Page 48 of Power Play

He promises me retribution.

I promise to take him out for dinner after he loses.

We meet at the boards, shoulders jostling, crude language falling from our lips as we swipe at the puck. We throw our hands up in the air, in celebration of scoring.

But then something happens—the trash talk becomes a little more sensual, a little more like foreplay. Our battle for the puck at the boards becomes a little more personal, Duke’s muscular arm wrapping around my waist as he pulls me away, or his hard chest pressing into my back when I wiggle my butt against his crotch in an attempt to throw him off his game.

“You keep doing that, I’ll be introducing you to a completely different type of stick,” Duke says in a rough voice by my ear.

“Is it still considered an introduction if I’m already closely acquainted with your . . . stick?” I push my butt back against him again, and his free hand clamps down on my hip.

“It will be if I’m aiming to take you in a different position this time.”

My breath hitches at the provocative image his words have evoked. “Which position is that?”

His low chuckle rustles my hair. “Let’s just say that I like the view from behind.”

Oh boy. My knees? They’re wet noodles after hearing that.

The whole Ice Queen has never been further than the truth than it is right now—which is to say that I don’t have a sheet of ice left in my body. Despite the regulated cool air in the rink, Duke’s close proximity is firing me up.

I sharply inhale at the feel of his hand curling around to my front and flattening against my belly. “How about we call it quits on this game?” he murmurs, tugging me against him. “We’ll pretend that you won.”

My hand drapes over his. “I did win. Don’t forget who scored last.”

“I can’t forget something that didn’t happen.”

Whatever he might have said next is interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing. He uses a hand against the board to propel him back, and I twist around, still feeling winded with lust. It’s a strange sensation, and not one that I’m accustomed to, but as I watch Duke’s brows furrow as he answers his phone, I decide that there’s nothing more than I want than to date this man.

It’s probably a far-fetched idea, seeing as how we live two completely different lives. Not to mention the fact that I’m probably getting the can tomorrow morning after Josh realizes that I didn’t deliver on his dream of tabloid trash.

Still . . . I suck in a deep breath when Duke lifts his index finger and mouths “sorry” to me. He doesn’tseemto be biding his time before dumping me and chasing after the next puck bunny.

I wave away his apology and busy myself with skating figure eights in our area of the rink.

“Hey Gwen,” Duke says, his voice a deep grumble that does funny things to my girl parts. “What can I help you with?” The space between his brows puckers a little. “Am I sitting? Why, you planning on dumping the motherload of bad news on me?”

Drawing my hockey stick to waist-level, I slow to a stop. My ears perk up at the troubled note in his voice. It’s the journalist in me. Curiosity isn’t just a threat to cats in my line of profession.

But I’m also worried, too. The idea of something bothering Duke bothersme, which is terrifying, to say the least.

Duke turns away, just enough so that all I see is his profile. “No, I haven’t looked atTMZ. It’s not my usual day-to-day reading—okay, fine, I’ll pull it up right now on my phone. Hold on.”

Pulling the phone away from his ear, he taps away at the screen and I can hear Gwen’s shrill voice through the receiver. It’s jumbled and totally unintelligible, but, yep, she’s howling on about something. As badly as I want to make a quip about untwisting her panties, I resist.

And then Duke’s head jerks up, his hard blue gaze landing on me.

The look he’s giving me? It’s not the annoyed exasperation from our double date, nor is it the bewildered want from the night we met up at The Box. It’s not even the flirtatious lust that has widened his smile and darkened his gaze each time he’s looked at me since we hooked up on the Omni’s rooftop garden.

No. Right now, he looks . . . betrayed.

My heart begins to thump erratically in my chest, so loud that I barely hear him say, “Handle this however you see fit, Gwen,” before he hangs up his cell phone.

“Is everything okay? I ask slowly, wanting desperately to skate backward and away from him.

Thankfully, he seems to be on the same wavelength as I am. “We’re not doing this here.”

Not doingwhathere?

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