Lucky Shot: A Brooklyn Bruisers Story, Page 2
Sarina Bowen
Ushakov’s father drives a taxi in Moscow, so I hear all about the time the two of them stopped a kidnapping at the airport. And then Tankiewicz tells a story about pulling a prank on a teammate. The guy ended up running around their apartment building naked, begging to be let back in.
“But I held out until the poor SOB promised he wouldn’t put plastic in the bottom rack of the dishwasher anymore.”
We all laugh. The wine warms my bloodstream, turning my anxious mind into a softer, golden place. I forget that I’m not supposed to stare at Tankiewicz. And every time I look up, our gazes collide.
“My motto is simple.” Tank leans back in his chair like a king in his throne. The wine goblet nearly disappears in his big hand. “In any situation, I just ask myself—what can I get away with? And then I do that.”
We all laugh again. Except I also realize something important. I’ve never once looked at life that way. Instead of what can I get away with, my motto is I’ll just keep my head down and avoid trouble.
I’ve known trouble, so my outlook isn’t an accident. But maybe Tankiewicz has a better way of looking at the world. I’m on my own now. I don’t always have to color inside the lines.
“I’ll bet the dessert is really good here,” Tankiewicz says. And then he lifts his eyes and looks straight at me.
Chapter Four
After dessert and coffee, we follow my boss outside. “I’ve got four cars waiting,” he says. “The fifth one is late, though. Should take a few more minutes.”
“You go ahead, Mr. Kassman,” Tank says. “Age before beauty. I don’t need a car. Heck, I’ll share with Bess. She can drop me at the hotel on her way home.”
“Sounds like a plan, son, if Bess doesn’t object,” Henry says.
“No problem,” I agree, even though the sound of my name on Tank’s lips gives me butterflies.
“All right then. Good night, everyone. Go home—get some rest, boys. You’re going to need it for the rest of training camp.”
I slide onto the leather seat of a car beside Tank and give the driver the address of my tiny studio apartment in the West Fifties. “And first we’ll need to stop, at…” I turn to Tank for clarification. “You’re in a hotel, right?”
He doesn’t answer right away. The car slides away from the curb as Tank lifts my hand off the leather seat, kissing my palm right in the center.
Tingles ripple through my body as his lips skim my hand, stunning me.
“Let’s make it one stop instead,” he says slowly. “Your birthday isn’t quite over yet, right? And I’m really good at celebrating.”
It takes me several beats of my heart to understand what he’s proposing. This gorgeous creature wants to take me home with him?
He raises his eyebrows. Waits for my answer. And while he waits, he lowers his lips to my palm and kisses me again. Slowly.
Holy god. I didn’t know a palm kiss could be wet and dirty.
“O-okay,” I stammer, wide-eyed. It’s not as if I don’t like this idea. Actually, the saner parts of me are a little intimidated. But other parts are already on board with the plan. My pulse beats low and heavy in my body.
Especially when Tank puts a hand on my knee and gives it a dirty squeeze. “The Marriott Marquis, please,” he says silkily. “One stop only.”
The cabby grunts his reply and turns left onto Park, heading downtown.
Tank’s hand is a heady presence on my leg. “Where’re you from, Bess? Did you grow up in Michigan?”
“Y-yes,” I stammer. “I took a New York job to be close to my brother. You’ll have to play against him in the pre-season.”
“Dave Beringer is your brother? Good to know.” He chuckles. “Maybe we’d better keep this little adventure to ourselves, then.”
“Sounds like a great idea.”
He laughs, sounding thoroughly amused. And his words from the dinner table come back to me. Let’s just see what I can get away with.
His sense of daring is contagious. For once in my life, I want to feel that way, too—as if the night is an adventure of my own making. My spirit is willing, although my experience is weak. I feel a little tongue-tied. I haven’t had any practice chatting up a one-night stand.
To think that I studied the players’ stats, trying to prepare myself for tonight. I was obviously studying up on all the wrong things.
Luckily, it’s a really short ride across town. I don’t have much time to panic. We pull up at the busy hotel before I’m ready.
Tank tips the driver and then palms my back as we enter the lobby. “She ain’t pretty,” Tank eyes the curved bank of elevators that comprises the lobby space, “but at least this hotel is close to the rink.”
“Mmm,” I say stupidly.
We get onto a crowded elevator, and off again on the tenth floor. Tank whistles as he leads me down a nondescript hallway to his room.
He slides the keycard through the slot, and the door clicks open. But I stay rooted to the hallway carpeting, my courage flickering like a bulb that might go out at just the wrong moment.
I want to pretend that I’m as fun as all this. But I’m not sure I know how to fake it.
