Page 34 of Hot As Ice

She must need money bad.

I know she wants to fuck me, but when you add money to the equation, things can get weird. For the record, I’ve never paid a woman for sex; I’ve never had to. But the feeling of control it gives me to pay Stevie for her body is intoxicating. I want her fully in my power. And knowing the money will help her pay rent and bills makes me feel like a goddamn king.

I can’t let my girl go around donating plasma or working shitty waitressing jobs. Let her think I just want her for sex; she doesn’t have to know that I feel this bone-deep desire to take care of her.

“Cruise! Wake up! Get your damn head in the game!” Coach White shouts. My teammates all turn around to look at me. Coach never yells at me. My head is always in the game. I shake it off and turn on the laser-focus I’m known for, and somehow get through the rest of practice without thinking of Stevie.

But she’s back on my mind when we hit the showers.

I picture us in the shower in my penthouse, the water running down her bare skin in rivulets, me soaping her up, rubbing her tits, thrusting my fingers inside her. I want her desperate and begging for me. I want her panting for me.

My cock stirs and I snap out of the daydream, turning the shower on as cold as I can handle it. Shit. I’m really fucking gone.

Jamie is smirking at me when I return to my locker, a towel wrapped around my waist.

“What?” I snap at him.

He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Nothing,” he says, grinning. “Nothing at all.”

“Fuck off, West.”

Since he’s already dressed, he grabs his bag and leaves, chuckling all the way. I hate that perceptive fucker. We’ve been friends for too long. Sometimes I think he can read my mind.

I have to fuck Stevie tonight. My cock’s been aching for her.

Now that the contract’s been signed, it’s all I can think about. I dress quickly and grab my phone, about to shoot her a text message, when it rings. The name on the screen is like a bucket of ice-cold water on my head.

I pick up. “Yeah, Dad.”

“Hunter. I need you at dinner tonight.”

“I have plans.”

“Cancel them.”

“I can’t⁠—”

“Yes, you can. Don’t argue with me. It’s a dinner with some potential investors. They want to meet my son, the hockey star, and you’ll be there. Understood?”

I grit my teeth. “Fine.”

“Good boy.”

I hang up and resist the urge to throw my phone across the room. Nobody gets under my skin like my father. Nobody. He’s been a hard ass since I was a kid, pushing me into all sorts of extracurriculars. I’ve tried every sport known to man, because he wanted his son to be a star, even when I protested. Even when my mom protested.

Luckily, hockey stuck with me. From the first moment I got on the ice as a 7-year-old, I was hooked. All the anxiety seemed to melt away when I was skating. Because it almost felt like flying.

I exhale loudly and grab my bag, finally leaving the locker room. I have to get through this damn dinner somehow.

AFTER THREE INTERMINABLE hours, the dinner with the potential investors is finally over, and I’m fully wrung out.

I’m good at pretending.

Since I was a pre-teen, I’ve had to learn how to schmooze. Talking to adults always came easily to me, because I knew what they wanted. I can be polite and charismatic when the occasion calls for it. Coach has told me it’ll help me land sponsorships after I get signed. That’s how he says it – like my being signed is a given. Coach is a better father figure to me than my own father.

But Benjamin Cruise was on fire tonight. My father is excellent at hiding his true self. Nobody would ever suspect that the suave and cultured real estate mogul is actually a monster. He’ll kiss your ass and laugh at your jokes and hang on your every word, making you feel like the most important person in the world, as long as he gets what he wants out of you.

And once you’re caught in his web, you’re fucked. It’s exactly what happened to my mom.