Page 7

The click-click of her heels has me releasing it and turning around. I watch her walk toward me and give in to the urge to trace my gaze over her body, starting with those sleek black leather pumps with pointy toes, a pencil-thin heel, a bit of bling on top, and continuing up, thin ankles, lean calves, shapely thighs and hips clad in a narrow, tight black skirt, a waist that I can span with both of my hands, tits that are almost obscene⁠—

Or maybe that’s just because I want to haul her against me and bury my face in them.

Then again, that’s my dick speaking.

And my dick is what has gotten me into this mess in the first place.

But the urge to flick open the buttons on her tight white shirt, to part the fabric, to⁠—

Her tits bounce beneath the material as she takes another inhale and I draw my gaze up further, watch the slender column of her throat work as she begins to form words, drag it along her jaw, her cheeks with the slightest bit of pink, those flinty blue eyes bewildered, her dark blond brows furrowed.

A fucking confused princess.

A fuckable princess.

“One million dollars,” she says again.

I lift my brows in question.

Her eyes go wider. “Are you insane?”

My lips twitch. Mostly because that’s not the first time someone has said that to me—mostly on the ice, when I’m diving to block a shot, when I’m skating hard on a collision course with another player but not going to stop because the fucking puck is mine, or when I’m playing with stitches or broken bones.

It’s born and bred in my family. In me.

Having to win.

Having to be the best.

Fucking always.

“What?” I say casually. “You need a million and a half?”

Her mouth falls open. “Excuse me?”

“Two?” Lips twitching, I shake my head. “Fine,” I say, amusement in my belly, even though my need to win has just cost me a fuck ton of money. “You drive a hard bargain, but I agree.”

She sputters.

I tug at the handle, pull open the car door, and fold myself inside.

It’s a tight fit, but all the fast cars are.

The engine rumbles to life and I start to pull away from the curb then stop, rolling the window down and watching the ice princess who shows no sign of melting even in the sweltering heat of summer.

I open my mouth.

And the words that come off the tip of my tongue are from some inner part of me that instinctually knows her.

Knows what will push her.

What will get her to do what I want.

“Unless,” I cajole, holding her frosty blue stare, “you’re too much of a coward.”

Those blue eyes melt, transforming into boiling pools of geothermal water, hot enough that they’ll instantly rend flesh from bone, instantly kill.

Her lips part. Her throat works.