Tank pauses in the doorway, appraising me. Those green eyes ask whether I’m still on board with this. Slowly, he offers one of his hands to me, palm up.
After a moment’s hesitation, I put my own hand in his. But it’s shaky. “I don’t do this,” I blurt, and the confession feels good.
“Uh, never?” His eyes flash with disbelief, followed quickly by concern.
“Well, not never. Just not lately. And never on a whim.” The words just tumble out of me.
“Ah,” he says, his eyes warming. “But there’s nothing to it. That’s the point of a whim. Do you need me to demonstrate? To show you the ropes?”
“I think I do.” I smile.
“All right, come in.”
With my hand still clasped in his, I follow him into the hotel room, where a giant bed looms large, its pillowy white surface practically glowing in the lamplight. I eye it, my heart galloping with expectation. I still don’t see a path through my awkwardness to ending up on there. With him.
Calmly, Tank removes his suit jacket and tosses it onto a chair. “Okay, so the first thing you need to know about whims is that you can’t do it wrong.” He removes my bag from my shoulder and sets it down on the floor.
“No?”
“There aren’t any rules, so they can’t be broken.” His expression is remarkably serious, given the topic. “As long as everyone is having a good time, that is.”
“Okay. I understand.”
“Good.” He steps closer, invading my personal space with his big body and his ridiculously sexy face. He reaches up and moves my hair off my neck with such tenderness that goose bumps rise up my arms. Then he leans in and kisses just the corner of my mouth.
“Oh,” I say softly, apropos of nothing.
His lips wander across my cheek and down my jaw, as my goose bumps redouble. And then it’s onward to my neck, with soft kisses.
It feels so exquisite that I break out in a fine sweat. We’re so close together that I can smell his spicy aftershave, and the starch of his shirt collar.
I’m enjoying myself. But I still feel as though I’m outside of the moment, looking in.
But that’s fixed when Tank lifts his face to mine and kisses me thoroughly. At the first insistent press of his mouth on mine, I feel my heart lift. As he deepens the kiss, the awkwardness begins to fall away. I part my lips hungrily. His tongue is right there, taking charge, invading my senses. He tastes like port wine and sex.
I could stand here all night and kiss him. But eventually he breaks off, tipping his forehead against mine and smiling at me. “There you go. This is a good start,” he says with a flirty smile. “Well done.”
And my heart soars, because I’m a praise junkie. “Now what?” I ask, breathless. “What’s the second step of whimsy?”
His eyes gleam. “Well, you should know
that WHIM is an acronym.”
I let out an unladylike snort of laughter, but it doesn’t embarrass me at all. I feel transcendent right now. Capable of anything. “What does it stand for?”
He turns, letting his lips brush the shell of my ear. “The W is for whisper.” The hair on my arms stands up as the word curls into my soul. “I’ll tell you very quietly”—he whispers—“all the things I want to do to you.”
“Like what?”
“Like getting you out of these clothes,” he hisses.
“Okay,” I pant. I’m all in at this point.
He reaches behind me with a practiced ease and unzips my skirt. “The H is for hands.” His palms prove that point by coasting down my rear, over my panties. He cups my ass and pulls me against his body as my skirt drops to the floor.
Boldly mimicking him, I reach around and take his muscular ass into my hands. Suddenly there’s a hard cock between my legs. And the seriousness of the situation is just becoming clear. My forehead drops against his strong shoulder as I let out a hot sigh.
We’re really doing this.
“Hands, baby,” he whispers. “Untuck my shirt.”
I hastily pull the cotton from his trousers. Then I reach up, finding the taut lines of his back with my fingertips.
He rewards me with a wet kiss on my neck. “Now unzip me.”
This, too, is easily done. Although I’m too chicken to touch him as I lower his zipper and cause his trousers to fall away.
He’s not afraid, though. He drags my new silk top over my head, flings it aside, and then cups both of my breasts as he kisses me hotly. Wetly. Then my bra is speedily unhooked and tossed aside.
The man is seriously good with his hands. If he can skate, too, I predict great things for his hockey career.
“Fuuuck,” he says with slow appreciation as his gaze rakes down my body. “I know what the I is for now.”
“What?” I gulp, because he’s unbuttoning his shirt hastily, bringing a ripped chest into view.
“It’s for Instaboner.” He chucks the shirt aside, then—as I gape—drops his boxers. A thick erection bobs up, slapping him on the belly.
God, that body. He has muscles in places I didn’t know you could have muscles. I can feel myself staring.
He doesn’t notice, though. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. He’s too busy backing me up until the bed hits the backs of my legs.
I sit down quickly. He leans over, kissing me again, planting his hands on either side of me and gently levering me backward until my back hits the mattress. His hard body comes down over mine. My toes lose contact with the floor, and I’m more or less pinned there underneath him.
