The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers Book 1) by Heather C. Leigh
“What do you want, St. Clair?”
Calloway's tone held the disdain of someone who stepped in a pile of dog shit while wearing a new pair of Pradas. I swallowed back the urge to say fuck it and pummel Bigfoot’s face into ground beef. Instead, I shoved my hands into my pockets to make them behave. Punching a teammate in the locker room on his first day was highly frowned upon. I would know. I may or may not have done it once… or twice. Possibly three times, but that one was not my fault.
I exhaled and worked my jaw back and forth, then stepped closer, hating that I had to tip my head back so I wasn't staring at Sasquatch’s thick neck. How tall was he anyway? Seven fucking feet? I sucked up as much pride as possible and swallowed down the bile that threatened to rise.
“We’re teammates now, which means whether we like it or not, we have a duty to protect each other's asses.”
Calloway raised a single dark brow, which made me want to slap the condescension right off the motherfucker’s face. “So?”
“So…” I growled, already sick of the patronizing attitude. “Just because we're on the same team doesn't mean I'm going to sit back while you intentionally injure my little bro. Don't think for a minute there won't be repercussions if you do.” Without realizing it, my hands had curled into fists in my pockets, squeezing so tight my fingernails were going to leave grooves in my palms.
Sasquatch's response to my threat wasn't anger, wasn't aggravation. Wasn’t even slight annoyance. No, the fucker grinned.
“Repercussions? Like what?” He scoffed and summarily dismissed me with a casual wave of one of his massive meat paws. “Fuck off, St. Clair.”
When the maudit bâtard turned around and showed me his backside, I darted out a hand, grabbed Calloway’s massive bicep, and squeezed just hard enough to let him know it wasn't an empty threat. I was dead serious. His wide grin faded into a sneer and his black eyes flashed.
“Get your hand off me before I rip it from your body and use it as a puck.”
Hmph. Straight to violence. Maybe we’re more similar than I thought. And wasn’t that as unwelcome as a turd in a punch bowl.
I released Calloway's arm, but didn't back off. “You're going to learn something about me, Sasquatch.” I ignored Calloway's low growl. It took most of my concentration not to slip into my native Québécois. I wanted him to know exactly what I was saying. “I might be an asshole with a violent streak a mile long, but I'm very protective of my friends and family, and I'm fiercely goddamn loyal.” I leaned in closer. “Believe me when I say, you don't want to test exactly how protective or how loyal I can be.” I relaxed my features and took a step back. “Now, you can either be a part of the group I protect,” I brushed off my lapels, “or the object of my anger. It's your choice.”
The world must've stopped spinning because, to my utter shock, Calloway's harsh expression faded. Not much, but hey, I took what I could get, if it meant I wouldn't end up suspended for busting Sasquatch’s big fat jaw, or flattened under his size sixteens. He nodded and I thought I might have just landed in the Twilight Zone.
“That's the first thing that's ever come out of your mouth I actually respect.”
My jaw hit the floor. Honest to god, I hadn't expected him to agree and had no response when he did. For once in my life, I was struck dumb. I scrambled for a reply that didn't involve hitting something or come across as condescending.
I failed spectacularly.
“Uhhh, oh. Well, okay then. So… good talk.” I took another step back. “I’m glad we agree.” Calloway cocked his head, narrowed his eyes, and gave me a strange look, then turned back to his locker to finish getting dressed.
That was… weird. And unexpected.
I took a moment to mull over our conversation, then decided it was time to leave before Calloway changed his mind and rounded back on me with a donkey punch to the head. Plus, I had somewhere to be, and I couldn't fucking wait. I wasn't ashamed to admit I was a little freaked out by Calloway’s seemingly easy capitulation, but I was also vibrating with excitement to see if Hot Blonde accepted my invitation.
“Sebby!” Evvy caught up with me by the door and walked out to the player's lot alongside me. The hotel was attached to the arena, but there was no way I was leaving my car here. Too many questions. “A bunch of us are going out. You in?”
“You know I hate it when you call me Sebby.”
