Page 60 of Gloves Off

“Don’t call them rodents.They don’t like being cooped up. They need to roam.”

My thoughts go to the other night, when she slipped into my bed. How warm and soft she was. The low, pleased hum she made as she nestled her ass against my cock. “You’re not going to be doing a little roaming yourself tonight, looking for bed partners, are you?”

“Volkov, get real.” She sounds uncertain, though.

I picture her stuck in the hall in a T-shirt and panties, forced to knock on my door and ask for help. An expanding, smug feeling fills my chest. She’d fuckinghatehaving to ask for my help.

Maybe she’d run into someone else in the hall, though. They might take advantage of her.

My protective instincts lurch. I don’t like that thought. Not one bit.

She opens the camera app on her phone and holds it out, leaning toward me. “Pretend you like me.”

“What are you doing?”

“Taking a photo.” She gives me an emphasizing look, lowering her voice even more. “For my social media. It helps with—” She gestures between us.

It helps with making this look real, she means. That makes sense. I don’t have social media so I forget about this stuff.

“Okay.” I lean on the armrest divider, toward her, but she frowns.

“Mmm.” She shakes her head. “No.” A tap of her fingers on my elbow has me moving my arm before she lifts the divider and slides close to me, against my side.

My lungs tighten as her scent washes up my nose. She’s warm, like she was in my bed. Blood rushes to my cock.

In an instant, she’s sliding back to her seat, doing something on her phone. I didn’t even notice her taking the picture. I watch as she posts the photo. Her phone starts buzzing immediately.

“Is that your account?” I ask.

She nods.

“Show me.”

She arches an eyebrow, skeptical.

“I’m not going to mess with anything, Hellfire. I just want to see what you’ve been posting online.”

She must see that I’m telling the truth, because she hands her phone over.

The higher the heels, the closer to heaven,the caption on herprofile says. I’ve seen her profile image before—it’s a Polaroid tacked up behind the bar at the Filthy Flamingo. Big, sparkling smile, the kind that lights up a room.

In the photo she just posted, I’m looking at her with a tight, tortured expression, like I want to devour her.

Wife guy,someone already commented.

Another photo on her profile catches my eye. It’s me on the ice, during the game she attended last week.

Cheering for my man,the caption reads. I give her a look, and a hint of pink washes over her face. Pretty.

She snatches the phone away. “Darcy told me to post that.”

“Did she write that caption for you?”

She won’t meet my eye, and I have the weirdest urge to smile again. “You should be thanking me. That photo got a lot of views. I look like the perfect little hockey wife, drooling over her husband.”

I’m torn between asking to see the rest of her profile photos and teasing her harder about beingher man—a phrase that’s setting off an unfamiliar pressure in my chest—when Ward appears beside us.

“Hi, newlyweds.”

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