Breathless (EBOOK)

She was…insane.
That was the only logical explanation.
He’d followed Prudence Hansley, retiree from the NWHL (now renamed the Premiere Hockey Federation, or the PHF) and current Scout and Development Coach for the Breakers, from the rink to this bridge.
And now she was strapping a parachute to her back.
It was late afternoon.
He’d attended the camp she’d been running for the younger players, for those hopefuls who wanted to make the roster, because he was in town and liked to stay in shape, and he tended to get a little tetchy if he wasn’t on the ice.
She’d run a tough clinic, put the guys through their paces, made some good suggestions and corrections, even to him, and then she’d released them. He’d showered. The young guys who’d attended camp all week had gone to do young guy things, and he’d been prepared to go do old guy things—namely, an ice bath, massage, and then getting at least eight hours of sleep—but then as he was leaving, he’d heard Pru take a call that had concern rising in him.
Because the call had been an argument.
Ending with her snapping, “The conditions aren’t too dangerous. I’m doing it, and I don’t give a fuck what you say.”
Obviously, that had prickled every cautious bone in his body.
Because he was a man who was cautious. Who planned and proceeded with care and didn’t just dive in.
It had benefitted him in his career.
Prepare. Practice. Prep for every possible outcome.
That was how he’d made it to the NHL.
Because he wasn’t the most naturally gifted player, but he worked his ass off, was prepared, and now he was on one of the best teams in the league.
Working with Prudence Hansley.
A fucking goddess, who seemed to thrive on pushing the limits, who lived big and bright, with the constant risk of flaming out.
And who flirted with him. Shamelessly.
He’d spent a lot of time with her (flirting and otherwise) since she was his friend’s fiancé’s friend. Which meant he’d learned a lot about her. She was talented, smart, a great hockey player (whose career had unfortunately ended too early because of a back injury), and…not cautious.
She. Was. Not. Cautious.
Shark diving. Bungee jumping. Climbing mountains. Shaving her head (though she’d apparently done that once in college and had no plans of doing it again because she had a weird-shaped head). The point was that he had heard enough about Pru’s adventures to be seriously worried when she yelled she was doing something, even as the person on the other end of the call was clearly advising against it.
So, he’d followed her to a bridge.
A bridge she was standing next to…as she strapped a parachute to her back.
What the actual fuck? He literally could not—could not!—believe his eyes.
He popped open his door, stormed across the metal and concrete that was positioned high above a rapidly flowing river.
She glanced up, and though her eyes went wide at his approach, she didn’t stop strapping it on. Was she going to jump? Off this?
Seriously.
What the fuck was wrong with her?
The woman had a fucking death wish.
He grabbed her arm when she would have stepped over the barrier. “What the fuck are you doing, Pru?”
“None of your fucking business,” she snapped, trying to jerk free.
He reached for the buckle of her chute, undid it before she could do something stupider.
Like jump off the fucking bridge.
“Stop,” she growled, but was too slow. It was already undone, and he was yanking it down her arms, off her hands.
He’d barely gotten it free when she tried to jerk it out of his grip.
So, he did the only thing he could.
Or maybe, more accurately, the only thing he could think of in that moment.
He launched the chute over the barrier.
Pru gasped and grabbed on to the metal, leaning over the edge. He moved with her, still not convinced she wouldn’t do something stupid, like try to jump after it and strap it on mid-air, Black Widow style.
But all she did was watch it sail down into the water deep, deep below.
A splash.
Then Pru spun back and shoved him. Hard. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Me?” He snapped. “Me? I’m not the one who was going to base jump without anyone around after having an argument with a sensible person who said what is obvious, and that being that the conditions are too fucking dangerous.”
“I—” Her mouth opened and closed. “How the hell would you know what Ted said?”
He rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t hard to deduce based on your caterwauling in the hallway at the rink.”
“Cat-cat—” She shook her head. “That was a private conversation.”
“A loud private conversation in a public place,” he pointed out.
Her chin came up, and her eyes blazed. “I failed to get the memo telling me you have a say over my life,” she gritted out.
He didn’t. Of course, he didn’t.
Which she knew. Which was why she snorted and said smugly, “Exactly.”
He reached for her. “Do you have a fucking death wish?”
She batted his hand away.
He reached for her again.
“Don’t.” A step back as her nostrils flared, but then she spun, took off for her car.
But she didn’t get in, didn’t start up the engine and drive home.
Instead, she went to the trunk and got out another pack. Another parachute.
His temper snapped, and he ripped it out of her hands, tossed that over the side of the bridge, and then braced himself because she was going to shove him again.
Which she did.
