Playing Dirty Read online

  About to leave the bar and could use a ride. Interested?

  She reread the double entendre.

  Too dirty, or not dirty enough? Maybe he’d just think her car had broken down. She added the eggplant emoji for clarity. Deleted it. Did the same with the winky face. Mentally chastised herself for putting so much effort into this, and hit Send before she could overanalyze the whole thing more than she already had. Lainey set her phone on the counter and took a gulp of her lukewarm beer, marveling at her own bravery. She’d just booty-texted Cooper Mead.

  She checked her phone. No reply.

  She played a half-hearted round of the word game she’d downloaded. Spent some time spinning her beer mug in a slow circle. It was still half-full but too warm to drink. She pushed it away, rested her cheek in her hand and watched her bartender mix drinks for a while. Much as Darius sometimes got on her last nerve, he was actually a pretty decent—she pounced on her phone when it buzzed on the counter, punching in her passcode with record speed...to find that her supervisor at Zenith was reminding her—again—that she needed to log in to the work portal and choose her next assignment if she didn’t want one assigned to her.

  Deleting the text, she frowned. So he was playing hard to get, was he? Punishing her for sending him away without breakfast?

  Well, she’d just see about that.

  Just thinking about all the things I want to do to you tonight.

  Lainey nodded smugly. He wanted to play games? She could give as good as she got. Cooper Mead might think he was making up the rules of this little flirtation they had going on, but she would show him she was not to be underestimated. She was going to leave, and if he showed up at the bar before her next text arrived, with directions to her hotel room, all the better.

  Shoving her phone in the back pocket of her jeans, she stood, and placed a few bills on the counter to pay for the beer. She checked her phone once—phantom vibration—before grabbing her purse and heading for the back door.

  The thought that he might be waiting in the parking lot for her, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, leaning against the hood of whatever fancy car he drove like a stereotypical bad boy from an old movie stopped Lainey before she reached the exit. She ran her fingers through her hair, wet her lips and readjusted her bra. With a deep breath, she pushed through the door.

  Cooper wasn’t there.

  It was only nine o’clock, she reminded herself as she walked to her car. Still early. Maybe he hadn’t checked his phone yet. She’d hear from him soon.

  By ten o’clock, she’d sent a total of six naughty messages, triple-checked that her phone wasn’t on mute, shaved her legs while perched on the edge of the hotel tub, changed into sexy red panties and a white tank, and come to the realization that Cooper wasn’t going to drop by and take the edge off.

  She flopped back against the pillows on the hotel bed. She was angry, yes, a little bit embarrassed, maybe, but more than that she was restless. She’d worked herself up sending that string of racy texts. Remembering Cooper’s big, calloused hands on her skin, imagining all the things she wanted to do to him when she had him in front of her, horizontal and naked, with nothing but time on their hands.

  She shifted her bare legs against each other, enjoying the soft slide of skin against skin, the slight increase of pressure between her thighs. She was keyed up, turned on, sexually frustrated to the extreme. She looked over at her silent phone.

  Fuck it, she decided. Grabbing it, she typed, I’m starting without you, and shimmied herself under the covers. He’d had his chance, and if he wasn’t interested, so be it. In fact...

  She tapped through to her video recorder and looked into the camera, her eyebrow cocked with challenge as she hit record. “Should’ve answered your texts, Slick,” she said, before angling the camera toward the sheets that covered her lower body. Slowly, she ran her hand down the white cotton tank, across her stomach and under the sheets.

  The comforter moved as she navigated the waistband of her underwear, and she took great pleasure keeping them hidden from the camera. She’d put them on for him, but if he wasn’t going to fulfill his end of the bargain and show up, then he didn’t deserve them.

  She couldn’t help the satisfied exhale as her fingers settled right where she needed them. She bit her lip as she indulged in the slow, sweet friction that she craved. Her body was primed for pleasure, responding immediately to the glide of her fingers.