Evvy smirked. “Yeah, but St. Clairey or Clairezy doesn't have that snappy sound to it.” He gave me a playful shove.
I chuckled and pretended to take a minute to think about his offer. Didn’t want Ev to start asking questions. No way was I about to jinx my chance with Hot Blonde by talking about her. Plus, I had no doubt Evvy would have plenty to say about my stalkerish way of reaching out.
“Nah, go on without me.” I had to believe she would be at the hotel bar. The alternative was too pathetic to consider. I began to walk away.
“Whoa.” Evvy snagged the collar of my suit jacket and jerked us both to a stop. Bastard made me stumble back. I turned to glare at my friend for almost putting me on the ass of my best Tom Ford. “You don't want to go out?” Evvy’s eyebrows flew to his hairline. “I know you broke up, uh… whatever you had with Amanda, so you're not going to her place.” He squinted at me. “Who are you and what have you done with Seb?”
I gave what I hoped was a casual shrug and with a genuine smile, gave Evvy’s back a hardy smack. “Guess I'm just not in the mood.”
For the millionth time that night, my thoughts drifted back to Hot Blonde. The shock on her face when she opened the box was priceless. And then there was that amazing moment. The one where our gazes met. Merde. I shook my head. I had to stop thinking about her. It bordered on creepy and wasn't healthy. Plus, I was in serious danger of popping wood in front of Ev. If that happened, he would pelt me with questions I wouldn’t want to answer. Friend or not, better to keep Evvy out of the loop. In fact, I was beginning to regret I mentioned her to him at all.
“You're not in the mood,” Evvy repeated. “You?”
Amused, I grinned and walked backwards toward my truck. I tossed the keys in the air and caught them as I spun around and called out, “Yep,” over my shoulder.
The system beeped when I unlocked the doors and without another word to my dumbstruck teammate, I got in my truck, pulled out of the parking space, and steered toward the exit. As I drove down the block to the hotel parking lot—yes it was walking distance, but it was fucking cold out—I glanced in the rearview to find Evvy standing in the same spot I left him in, catching flies with his gaping maw.
I threw my head back and laughed.
If Hot Blonde never existed and I was still screwing around with Amanda, I knew exactly how my evening would have gone. I’d go out for a few beers with the team, then head over to Amanda's despite knowing it was a shitty idea. Tonight, thank fuck, I had other plans. I sent up a quick prayer that Hot Blonde not only showed up, but was miraculously into bondage, otherwise, the evening could still turn out to be a bust.
You know she probably isn't, idiot. Most women aren't.
Nope. I shut down that train of thought immediately and forced my thoughts to stay positive. But I wasn’t stupid. I knew I'd be spending my life alone. The likelihood of finding a woman who not only wanted the kink, but could deal with the rest of my fucked up baggage, didn't want me for my money, had no interest in the status of a hockey wife, and didn’t set out to trap me with a baby, was statistically less than zero.
So, was asking for Hot Blonde to align with just one of my measly criteria too much to hope for?
Dear god, if it can only be one, please let it be the bondage.
While idling at the red light at the far corner of the arena parking lot, I glanced out the passenger window. Poor Evvy still hadn't moved. Even with all the crap going through my head, my screwed-up thoughts and near dangerous obsession with Hot Blonde, I found myself in a rare good mood. So good in fact, I couldn't stop laughing at my confused friend.
Evvy would have to get used to me not hanging out after games as much as I used to, because whether or not Hot Blonde showed up tonight, I wasn't going to be around much. I’d either be busy spending all my free time on achieving my new number-one goal: getting the feisty woman in my bed until she squirmed and panted and cried out beneath me, or my new number-one pastime: fucking her senseless.
I brought up an image of her defiant expression when she opened the box—eyes blazing and thick, cock-sucking lips pulled into a frown—and my dick began to swell. She was just so damn hot. I pressed my palm against my crotch and groaned. My entire body ached with need, yet the smile never left my face.
Feisty, gorgeous, and a hockey fan? All I needed to do was confirm she had no interest in me beyond getting naked, and a penchant for rough, slightly kinky sex, and I was golden.
