Page 9

Chapter nine

~LIVIA~

I kick my legs up onto the arm of the couch, phone pressed between my cheek and shoulder, while my best friend Hannah’s laughter crackles through the speaker.

“Wait, wait, wait,” she says, her voice nearly drowned out by her giggling. “You’re telling me this guy, this giant hockey player, literally pressed you into the air like some kind of gym weight?”

“Yes!” I groan, rubbing my forehead as the memory floods back. “He leg-pressed me and 300 pounds of weight like it was nothing. Hannah. Do you know how mortifying that was?”

“Mortifying? Girl, that sounds like foreplay,” she teases, and I can hear the smirk in her voice.

“Shut up.” I throw a candy wrapper across the room, aiming at absolutely no one.

“Oh, come on,” she says, her tone dripping with mischief. “Tell me you didn’t enjoy even one second of it. A big, sexy hockey player manhandling you? Sounds like a dream.”

“Not a dream. A nightmare,” I shoot back, even though the heat creeping up my neck betrays me. “He’s infuriating, Hannah. Cocky, arrogant, smug—”

“Hot as sin,” she cuts in.

“Not the point!”

“Sounds exactly like the point.”

I roll my eyes and take a sip of my wine, the glass cool in my hand. “He’s impossible to deal with. And on top of all that, I felt his,” I lower my voice and glance around my empty apartment as if someone might overhear. “I felt him today. Down there.”

There’s a pause, and then her laugh bursts through the phone so loud I have to pull it away from my ear.

“Stop laughing!”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” she gasps, clearly not sorry at all. “How big is he?”

“I don’t know, Hannah.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. It's not like I’m experienced in that field.

“Oh, but I have a feeling you’re about to find out.”

“Yeah, okay,” I say weakly because even I don’t know how to describe what’s happening between Rowan and me. “The situation is complicated.”

The way he looks at me like he’s got the world’s dirtiest secret. The way his body moves, deliberately and confidently. And the way he whispers things that make me want to simultaneously slap him and…

“Complicated, huh?” Hannah’s voice snaps me back. “That’s code for ‘I want to climb him like a tree.’”

“Goodbye, Hannah,” I say, already reaching for the end-call button.

“Wait, wait, wait! Don’t hang up yet!” she says between snickers. “I’m just saying, you’ve been wound tighter than a barbed wire fence since you moved to L.A. Maybe this guy is just the…release you need.”

“I’m hanging up now.” My cheeks are burning.

“Fine, fine. But think about it, Liv. Sometimes, the thing that drives you the craziest,” her tone is teasing, “is exactly what you need most.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I end the call before she can say anything else, but her words stick with me as I set my phone down on the coffee table. I grab my wine glass and sink deeper into the couch, letting my head fall back against the cushion.

What I need most? God. That’s the last thing I need.

Or at least, it should be.

The apartment is quiet except for the faint hum of the TV. I’m not even watching it; I’m just staring blankly at the screen while swirling the last sip of wine in my glass.

I set the glass down and curl my legs under me. My mind betrays me again, pulling me back to earlier. Back to the gym and to him.

I close my eyes and see him standing there, all muscle and arrogance like he owned the entire damn place. The way his green eyes locked onto mine, daring me, testing me. The smirk tugging at his lips like he already knew what I was thinking.

And then he caught me.

A shiver skates down my spine as I replay it. The feel of his hands on me, rough, strong, sure. The way his arms tightened around me, holding me against him like he wasn’t just catching me but claiming me. And the moment I felt him, hard, unyielding, pressing against my tummy…

My breath hitches.

Stop it, Livia.

But my body doesn’t listen. I sink deeper into the couch, letting my head rest against the cushion as the memory plays on a loop. His scent, masculine and clean with just a hint of something darker, lingers in my mind. The way his voice dipped lower, rough and teasing when he asked me if I could feel him.

I feel the flush creep over my cheeks, down my neck, pooling in places I shouldn’t acknowledge. My fingers trail absently over my stomach, brushing against the hem of my tank top.

I shouldn’t.

I really shouldn’t.

But my hand moves lower anyway, sliding over the curve of my hip and resting just below my waistband. I bite my lip, closing my eyes as I let myself imagine him.

