Page 120 of Hockey Wife

He halted behind her, still staring, still consuming her with his gaze. With a gentle sweep, he moved her hair aside, leaving her neck exposed. Then he inhaled at the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder like her scent was the oxygen he needed to breathe.

She shivered with pleasure. Words dried in her throat.

His lips brushed her earlobe, inducing another delicious shiver. He applied a kiss just under her ear, then another to the curve of her neck. Her nipples hardened. Dampness pooled between her thighs. Reaching up, she hooked a hand around his neck, and her touch fanned the flames. His kisses became more ardent, desperate to cover more ground.

She let out a whimper. He sucked on her lobe, then gave it a small nip that set her whole body ablaze.

They were going to be late.

She didn’t care.

Her phone vibrated. She ignored it. Banks’s mouth was all she could think of, all she could feel.

Her phone buzzed again, and he raised his head.

“Your mom,” he said with a kiss that felt final to her neck.

Gah!

Mom

Darling, Rosetta wants to know if you’re still vegetarian. She could probably whip up some pasta primavera at the last minute.

She closed her eyes.

“Still?” Banks asked.

“Never. I experimented for a week in eighth grade before I remembered I couldn’t live without pepperoni pizza.” Her mother had a memory like a steel trap, which she chose to use selectively. “Just a dig about my lack of commitment to any course of action.”

He screwed up his mouth, ready to defend her.

She cut him off. “We should get going.”

“Yep.”

“Georgia, you have a scar!”

“I told you I got hit by a puck.”

Her mother blinked. “Yes, but I had no idea it was so … obvious.”

Her father leaned in for a closer look then turned to her mother. “We should get Stephen to assess the legal options.”

“Dad, it was an accident and not a big deal.” As moguls, her parents lived their lives on the litigious edge. Lawyering up was usually the first option.

A warm weight wrapped around her hand. Banks had curled his fingers in hers, and the knowledge that he was here at her side gave her strength.

Her mother wrinkled her nose. “Dylan, does this kind of thing happen often?”

“No, Penny, it’s pretty rare, but then so is Georgia.”

There went her pulse again. She slid a look at Banks to find him smiling at her. She would think it all part of the act if Banks hadn’t held her hand on the car ride over or all the way up the elevator. If he hadn’t turned to her before they knocked on the door to her parents’ penthouse and said, “We’ve got this, Peaches.” If he hadn’t given her a kiss so sweet her knees were still knocking when Rosetta opened the door.

She would never have considered herself rare enough to deserve the undivided attention of a man like Dylan Bankowski. But in this world they’d created, she was at the center, and she wished more than anything it could stay that way.

The Goodwins lived in a penthouse in the John Hancock Center on Michigan Avenue, which, given Banks’s own wealth, he really couldn’t fault them for. (Though he wanted to.) It was filled with expensive art and uncomfortable furniture and looked like it was used for a few weeks a year.

One thing stood out: Dani was not forgotten. Photographs of her covered sideboards, mantels, and walls. There were pictures of Georgia as well, but mostly in official-looking family portraits or with her sister. Scanning the offerings, he found one of her solo, on a horse. Not more than fifteen, he’d guess, she had the imperious look of someone who had been born into wealth and privilege and expected everyone else to bow down before her.

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