He captured her hand, ignored the fact that it felt so damned small wrapped in his, even though she wasn’t small, she was the least small person he knew. “Any more in there?” he growled instead of focusing on that, on how much he liked her flirting, on how much he wished he was a different man, one who could handle all that not small. “Because I’ll throw those over, too.”
“Those are expensive,” she gritted.
Rage splintered through him. “I don’t give a fuck,” he snapped. “You want to go base jumping, you do it as safely as possible with spotters or a partner, and you don’t do it after someone advises you to not do it today because the conditions are shit.”
The wind, already breezy enough to have her ponytail whipping around her face, picked up right then, gusting and silently supporting his assertion.
She plunked her hands on her hips. “I do what I want.”
“Yeah.” He huffed a rough laugh. “And, apparently, you don’t care that you’ll hurt people if you die doing something stupid.”
Something almost like vulnerability crossed her face. Then her shoulders went straight, her eyes went flinty. “My parents are gone. I don’t have siblings. It’s just me, relying on me, living my life.” By the time the words were out there, any trace of that vulnerability was gone. All that was left was fire and temper and spunk.
All of which called to him.
None of which described him.
Her lips pressed flat. “So, who’s going to be hurt, huh?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Hazel. Oliver. The guys. Me.”
She blinked. Then clenched her jaw, her words tight. “You do realize that I’m going to do this, and you won’t be able to stop me.”
He glanced in her trunk, her back seat, saw there were no more packs. He shrugged. “Today, I did.”
More fire. More temper. More spunk that had him wanting to pull her close, to taste all of that not small. “So, what,” she snapped. “You’re going to stalk me?”
Another shrug. “If I have to.”
She glared. “You made it pretty fucking clear that you’re not interested in me, so why care now? Why press this now? Why bother?”
His brows drew down. “Not interested?” he asked, completely aghast.
He’d been lusting after her for months, wanting her since the first time he’d seen her, desperate and dreaming about her from the moment she’d gotten close enough for him to scent her shampoo—something fruity and flowery and fucking intoxicating.
She jabbed a finger into his chest. “You turned me down.”
He scowled. “You were drunk.”
“I asked you out, and you turned me down.”
Marcel moved closer. “I repeat. You were drunk.” He shook his head. What the hell was wrong with this woman? “I don’t fuck women who can’t consent, let alone those who can barely stay upright.”
That stopped her for a second, and her face lost the hard lines of anger. “You turned me down because I was drunk?”
He huffed out a rough laugh. “Do you need me to say it for a third time?”
Her eyes went wide, and then half her mouth turned up, her body drifting closer. Her mad gone so quickly that he was left with whiplash. “You know,” she murmured, dragging her finger down his chest. “This is the most words I’ve heard you say at once.”
On his back foot, all he could do was shrug.
The other half of her mouth tipped up, and her body came flush with his. Long brown, fruity and flowery-smelling hair, lean and strong curves, a pert nose, and…the most kissable set of lips he’d ever seen. Her breasts brushed his chest, her scent surrounded him. He settled his hands on her hips, brought her just a little bit closer.
“Would you turn me down now?” she asked, dragging that finger a little lower. Toward the waistband of his sweats.
No. He fucking wouldn’t.
He would give anything to not have to turn her down.
But she knew precisely what she was doing, could probably feel precisely what she was doing to him…to his cock.
That lush, kissable mouth curved further. “Would you take me home and fu—”
His fingers tightened, and he might be cautious, might be a planner, but he was also a man. And it just so happened that he had planned this very scenario a hundred, a thousand times over. “Yeah,” he said, covering her hand, bringing it down, pressing it to the hard length of his cock. “I’ll take you home, and I’ll fuck you, princess.” A beat. “But only if you promise to not jump off this bridge.”
She frowned. “I—”
Her fingers tightened, her hips canted forward, and he had to grit his teeth so he kept at least a tiny bit of control. “Until whoever was the voice of reason on the other end of that call, telling you today wasn’t right”—the wind whipped around them—“says the conditions are good enough for the jump. And then”—he leaned forward, murmured in her ear—“if you still want to do it, you do it.”
And he’d be here.
Making sure she was doing it as safely as possible.
Because despite what his ex said, he wasn’t the kind of man who clipped someone’s wings.
He just wanted the spreading of those wings and the leaping out of nests to happen safely and smartly.
He straightened, watched and waited to see what she would do. Her hazel eyes swirled with emotions—heat, frustration, interest, attraction, annoyance, desire, and more that he couldn’t discern.
Then her face went blank.
He braced himself again.
“Okay,” she said, shocking the shit out of him as she smiled widely and threw her arms around him. “Take me home and fuck me, Pretty Boy.”