

Tate’s hot breath bathed her skin on a similar sound. “Baby…” he said, breathing hard. “Can you tell me what you like? What you want? I’ll do anything…just tell me how you like it…”

Olivia pushed back caught between frustration, anger and heartbreak. What the fuck had his ex done to turn a man so genuine into someone who didn’t even know who he was anymore? How had she turned a man, who—judging by his career—had once had such high self-confidence and self-esteem into someone who needed to be told how to please a woman?

“What do you want, Tate?” she asked. “This isn’t just about me.” She stroked his face, slipped her hands down the front of his body quickly unfastened his belt and pants—for the second time tonight. Something she shouldn’t ever have to do. “I want whatever we find together as our perfect rhythm. I want the real Tate, when he’s not worried about what someone else will think or what he should or shouldn’t do. There are no judgments here, between you an me.” She snuck her fingers under the waistband of his boxer-briefs. “I want you to go after what you want, as hard as you want it.”

To give him a nudge, she held his gaze and pushed her hand beneath the soft cotton of his briefs and took his thick cock into her palm. Tate’s eyes fluttered closed, his mouth dropped open on a sound of surprise and pleasure, and his head dropped back, hitting the door.

Olivia would have laughed, but Tate wasn’t laughing. Tate didn’t even seem to notice. His handsome face was awash in pleasure. Intense pleasure. And, God, he was beautiful.

With one hand wrapped around his forearm for balance, she dropped to crouch, and by the time she rolled to her knees, his eyes were open and disoriented. That worked for Olivia. He certainly didn’t need to be coherent for what she had planned.