Page 3 of The Kiss of Deception

I take the opportunity to look at her—at all of her. Black pants hug her ass flawlessly before flaring just below her knee and widening so much towards her calves that I can’t see her footwear. She’s slightly taller, so they’re not flats, but still short as fuck next to me; so tiny I could tuck her under my arm and she’d barely reach my chin. The white sleeveless silk turtleneck disappears under a brown belt that cinches her waist, making it impossible to ignore every elegant slope and curve of her body.

She is class, calm, control.

Zoe doesn't warn me before adjusting the angle of her body, but I take her straight posture, her nod, her pristine smile as the indication that we’re live.

“Congratulations on this unprecedented win for the team, Blackstein. What an historic night—particularly for you—after scoring the winning goal.” My eyes abandon her face to inspect the little statuette she thrusts into my hands. It’s ugly and heavier than it looks, but what matters is what it represents: I’m doing my job right.

“Thank you. It really is a night I’ll never forget. Of course, I’m happy to receive this award, but in the end, what’s most important is the club and our achievements as a team—that trophy we’re taking home.”

I’m grateful her first question is the usual. I manage to babble something coherent as my mind is imprisoned in all things Zoe Westwood. That has always been the frustrating truth.

Since the beginning, she sucked my mind into her gravitational pull and has yet to return it. When she’s around, my brain ignores the existence of everything except for her.

It’s extremely frustrating, this lust.

Zoe nods like I say something groundbreaking, proceeding with her questions. Our eyes don’t waver as we ask, answer, listen—a routine procedure that, with her, becomes a subtle dance privy only to the two of us.

“Tell us about your plans for celebration. I’m sure fans in Boston are anxious to know when they’ll get to see their heroes.”

“We’re definitely looking forward to celebrating with our fans and showing them the cup.” I chuckle. “And with the people who love us, of course.”

I punctuate my final sentence with a wink.

I wink at Zoe.

A wink that she sees as an insinuation.

A wink that becomes the fragile wings of a butterfly.

And a chain of events is in motion.

That familiar perfect blend of anger and annoyance uniquely reserved for me sweeps her eyes for a flash, quickly replaced with mischief and machinations.

And I know, I know, I won’t escape retaliation.

Worry and dread knot my brain, my stomach and all the organs in my body, knowing what she’s capable of—pretty much anything, where I’m concerned. I see it in the dance of blue and green of her eyes, all her thoughts and intentions taking shape and form inside her head.

But her smile, her voice remains polished and professional. Almost friendly.

I know better.

“Miles.” My name rolls off her sly smile with the care of someone who lays it on an altar.

For a sacrificial ritual.

She holds the sword, too.

My chest constricts like she’s tied it into a knot and tightened with nothing but that sweet tenor.

The insane urgency to savor the fact she’s addressed me by my first name—only my first name—is loud. The way her raspy voice rolls around my name like she knows it intimately.

But I can’t, because her sweet, sweet tone is cataclysmic.

“Rumor is you—”

I don’t know what I’m doing. Only that my feet move of their own volition and crush the notion of personal space between us. My arms fly around her frame, crush her against my chest, those white knuckles curled around the microphone nestled between our bodies so that our fronts never quite touch.

With her voice tucked inside my arms, my eyes fall shut forcing all other senses on high alert.

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