And I like it. Our kisses are deep and wild. There’s no reason to wonder whether I’m doing it right, either. My only choice is to lie here and take it while he strokes my tongue with his, and works a hand onto my breast to give my nipple a firm tweak.
Each kiss is an education. Tank is right. He really is good at celebrating.
The kisses go on and on, until I feel wild and needy. My hands are full of his thick hair, and I can hear my own moan as he grinds against the hot center of me. I love the feel of him between my thighs. Like a long, thick compliment.
“Christ,” he pants, kissing his way down my neck. He rolls halfway off me.
Then he grabs my hand, placing it right on his bare cock. I stroke him gently, and he hums his appreciation.
“Harder,” he demands. I tighten my grip, and a grimace of desire crosses his handsome face. “Ah, yeah.” He gives a clenched-teeth grunt and he thrusts shamelessly into my hand.
That look of bliss on his face is another revelation. I want to be someone who chases pleasure with the same abandon.
And I think I’m in luck. Tank rains kisses down on my breasts. Then he plunges his hand into my panties and parts my legs with thick fingers.
I can’t hold back my moan. I don’t even try.
“Fuck,” he mutters happily. “I was wrong about something.”
“Wh-what?” I gasp, because the stroke of his thumb across my clit has me arching into his touch. My nipples are hard and my body is throbbing for him.
“The W is for wet, and the H is for hard.” His kisses trail from nipple to nipple, and I am inventing new body positions just to find more contact with his mouth and hands. “But the I, honey…that’s for inside.”
I let out a moan of impatience, and his answer is a chuckle. But now he’s reaching off the bed and procuring a condom from someplace. And that’s my cue to roll over, finally climbing all the way onto the mattress. I lie on my side, watching him roll the condom down onto himself. Tonight I’ve stumbled into another girl’s life. A wilder girl, who knows how to have a good time. The hottest man I have ever met is suiting up to have sex with me.
Is twenty-one going to be a good year or what?
He joins me on the bed, lying down on his side, facing me. He runs a hand down my flank, his green eyes dipping to take in my nakedness. I enjoy his unsubtle appreciation, and await further instructions.
But there aren’t any. Tank merely moves closer and kisses me again. Then he casually bends my knee upward and fills me in one long stroke.
I didn’t even know that was physically possible. So I gasp with surprise and clench around the fullness. I’m nose to nose and tit to tit with a man I met four hours ago. And it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. “Now be a good girl and look me in the eye while you come on my cock.”
And I’m speechless. But that’s okay, too, apparently. In another feat of physical prowess, he begins to move inside me with exquisite precision even while we lay side by side. I gaze, hazy and unfocused, into his green eyes as my pleasure builds. My hands roam his body of their own free will. I’m so turned on that I ache.
By the time he pushes me onto my back and picks up the pace, I’m breathless and speaking in tongues.
“Now, honey,” he begs, slipping a hand between our bodies to stroke me over the edge. And finally, a climax crashes over my achy soul and steals my breath away.
He makes a loud noise of appreciation and then groans deep and low as he buries himself one final, sweet time.
And then? He puts his head down on the pillow beside mine and laughs. “Happy Birthday, Bessie.”
“Thank you,” I gasp. I need oxygen but otherwise, all my earthly needs have just been met. And how.
“M,” Tank babbles. “We forgot M.”
“Mmm?” I ask, not really caring. “M is for mmm.”
Tank props himself up on an elbow and looks down at me. “M is for more.” He kisses my cheek. “There’s gotta be more of that between you and me. There just has to be.”
* * *
The End… is only the beginning!
* * *
Sure Shot takes place on Bess’s thirtieth birthday, nine years later. Don’t miss it!
Also by Sarina Bowen
THE BROOKLYN BRUISERS
Rookie Move
Hard Hitter
Pipe Dreams
Brooklynaire
Overnight Sensation
Superfan
Sure Shot
Moonlighter
* * *
TRUE NORTH
Bittersweet
Steadfast
Keepsake
Bountiful
Speakeasy
Fireworks
Heartland
* * *
THE IVY YEARS
The Year We Fell Down #1
The Year We Hid Away #2
The Understatement of the Year #3
The Shameless Hour #4
The Fifteenth Minute #5
Extra Credit #6
* * *
GRAVITY
Coming In From the Cold #1
Falling From the Sky #2
Shooting for the Stars #3
* * *
HELLO GOODBYE
Goodbye Paradise
* * *
With Tanya Eby
Man Hands
Man Card
Boy Toy
Man Cuffed
* * *
With Elle Kennedy
GOOD BOY by Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy
STAY by Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy
HIM by Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy
US by Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy
Top Secret by Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy
