Gloves Off: a marriage of convenience hockey romance (Vancouver Storm Book 4)

“You’re too far away,” I say quietly as we take our spot on the dance floor while Pippa plays a slow, romantic song on her guitar.

Everyone’s watching, their eyes on us like a weight.

“Not like this.” I press my hand into her lower back, bringing her closer. Flush against me. “Like this.”

Her scent floods my nose again. Warm, sweet, but spicy. I let myself take one deep inhale for immunity—the more I’m exposed to it, the less it’ll affect me—before my gaze slides to her shoulder, where her bra strap would sit beneath the fabric of the dress. Maybe she’s wearing one of those strapless ones. Maybe it has lace on it. Maybe her panties match.

With a spike of arousal, I picture her in lingerie, but the image is soured by the addition of this faceless Damon she’s with.

“Where would a guy like you learn to dance?” she asks, interrupting my thoughts.

Dance lessons in preparation for my first wedding. A real wedding that never happened. The memories make me feel sick.

“My mother made me learn when I was a teenager.” A lie.

“She wants you to get married.”

“More than anything in the world.” The truth.

“Won’t she be thrilled. Tell me, Volkov, is she going to use her mother-in-law powers for good or evil?”

My mom’s the kindest person on the planet. “Doctor, you don’t need to worry about that because I won’t let you get your claws anywhere near her.”

Besides, I don’t want my mom getting attached to someone who will be out of the picture in a year.

The corner of her mouth tugs up in a wry smile. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

We’ve danced alone for enough time that other couples join us on the dance floor, and even though her cool, confident expression doesn’t change, she relaxes under my touch. I study her features.

“What?” Her gaze flicks to mine, her whiskey eyes losing some of the spark from earlier.

“Tired?”

“Nope.”

She’s too proud to admit it, and for some reason, I don’t like that idea. I don’t know why she’s tired—she works part time as a doctor for the team. She doesn’t even work weekends.

Maybe Damon kept her up late, and I don’t like that idea, either.

When they bring the cake out, the little figurine groom on top has a black eye.

“Like it?” Owens laughs. “We had it specially made for you, Volkov.”

“It’s accurate,” I admit.

At my side, my fake wife’s smile is tight and forced.

“What’s the matter?” I tilt my chin at the cake. “He’s not missing enough teeth?”

She lets out a dry, humorless laugh.

People surround us, smiling and taking photos. I take the knife, about to slice into the cake, but Darcy makes a strangled noise of protest, eyes wide.

I freeze. “What?”

The doctor covers her mouth with her hand. I think she’s hiding a laugh.

Owens shakes his head, grinning between us. He lowers his voice. “Volkov, I know you’re not a wedding guy, but you need to cut the cake together.” He gives me an emphasizing look. “It’s symbolic. I think.” He looks to Darcy. “Right?”

She gives him a sweet smile and nods.

My new wife steps in front of me, taking the knife, and I hesitate before covering her hand with mine. Her hand is warm and soft, like at our wedding when our fingers touched. It’s the size of her hand, though, that snags my senses. Deep in my caveman brain, my instincts like that she’s so much smaller than me.

Which is fucking dumb. I’m six foot five. Most women are smaller than me.

Most women aren’t my new spoiled, selfish wife, though, who smells like that and wear those shoes and has that thick hair I want to sink my fingers into.

And who is messing around with another guy. She’s probably in love with him, from the tone of voice she used. I wish I could stop thinking about that.

My other hand comes to her waist, the sequins warm from her body heat. Under my gentle grip, she presses the knife down into the cake. Together, we cut a slice, and the guests cheer. More photos. Lots of smiles and applause.

“Great.” I let her go, and she sets the knife aside. “Is that all?”

The doctor gives me a sick, serpent-like smile before she picks up a piece of the cake. Alarm rockets through me and I open my mouth to say No fucking way but she’s too fast.

Everyone laughs as she smears it across my face. Some of it gets in my nose.

“I just love you so much.”

People howl. Her eyes dance as she licks icing off her finger, pretty plump lips closing around the tip as her cheeks hollow out.

Deep in my chest, something wakes up. It’s not the blood rushing to my cock that has me frowning, though; it’s the rising pressure behind my sternum, like a balloon expanding. I have icing up my fucking nose and yet I have the urge to laugh.

I lift the plate with the remaining cake before my gaze locks on hers. “My turn.”

“No.” She shakes her head, stepping away. “No, thank you.” She gestures at her exquisite face. “I don’t want to ruin my makeup.”

The spark’s back in her eyes, and a weird feeling loops through me, light and buzzing. My competitive instincts rise. I could go after her. I could chase her and shove cake in her face. Her makeup would be ruined and there would be cake on her dress and she’d be furious.

Or maybe she’d shriek with laughter. My eyebrow inches higher and I take a step toward her. Her eyes flare.

“Alexei, don’t,” Darcy calls, laughing.

With a dry look, I set the plate down, and people laugh, thinking it was a joke. Someone hands me a towel and I wipe the cake off my face before cutting a finger-sized sliver of cake.

“Hold on, Hellfire,” I say as she steps away. I lift the piece I cut off. “We’re not done here.”

Defiance snaps onto her features, eyes burning me, and I feel my mouth tilting into a cruel smile. I love that stubborn scowl on her pretty face when I tell her what to do.noveldrama

“Eat up,” I murmur.

“I will get you back for this,” she whispers, holding my eyes.

There’s something new pounding through my body, though, as her lips part and I slip the cake between them. She’s so stubborn, but when she bends for me, Jesus… it’s like a drug.

Her tongue flicks out to catch a dot of icing on her bottom lip. Fuck—I’m getting hard.

“What, no kiss?” someone calls.

My stomach drops. The doctor’s expression falters.

“Kiss, kiss!” another person echoes. That goddamned rookie again. “You didn’t kiss for the photo.”

The doctor and I exchange a wary glance.

“He doesn’t like PDA,” she tells them with an apologetic expression.

“Nice, blame me,” I mutter.

Through a tense smile, she shoots me a look. “I’m not going to kiss you again.”

I bet her boyfriend would hate it. He probably hates that she’s living in my house, one bedroom away, telling everyone she’s married to me. I bet he’s jealous as fuck.

Something proud, possessive, and territorial beats through me. I think about our terrible kiss at the wedding, how I froze up, and how she said it was like kissing the dead body at a funeral. The desire to prove her wrong, to compete with her again, roars through me.

“What’s the matter?” I keep my voice low. “Scared you might enjoy it?”

She laughs under her breath. “As if.”

Something primal inside me likes her light, feminine scent. The way she looks up at me as I tower over her. How her long lashes fan out. The plump curve of her mouth, begging for my attention.

It’s cruel, how hot the doctor is. The universe designed her just to torture me.

Every cell in my body wants a do-over, to show her how it could be. I lower my voice to her ear, hand on her waist again. “Maybe you’re the bad kisser.”

“It’s not me.”

“Prove it.” My blood beats in my ears, adrenaline in my veins.

The long line of her pale throat bobs. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

She sets a hand on my chest. That intoxicating scent of hers washes over me again, hooking around my neck like a collar, and I lower my mouth to hers.

This time, I don’t freeze up.