  She could take care of herself. She didn’t need Cooper Mead to do it for her.

  The thought reminded her of the phone in her left hand, and she angled the screen back toward her face. She was flushed, hair spread out across the white pillow case, her breath coming faster as she touched herself. She’d planned to say something scathing and turn off the camera, but there was something wicked about recording herself in this most intimate moment, something hot and sweet that wound its way through her veins and amped up her pleasure. Her lips curved into an indulgent smile, and Lainey reached over and propped the phone against the alarm clock. With a final glance at the screen, Lainey rolled onto her back and gave herself her full attention.

  She was already wet, thanks to her earlier fantasizing about Cooper, though it rankled a little that he was in any way responsible for the crescendo building below decks. Still, it would be a shame to waste such a nice sexual buzz. Lainey rolled her hips, sucking in a breath as sparks tingled deep in her gut.

  “Oh, God.”

  It felt good. Better, hotter than usual. And yet, it was a pale imitation of what she’d wanted this evening. Her eyes drifted shut, and she moaned softly. A slideshow of Cooper’s hands on her body, fingers gripping her hips as he drove into her, played through her mind, and the memories made her insides tense.

  Pulling her knees up, she slid one finger deep inside herself, and the change in sensation ratcheted up the tension in her belly. She remembered—hell, how could she forget?—the heat of him, the leashed power of his big, muscular body behind her. The intensity in his eyes as he watched her respond to his every touch in the mirror.

  She slipped another finger inside. It didn’t ease the ache, such a poor replacement for his fullness, the power of having him inside her, filling her and pushing her closer to the brink with every stroke. She was close, so damn close. The orgasm was right there, within reach, and she clenched her thighs, straightened her legs, twisted her hips. Lainey ran her free hand across her stomach, up to her breast, squeezing as she increased the speed of her fingers below the sheets. Then she pressed the heel of her hand against her clit, like he had, trying to recapture the magic of his touch...

  Oh, Jesus. “Coop...”

  White light flashed behind her eyelids and her back arched and she drove her hips high as a rush of pleasure shook through her body, leaving her limp and sated in its wake.

  Lainey took a few moments to catch her breath before she rolled onto her side and reached for her phone. “Sorry you missed out,” she told him, before she stopped the recording. With the press of her thumb, she attached the video to a text and hit Send, watching the spinning circle as the data transferred.

  When her phone indicated that her message had been delivered, Lainey couldn’t help smiling. She felt powerful. As though she’d freed herself from a toxic addiction to Cooper Mead. A big middle finger to the man who twisted her up inside. The emancipation felt incredible.

  For about thirty seconds. Which was approximately when her brain reminded her that that empowering, self-induced orgasm she was so proud of? It had come courtesy of the graphic memory of his hands on her body.

  Dammit.

  Lainey lay there for a long moment, staring up at the ceiling.

  Luckily, he didn’t have to know that.

  5

  COOPER FOUGHT BACK a wave of nausea and disorientation as he woke up in a pitch-black room. He reach
ed blindly toward the end table for his phone, and the movement made his stomach roil, so he rolled himself onto his back and lay still for a long moment as his body readjusted and calmed down.

  How long had he been out?

  He’d spent four hours at a meet and greet with Portland Storm fans in some mall he couldn’t remember the name of. It had meant sitting elbow to elbow with teammates, inhaling Sharpie fumes and scrawling his name on hats, jerseys, T-shirts and a surprising number of breasts. And while the turnout had been amazing, Cooper much preferred meeting fans more organically, like at the bar, because these days, most people preferred chatting and taking a selfie with him, and he didn’t have to worry if they spelled their names with a “K” or a “C” or a “CH” or a silent “W.”

  These more formal events involved a lot of writing, and a lot of spelling, and that sort of concentration always did a number on him, physically and mentally. It made him feel like he was back in school, back to being the stupid kid, hunched down in the back row, hoping he wouldn’t get called on. The day he’d graduated—by the narrowest of margins—and left books and homework behind had been the best day ever.