Jesus, I really, really hoped so. Only one night so far and already Hot Blonde proved to be fun to chase. I knew she would be even more fun to catch, and breaking her down piece by piece until she screamed my name over and over would be my greatest achievement so far.
If she blew me off, she’d better be equipped to handle what came next, because there was no way in hell I was going to stop pursuing her. Not until I got what I wanted. I pictured Hot Blonde’s look of disgust as she held up my gift. Her pissed off scowl. The glare she aimed my way. All of it sent a white-hot streak of desire careening down my spine. Just knowing how irritated I made her, made me happy and pleasure unfurled in my groin.
Did it make me sick that her potentially hating me turned me on? Maybe, but what difference did it make? I was already twenty kinds of twisted and forty kinds of fucked up in the head. There wasn't much that could make it any worse.
Hot Blonde was a challenge. That's what got me hard. The challenge. The thrill of the chase and what I would do once I caught her. I reached down, adjusted my cock, and drove, single-mindedly, into the parking garage of the hotel.
Game on, blondie. Game fucking on.
Kylie
This was so stupid. Probably the dumbest thing I’d ever done.
I glanced in the mirror behind the bar to check my makeup. Huge mistake. The woman reflected back at me was a freaking wreck. My cheeks were flushed and bottom lip swollen from where I kept chewing on it, hair all tousled from running nervous hands through the length. I was a hot mess.
“Excuse me. Can I buy you a drink?”
I closed my eyes and counted backwards from three. He was the third man to hit on me since I took a seat at the hotel bar twenty minutes ago. When I opened them, I took one final look at myself. The woman I saw, the one whose stomach twisted and flipped, didn't appear nervous. In fact, she looked like she might feel several different emotions, but definitely not nervous. Excited? Yes. Turned on? Yes. Thrilled at the prospect of coming face to face with Sebastien St. Clair? Definitely.
She looked… hungry for sex.
Maybe that was why men were drawn to me like flies. They sensed my longing. Could read my filthy thoughts. Maybe I projected every single dirty fantasy I ever had about Sebastien St. Clair for the world to see.
“Hi, I’m Ken. What’s your name?”
It took a lot of effort to hold back both the epic eye roll and the annoyed huff I so badly wanted to unleash. I had to remember it wasn't Ken’s fault. I should be flattered he found me attractive. The irritation was on me, not him. Like the good girl I was pretending to be, I whipped up an insincere smile and let him down gently, just as I did the two men previous.
“Kylie. And no, thank you. I'm waiting for someone.”
Ken smiled, and wow, he was beautiful. Two perfect rows of gleaming white teeth framed by adorable dimples that gave him a playful look. One that likely got him any woman he wanted. When you took his bright green eyes and dirty blonde hair into consideration, plus the tailored suit that showed off his fit body, Ken was a walking dream. Only, he came across as nice. And lucky me, because I’m completely depraved, nice turned me off.
“That's too bad. I'm in town for a convention and could use some company.”
My mouth fell open and my face heated up. Maybe Ken wasn't all that nice, because that sounded a lot like a proposition. And yes, the only reason I was sitting at this bar was due to a proposition made by Sebastien St. Clair. I was well aware my judgment made me a hypocrite. Ken, who had to be some kind of mind reader, knew what I was thinking, and did damage control by holding up his hands and letting out a deep chuckle, though he looked somewhat horrified.
“Wait! No. I mean, I wasn't looking for… that, necessarily.” He checked me out again, gaze flicking up and down, and my face burst into flames. “Though I wouldn’t say no. But seriously, I’m just looking for company as in someone to talk to.”
Okay, so maybe he was nice. Mostly. I opened my mouth to politely decline, but someone beat me to it. Someone not so polite. Someone with a slight French accent that made my insides quiver.
“Hey, asshole, you're sitting in my seat.”
