Hockey Holidays Read online

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Then I saw you with those kids, and I thought you were a saint, or sort of.”

  “A saint who knows how to sin.” He smiled and slid his hands from my waists to my breasts. “And now what do you think?”

  “Now I think you bring out my wild side. And if I’m not careful, you’ll be a distraction from my work.”

  “I don’t want to do that…well, the wild side thing, sure, but not the distraction. Neither of us wants to be distracted, but there has to be more to life than hockey and fixing hearts, right?”

  “Yes, there is one more thing.” I slipped my hand down and pushed at his boxers, freeing his cock.

  “What’s that then?”

  “Fucking.”

  He chuckled, but the sound petered out as I sank onto him. “Oh God,” he groaned, “Happy fucking Christmas to me.”

  I laughed, loving that I could laugh while being so turned on. Nathan ‘The Flash’ Walker made me feel feminine and adored, and right now, the future, our future, was something I was very much looking forward to. I wanted to see not just Christmas lights reflected in his eyes, but the ocean on mid-summer’s day, the stars and moon, and most of all, I wanted to get used to seeing his face when I woke up each morning.

  Oh, yes, I’d obviously been a very good girl all year to get such a sumptuous package delivered on Christmas Eve. And if I’d been so good, it was high time to indulge in a little bad.

  ~ THE END ~

  Books by Lily Harlem

  Hot Ice by Lily Harlem

  Hired

  Cross-Checked

  Slap Shot

  Teamwork

  High-sticked

  Misconduct

  Russian Heat

  About Lily Harlem

  Lily Harlem is a UK based award-winning, bestselling author of sexy romance. The rough and tough Viper players in her hockey series HOT ICE have proven to be very popular with readers on both sides of the Atlantic as they’ve each revealed their seductive story.

  Get book one of HOT ICE, HIRED, for free when you sign up to Lily’s Newsletter. Check out HOT ICE on her website and learn more about HIRED, CROSS-CHECKED, SLAP SHOT, TEAMWORK, HIGH-STICKED (M/M), MISCONDUCT and RUSSIAN HEAT.

  Lily writes in a variety of pairings and genres, ménage a trois is a particular favorite as is having heroes and heroines who push the boundaries when it comes to love and getting what their hearts desire. Want to chat more? Join Lily’s VIP Facebook Group and join in the fun.

  RJ Scott - Dallas Christmas

  The Burlington Dragons

  Logan knows lusting after his captain's brother can only lead to trouble. But when fate throws them together, it’s hard not to fall in love.

  Chapter One

  Keep your head up next time, Logan. You could get hurt. I worry. A, xx

  I read the text, deleted it, and tossed my cell onto the bed next to my unpacked black-and-scarlet gym bag.

  It didn’t matter that Archie was right. I’d been lucky to get away with being smashed into the plexiglass by the behemoth that had been the Florida D-man. The incident had hurt. I ached as if I’d been thrown off a building, but it could have been worse if he’d caught me the wrong way when I had my head down. That kind of shit had ended careers, and my life was going to last as long as I could make it.

  People depended on me. My family depended on me.

  But I was done with the advice Archie kept texting me or, indeed, any contact with the enigmatic investment manager who didn’t seem to have gotten the message.

  I decided to change my number immediately, as I did every other time he texted me.

  But that would mean giving the new number to Mom, Dad, two brothers, three sisters, assorted nieces and nephews, my agent.

  And there went my determination. I knew I could block numbers, or so the kids on the team said, but there was always a small part of me that actually wanted the texts. The stupid, messed-up, idiot part of me that had resigned itself to contact with Archie only on a game night.

  I don’t know what he was trying to pull by contacting me. We’d promised to leave each other alone, agreed it was too dangerous for my career and my place on the Dragons. We were done. Finished. The time limit on Archie and me had expired, and he needed to get over himself.

  The cell chimed again, and with a curse, I picked it up. I could no more ignore a text alert than I could ignore eating pasta before a game, the move to connect to the world through my phone so ingrained in me.

  Good game though. Nice win. A, xx

  This time I didn't throw the cell away from me in a huff. Instead, I slumped to the side of my bed and stared at it. Stupid x-kisses and their ability to cut my legs from under me and make my chest ache with loss.

  I wish he would leave me alone.

  What we’d done had lasted a month, and it had finished nearly a year ago, but the man still kept texting me. I recalled his blue eyes, his blond hair. I couldn’t forget, since he looked so much like his brother, the captain of the Dragons, Alexandre Simard, or Simba as we called him. Which was another added wrinkle in what had been a hot month of sex. Knowing the guy I was sleeping with was related to my freaking captain.

  I’d gained respect from the rest of the team as one kind of person, when in fact, the real me hid behind a façade. Add on having sex with the captain’s little brother, and anyone would have understood why I needed to stay well away from Archie.

  And exactly why he shouldn’t have been texting me at all.

  We’d met the previous year at Dmitriy Semenov's massive New Year's party and had been inseparable for a month, or as much as we could be, given I was playing. But the closer we got to Valentine’s Day, the more he kept telling me he loved me. I wouldn’t say it back. It wasn’t as if I was hiding a tremendous untold truth; just as anyone playing professional sports, I had to focus, and I had no space for an illicit relationship. No room in my life at all. He didn’t understand that, but we’d parted before whatever shame and embarrassment Valentine’s Day would’ve brought for me came about.

  I miss him.

  I don’t miss him.

  It had taken months to find my equilibrium, to reach some peace about what I’d done.

  I should have told him how I felt.

  “Jeez Logan, what the hell are you doing hiding up in here!” The yelled question came from the door and scared the living daylights out of me. Mase never spoke quietly. I swear the winger’s game-time enthusiasm and associated rink-voice stayed with him when he was off the ice. Hell, I bet he even spoke loudly in his sleep.

  “Having phone sex with your mom,” I snapped back because that was the level of communication I had with the second youngest guy on our team.

  Mase wrinkled his nose. “Whatever. I need you downstairs on my team right now.”

  “It’s three a.m.!”

  “Lightweight.” He disappeared but was back in an instant. “We have beer.” Then left again. How was it that, even newly arrived in Dallas, exhausted from the game and the flight from Tampa, the three guys I was sharing this house with wanted to play video games? Hadn’t they had enough of that on the plane?

  I considered my options. I could sit in my room, getting texts from a man who had no reason to be contacting me, messing with my head, wallowing in the fact I was stuck here for Christmas. Or I could join the kids and make the best of it.

  Or I could sleep. Sleep is good.

  “Pretty Boy! Get your ass down here.”

  I hated that nickname. Coach had called me Pretty Boy on my very first day with the Dragons, and it followed me as if it was permanently glued to my forehead. It didn’t matter how pretty others thought I was off the ice; I had to be hard and focused and skilled on the ice. I hated that people didn’t see the skater under the skin sometimes. I much preferred Claws, which was a reference to Wolverine’s real name being Logan, the same as mine, and was much more dramatic than Pretty Boy. Unfortunately, Claws hadn’t stuck much past sixth gra