  Autograph sessions were the one time his dyslexia still had the power to ruin his life.

  His last lucid memory was of arriving back at his penthouse suite with a monster headache around six in the evening. He’d headed straight for the bathroom to swallow some pain pills, and then shed clothes until he fell into bed in his underwear intending to sleep his way through the thrashing in his skull. He’d managed to turn off the ringer on his phone and hit the remote-control button that engaged the blackout blinds on his massive, south-facing windows. He must have passed out minutes later.

  His head was still tender, like he had a headache hangover—better, but with just enough phantom sensation to remind Cooper of how much it had hurt. Not that he was surprised. With a deep, steadying breath to calm the acidic feeling in his stomach, he made another grab for his phone and this time he was successful. When the screen lit up he recoiled from the brightness, allowing his eyes a few seconds to adjust before he opened them again.

  The digital readout said it was quarter after eleven. In the morning.

  Damn. He’d lost over twelve hours to the worst headache he’d had in recent memory. He’d also slept through about a hundred text messages. The mere thought of reading them made his brain throb. There were also seven missed calls, all from teammates, four of them from Luke. Why the hell was everyone...

  Oh, shit.

  Coop rolled out of bed and bolted for the shower. He was supposed to be at the children’s hospital in fifteen minutes. There was no way he was going to make it on time. Coach had already warned him about the need to keep up appearances. This was the last community event before the playoffs started, and there would be a lot of press there, compiling feel-good stories for the six o’clock news.

  After walking through the spray, Coop toweled off and brushed his teeth simultaneously, and was still pulling on his T-shirt as he headed out the door.

  By the time he arrived at the ward, out of breath, hair still damp from his shower, he was relieved that he was only half an hour late. He was less relieved that every one of his teammates was decked out in a Portland Storm jersey. Whoops. Cooper flagged down a harried-looking blonde woman carrying a clipboard and wearing a lanyard with team credentials on it. “Hey, some kid just spilled juice on my jersey. Any chance there’s an extra I can borrow?”

  “Of course! I’ll find you one immediately,” she told him, barely pausing as she made a note on the clipboard before hurrying off to put out the next fire.

  With that taken care of, he glanced around the room, taking stock.

  A couple of the guys were doing interviews with perky, smiling television reporters, but most of them were scattered around the large common room, buddied up with kids and their parents, playing ping-pong and video games if they were able, reading books and shooting the breeze if they weren’t.

  Cooper snuck around the perimeter of the room, away from the activity, to the quiet space where the kids who’d been wheeled into the room still in the hospital beds were hanging out. He caught his captain’s eye just as Luke was finishing taking a photo with a little girl with a bright, gap-toothed smile and a smooth, bald head.

  He watched as the girl’s grateful mother gave Luke a hug. These visits were always a stab in the heart, no matter how many Cooper attended.

  “Where have you been? I tried calling a bunch of times.” Thankfully, Luke sounded more concerned that angry.

  “I slept through my alarm. My phone was on mute. I’m sorry I’m late, man.”

  “You’re gonna be sorrier when someone from PR sees you’re not wearing your jersey.”

  “Already taken care of.”

  “Sign this for me.”

  Cooper caught the hat Luke tossed to him. “This might be taking your hero worship of me too far, Maguire. And before you beg, forget it. I’m not putting any hearts before my name.”

  “Just make it out to Melissa and stop being a smart-ass.”

  Cooper uncapped the Sharpie. The scent alone was enough to make his brain give a terrified throb at the prospect of more autographs. After this, he was going to find a dark corner to hang out in for a bit, and then he’d implement a selfies-only rule.

  With intense concentration, he made an “M” with a scribble after it before he scrawled his own name, adding a fairly legible 16 at the end. Luckily, being a hockey player didn’t require good penmanship.

  “Melissa, eh? Let’s grab dinner after this and we can talk about how much money it’s going to cost you to keep me from telling your super-hot girlfriend about this mystery woman,” Cooper joked.

  “Hate to rain on your retirement plan, but my super-hot girlfriend already knows about her, because Melissa is her nine-year-old niece. And we’re having dinner with her at Holly’s dad’s place tonight, which is why I need the hat,” he explained, grabbing it back and whacking Cooper in the shoulder with it. “She is going to flip out when she gets this. You’re, like, her fifth favorite player. After me and some other guys who are way better than you.”

  “Luke, sorry to interrupt, but we’re ready for your interview.” The blonde woman Cooper had spoken to earlier about the jersey appeared out of nowhere and whisked Maguire away.

  Cooper recapped the marker and holstered it in his back pocket.

  “That’s Luke Maguire. Number 18. Left winger. Team captain. He has sixty-three assists this year.”

  Coop turned in the direction of the small voice behind him, his eyebrows raised with genuine surprise. “He does?”

  The kid nodded, but there was a solemnness to him as he pushed the glasses back up his freckled nose. He looked tiny, resting in a hospital bed that had been angled so he was mostly sitting up.

  “Huh. That’s pretty good.”

  “Second highest in the league.”

  “I’m glad he’s on my team.” Cooper glanced around the room. “You know if there’s anywhere to get some food around here? Like a vending machine or something? I’m starving.”

  The kid reached over the rail of his bed and pulled up a backpack featuring a cartoon moose playing hockey.

  “Sweet backpack.”

  The boy sent a derisive look in Coop’s direction as he unzipped it. “It’s for babies. I picked it out in second grade, but I’m ten now.” He rifled around for a minute, before producing a Ziploc bag full of crackers shaped like fish. “Want some of these?”

  “You talked me into it.” Cooper grabbed the empty seat next to the bed and accepted the snack bag gratefully, tugging open the seal while his benefactor rezipped his pack and dropped it back over the edge of the bed.

  “These are delicious.” Cooper tossed a handful of the orange carbohydrates into his mouth, and held the bag out so the k
id could grab some, too.

  They sat in silence for a while, munching on crackers and taking in the sights. Ten minutes passed before the kid spoke again, but once he started, there was no stopping him.

  “That’s Eric Jacobs. Number 2. Centerman. He’s tied for fourth-highest scorer, even though he missed twelve games at the beginning of the season because of a knee injury.” He moved his finger a couple of degrees to the right. “That’s Brett Sillinger. Number 42. Defenseman. His plus/minus is the lowest on your team at -14.” His finger tracked right again. “That’s Tyson Mackinaw. Number 31. Goaltender. His save percentage is 0.921.”

  Cooper tried not to laugh at the derisive tone despite the better-than-average stat. “You don’t sound impressed.”

  “He was better at this time last year.”

  “Tough crowd. What’s your name?”

  “Danny.”

  “So how do you know all this stuff, Danny?”

  “I like hockey. Sometimes my treatments make me feel sick, so it hurts my eyes to watch TV, but I can listen to the radio. And my mom reads me stuff from the magazines. And the internet.” He lifted his shoulders and hands in a shrug of wonderment. “I just remember it.”

  The ubiquitous blonde lady appeared again, this time carrying a jersey. Cooper held up a hand to signify his new position, and she changed course abruptly, coming at them like a heat-seeking missile. Coop leaned toward the hospital bed. “Hey, if this lady asks, tell her you spilled juice on my jersey, okay?”

  “I’m sorry it took so long. There were a couple of media issues, and then I couldn’t find you.” She held the jersey out to Cooper, but before he could thank her, Danny chimed in.

  “I spilled juice on his jersey.”

  The lady nodded, but she was already scanning her checklist for the next box to check off. “That’s nice. Have fun, you two.”

  Cooper slung the jersey over the armrest of his uncomfortable chair and turned to face Danny. “Thanks, partner.”

  “Now you have to do me a favor.”