Rowan’s hands wouldn’t hesitate. They’d be bold, demanding, claiming every inch of me like it was his right. His lips would follow, hot and desperate, leaving a trail of fire across my skin. And his voice would be the end of me, murmuring filthy promises that would make my knees go weak.

My fingers dip lower, and a soft gasp escapes my lips the moment they find my swollen clit.

I’m spiraling, drowning in thoughts of him. The way he touched me, held me, the way his gaze lingered on my lips like he was seconds away from—

I jerk my hand back like I’ve been burned, my chest heaving as reality slams into me.

“No. No, no, no,” I mutter, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes as if I can block out the images.

I can’t believe I almost…

Over him.

I groan and grab the throw pillow next to me, burying my face in it.

“Damn you, Rowan. Get out of my head!”

But even as I say it, his name tastes too good in my mouth, and the ache he left behind refuses to fade. And I still have to face him tomorrow night at The Fortress.

The bass from the club hits me the second I step out of the Uber, vibrating through the soles of my heels and up my legs. The air is thick with the kind of electricity that only comes from a night filled with possibilities or disasters. Knowing my luck lately, it’s probably the latter.

The bouncer gives me a once-over, his lips twitching like he’s impressed, and I offer a polite smile as he waves me through. The heavy door swings open, and I’m hit with a wall of sound, music pounding, laughter spilling over, and the faint clink of glasses somewhere in the chaos.

I adjust the hem of my black satin mini dress as I step inside, the fabric hugging my body. It’s one of those dresses that doesn’t leave much to the imagination—thin straps, a dangerously low neckline, and a slit up the side that’s just shy of scandalous. Paired with black heels and a matching clutch.

Tonight, I need that armor.

The club is packed, bodies moving together on the dancefloor in a messy, intoxicating rhythm. I glance around, my gaze flicking over clusters of people laughing at the bar, whispering in dark corners, grinding against each other like it’s a competition.

And then I spot them.

Upstairs, in the VIP lounge, the team is spread out across plush leather couches and chairs, looking like a goddamn GQ photoshoot. I can already hear the click of cameras in my head and see the headlines tomorrow: Panthers Tear Up the Town. Again.

I spot Damien on the ground floor, just off the dancefloor. He’s laughing, leaning down to say something to the gorgeous redhead he’s dancing with.

It takes me a second to recognize her.

Avery.

Oh.

Avery, Rowan’s little sister.

My eyes widen. Oh my god, how could I forget?

The memory hits like a flashbulb. The scandal last season, the pictures of Damien and Avery plastered across every sports site. Damien Colton Gets Cozy with Rowan DiMarco’s Little Sister.

And now they’re here, dancing together like no one else exists. She’s laughing, carefree, throwing her arms around his neck while he murmurs something into her ear.

I wonder how Rowan took it when he found out. He doesn’t strike me as a man who would let something like that go easily.

But I can’t think about that right now. Not with the way my stomach flips as I glance back up at the VIP lounge.

I search for him.

My breath hitches when my eyes land on Rowan.

He’s leaning back against the oversized bar, his legs spread like he owns not just the club but the whole damn world. He’s nursing a tumbler of something dark, his tattoos peeking out from the open collar of his black shirt. The sleeves are rolled up, exposing his strong forearms, corded with muscle, and inked in ways that make my mouth dry.

And his hair. God help me. It’s messy and windblown like he couldn’t be bothered to fix it, but there’s a single strand falling over his brow, giving him that infuriating I-woke-up-like-this look.

He glances down at the crowd, and for one heart-stopping second, his eyes lock with mine.

I quickly turn away, pretending I’m busy looking for someone else. My heart is racing, though, and it has nothing to do with the music or the vodka Red Bull I’m about to order.

But my eyes find him again, and this time, I can’t look away.

He’s still watching me, his expression unreadable but intense, like he’s dissecting every thought running through my head.

The glass in his hand tilts slightly like he’s raising it to me.

I inhale deeply, straightening my shoulders as I make my way toward the stairs.

Each step feels heavier than the last, the thud of my heartbeat thankfully swallowed by the noise. I keep going, gripping the railing tightly as I climb.

By the time I reach the top, all eyes are on me, including his.

Here we go.