Page 71 of Gloves Off

A muscle jumps in his neck. “You kissed me back.”

“I was thinking about someone else,” I lie.

He stills. “What?” he asks in a low, deadly voice.

My blood starts sparkling the way it always does when we spar. “I was picturing someone else.” I wince up at him. “To get through it.”

My grandfather can expect me in about seventy years, because I’m going to hell.

“Who were you picturing?” He’s still using that low, scary voice that makes my stomach dip.

“It’s not important.”

“Georgia.” He steps into my space and I step back, hitting the wall. His scent surrounds me, making me dizzy. “Who. Were. You. Picturing.”

“Just a colleague.”

Volkov clenches his jaw so hard it looks like it hurts, and his gaze locks to mine before it drops to my lips. Is he going to kiss me again? My pulse pounds in my ears. I don’t know why I love fucking with him so much.

“He’s going to be there tonight?”

It takes every ounce of me to hold his gaze, lifting my chin. “Yes. Dr. Handley is picking me up any moment. Dr. Handsome, the nurses call him.”

His gaze hardens, and my stomach flips at the furious, possessive look in his eyes.

This game feels dangerous, but I can’t stop. Adrenaline whizzes through me. Dr. Eric Handley is gorgeous in that big blue-eyed, corn-fed country boy way. A true nice guy, like Hayden Owens. Safe and kind. We’re 100 percent platonic, though.

Volkov’s eyes drop to where I hold my clutch. “Where’s your wedding ring?”

“It doesn’t go with my outfit.”

His glare turns to a raging glower. More adrenaline floods my body.

“Oh, come on,” I laugh. “You bought me an ugly ring on purpose.”

He holds up a hand, where his glints. “I’m wearing mine. What do you think it looks like, when you don’t wear yours?”

Why is the sight of that ring on his big hand so hot?

He sucks in a deep breath, closing his eyes, and when they open again, they flash with something possessive. “Tell Dr. Handjob you don’t need a ride.” He starts walking up the stairs. “I’ll be down in ten minutes.”

My heart stops. “What? No.”

He ignores me.

“You don’t have a ticket,” I call after him, panic spilling through my stomach. My colleagues know I got married—they saw the photos online—but I don’t want Alexei Volkov anywhere near the work I love.

“Figure it out,” he yells from upstairs, before his door closes.

Ten minutes later, he returns with damp hair and dark eyes, wearing a sharp, navy blue tux. It’s clearly bespoke, with the way it fits his broad, towering form. For a man who spends all his time working out or playing hockey, I’m surprised to admit Volkov has style.

Hockey players shouldn’t wear tuxes. It makes them look too hot.

My nerves whir as our eyes meet, and the clawing, desperate, hungry airport kiss replays in my head. Best kiss of my life. Not good, I tell myself. Very concerning.

And tonight, with him looking so deadly handsome? This is a bad idea.

Before I can say anything, though, he tosses something through the air, and I catch it. My wedding ring. His hard, determined expression burns me.

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