The team owner/head coach relationship can be a tenuous one at times. Isabelle Lancourt can testify to just how stressful it can be. Ever since her husband passed away, leaving her his beloved Wildcats, she and Philip Moore have been at loggerheads. When the opportunity to sign a Russian hotshot presents itself, Isabelle leaps at the chance to prove herself as more than just a pretty face. Dealing with hot flashes, salary caps, and trade deadlines she can handle with ease. The aftermath of an ill-advised, but erotically superb, rendezvous in Siberia with the handsomely annoying Coach Moore? That was not in any Wildcats playbook. Can Isabelle and Philip handle the changes life is about to throw at them? Or will combining their personal and professional lives prove to be a misconduct penalty that the league simply cannot overlook?
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“I hate to be termed over-reactionary or whiny bitch,” I opened with. The man crammed into a seat two sizes too small for him mumbled something unintelligible across the thin aisle. “And far be it for me to complain, but I think the left wing is about to fall off.”
Within a heartbeat Moore was out of his seat and leaning across me. My nose was burrowed into his shirt pocket. That brisk seafaring scent he wore wrapped its arms around my olfactory to hug my sense of smell tightly. I drew in a deep breath, held it, tasted the tang of cologne and man, then exhaled through my mouth. Philip shifted a bit.
“Sorry,” he murmured, his bulk sliding downward a bit, so that his stomach rested on the rickety arm of my mouse-chewed seat. “I think it’s just the bounce of the plane over the turbulence,” he announced after a long, and not unpleasant, moment of his abdomen brushing my breasts. When I made a weak sound of hope in reply, he glanced from the window to me, a small twist of a smile playing on his lips. The impact of our positions hit me like a cinderblock to the head. His mouth was mere inches from mine now. I could see him swallow roughly. His jaw and neck were dark with new whiskers. I wanted to feel the rasp of his stubble on my neck, breasts, and inside my thighs. I wanted. Oh, hell yes, I wanted.
The blue of his irises darkened as I studied my reflection in his eyes. Was it desire I saw, or something else profound and powerful? Love and hate share lots of secrets, being such close friends as they are. The plane hit a ball of violent air. My head coach nearly went to his knees in front of me. My fingers dug even deeper into the arms of my seat. Philip gathered himself quickly, wiggling from the space between my knees and the crummy seat in front of me.
“Sorry,” he coughed, hurrying back to his own seat. I nodded, neck tight, spine stiff, heart hammering, and thighs twitching. “You remind me of Christine,” he said out of the blue. I managed to make my head creak around to look at him. The man was in control once again. Wish I could be so quick to move from one frightening thing to another. Shit, I was still freaking out about the way my body responded to his. “She didn’t mind flying until we hit turbulence,” he explained, wistfully.
“Every time we would run into a rough patch, her eyes would grow bigger.” He paused to find me looking at him. “She had these wide eyes anyway, so she always looked surprised,” he clarified. I nodded, knowing how important talking about our lost ones is. “Anyway, when she would feel the slightest jounce up she would go, eyes as big as basketballs, and into the ladies’ room she would dash. Once, on a flight down to Florida to see our youngest son Drew when he was in college, Christine spent the entire flight in the bathroom.” He chuckled in amusement. The sound was incredibly pleasing. My anxiety lessened a bit. “I used to tease her about the well-known safety features of a ladies’ powder room during a plane crash. Sometimes our fears get the best of us, though. She knew she was just as screwed as everyone else on that plane, but something about that cramped little girls’ room made her feel less vulnerable, I suppose.”
“Colton used to say ‘There ain’t no point in fretting about dying. If the good Lord says it’s your time, then it’s your time, darling!” I tossed out in my best Texan accent. Philip laughed uneasily.
“That sounds like Colton,” he said, running his palms over his thighs briskly. I wanted to ask him how he had dealt with his wife’s death. I knew she had passed a few years back from cancer, leaving him and their two grown sons to carry on. “He was a good man. He’s sorely missed.”
“I knocked several times. When you didn’t answer I got worried,” Philip said. There was some difficulty with my thought synapses. They felt listless. I threw my legs off the bed. Philip stepped back. Leaning forward to rest my face in my hands, my forehead brushed the smooth material of his pant leg. The man hissed lightly. I gasped at the explosion of need that erupted deep inside my core. I stood up, just now realizing I had slept in my muddy flats and muted purple suit. My mind was sluggish.
We stood within a foot of each other. I slid out of my shoes. I observed him as he watched my feet emerge from my flats. It was funny, actually. I mean, I have taken my shoes off in a thousand different places over my lifetime, but never once has it been that erotic. If I lived to be as old as my mother I will never be able to explain what overtook us. Without warning, preamble, or a word spoken I was in his arms, my fingers moving through his neatly combed hair, his mouth slanted over mine.
It was as if my stepping out of my little purple flats had been some symbolic gesture. What kind of gesture? Who knows? Certainly not me, because all I knew was that I needed Philip Moore inside of me more than I had never needed anything else in my life. To hell with the ramifications of this ill-advised tryst! I felt sexy again, for the first time in years a man was hot, hard, and ready to screw me. Yes, screw, not make love. The word suited the insane, hot, wet kiss we were sharing just as it would suit the act itself. Right now, I wanted to be screwed, and by someone who knew how. I needed to be thrown to the bed by a man lost to his overwhelming desire to have me.
I never saw the bed, which is just as well considering how many other people had used it for the same lusty act. Philip danced me backward until my shoulder blades and ass hit the wall. I could feel the music pulsating through the plasterboard and timbers at my back. The kiss never broke as we tangoed across the bedroom, not even when I hit the wall, and then exhaled in surprise sharply. Philip just inhaled my breath.
His hands were on my breasts, then they were on my hips, then they were in my hair. His tongue roamed inside my mouth, over my lips, along my jaw, and down my throat. I gyrated against him. His prick jumped behind the material holding it caged. If I said things, and I rather assume I did, I don’t know what I said. He didn’t speak much, either. He was too busy pushing my blazer, blouse, and bra up to talk. When he had them bared, he did take a scant second to murmur how sexy my nipples were.
“Lovely and dark,” he purred before capturing one of the mahogany tips between his teeth. Some wild force broke free as I watched his white teeth toying with my stiff nipple. I gouged at his scalp with my nails as I pushed my weeping cleft against his erection. He moaned around my nipple. His hand danced down between us, seeking, then finding, my satin panties. The man certainly knew his way around a woman’s body. He released my left nipple, blew over the turgid tip, then took half my right breast into his mouth as his fingers located my stiff clitoris through my underwear.
It had been so long…
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, belly laughs, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee. (Not necessarily in that order.) She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted goofy domestic fowl,and two steers: one named after a famous N.H.L. goalie while the other carries the moniker of a 60s pop legend.
When not writing spicy romances, she can be found enjoying her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills sf Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand. She can also be found online on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and GoodReads.
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