Ken and I turned at the same time. When I got a look at the newcomer, I nearly swallowed my tongue. Standing next to me, closer than friends, yet not as close as I would have liked, was Sebastien St. Clair in all his tall, athletic, and muscled glory. His black suit hugged every inch of his impressive frame. Paired with a charcoal gray shirt and black tie, the look came across as sleek and refined. I'd seen the man out of his hockey gear before, talking at press conferences on the television, but damn, TV does not do him justice. Sebastien St. Clair is stunning. With his dark hair slicked back and the matching dark suit, his light eyes popped. And at the moment, those brilliant blues were laser-focused on Ken, shooting him a withering glare.
If looks could kill, poor Ken would be six feet under.
“It's okay,” I said to Sebastien to cut off a confrontation before it started. “We were just —”
“I said, fuck off.” Sebastien growled, ignoring me as he continued to glower at a bewildered Ken. Hostility poured off Sebastien in thick, suffocating waves. Ken steeled his jaw and slid off the barstool, ready to exchange words with the boorish interloper, except, when he got to his feet, poor Ken got a good look at how many inches Sebastien towered over him and how much broader he was across the shoulders. Ken gulped and his defiance slid away.
“My mistake,” Ken said calmly. He glanced at me to make sure I was okay, and I appreciated the gesture. I gave him an almost imperceptible nod. “Then I was just leaving.” The man took off as fast as his feet would take him, and I didn't blame him one bit.
My 'date’—what a joke. We both knew why we were here and it wasn’t for a date—seated himself on Ken’s vacated stool, pleased as punch, as if he hadn't just scared a man shitless. Then, agonizingly slow, he ran his hungry gaze from my head down to my toes, giving me a thorough once-over that was more of an eye-fuck than anything else. Never in my life had I been so ecstatic to have dressed up for a hockey game. With zero idea of what was to come, I put on my best jeans and a cute off-the-shoulder shirt. The only change I made between the arena and that moment was to strip off the generic Comets jersey and stash it in my car.
“Great first impression,” I said as I leveled a flat look at an unapologetic Sebastien. “That wasn't very nice.”
Sebastien waved off the approaching bartender. While doing so, his piercing gaze never once strayed from my face. “He was trying to take what was mine. That doesn't go over well with me.”
Was this guy for real?
“Yours?” I scoffed. “I’m not yours.” I didn’t know why, but that wasn’t exactly true. The thought of being ‘his’ sent my pulse racing and made every muscle in my body clench tight with anticipation. Yeah, part of me absolutely loved the idea belonging to Sebastien St. Clair.
He leaned in close—the scent of his aftershave made me swoon, light and crisp and masculine— and whispered. His voice was all raspy and seductive and went straight between my thighs.
“I promise, after tonight you'll beg to be mine.”
<
“I don't beg.”
Another lie. Well, maybe not quite. I would happily beg… For the right man. I just wasn’t sure I’d met him yet.
Sebastien shifted even closer and his breath ghosted across my ear. “There's a first time for everything. What’s your name, gorgeous?”
I shuddered. Such unrepentant cockiness should be a turnoff. And to most people it would be. So far, Sebastien was rude, arrogant, and to be honest, kind of intimidating. But I’m not most people. I loved every single second of it. Ate up his attitude with a spoon like I was a lonely cat-lady and it was a pint of mint chocolate chip Häagen-Dazs. My mouth watered and my nipples pulled tight. I had no idea what to say.
Yeah, I’d totally beg.
“Kylie.”
“I’m Seb.” As if I didn’t know that. Seb casually produced a room key and held it up between two fingers. “Care to get out of here…” His heated gaze felt like a physical caress and I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning and embarrassing myself. “Kylie?”
I shouldn't. In fact, I should run. Far, far away. But before I set foot inside the bar—heck, before I left the game—I knew wouldn't. I couldn't.
Except, sweet, naive, Kylie Calloway doesn’t do one night stands. She doesn’t do dangerous men. And she definitely doesn’t do cocky jerks. But Reckless Kylie? Oh god, she wanted what he offered. More than anything. Was aching for it. And she was sick and tired of sitting on the sidelines, waiting for life to find her.
So yes, I was going to do this.
“Lead the way.”
Seb's lips pulled into a knowing smile that somehow managed to convey every sordid fantasy I'd ever had about the man, and at the same time let me know he had no problem with making each and every one come true.