What A Vampire Loves

Cori POV:

The deafening bass of the victory party at the downtown lounge vibrated through the soles of my shoes. I had slipped away from the crowded VIP booth to find my boyfriend, Brandyn, an AHL bubble player barely hanging onto the fringes of our franchise's roster.

Instead, as I turned the corner toward the back alley, the breath froze in my throat. There was Brandyn, pressing my supposed best friend, Dallas, a wealthy trust-fund socialite, against the brick wall. They were locked in a heated, desperate embrace, utterly oblivious to the world. I even caught a glimpse of a black-and-white ultrasound scan clutched in Dallas's manicured hand, confirming the sick rumors I had tried to ignore.

My heart shattered, but the cold, rational instinct of a girl who had fought for everything she had kicked in. If I confronted them right now, a humiliated, cornered athlete might lash out or ruin my hard-earned career out of spite. My hands shaking, I pulled out my phone and snapped a geo-tagged photo in the dark. Evidence secured.

I stumbled away, downing three cheap tequila shots at the bar to numb the sting of betrayal, and staggered recklessly into the VIP drop-off lane. I thought I was climbing into my Uber. I literally threw myself into the back of an armored black Escalade.

My memory blurred into a chaotic, feverish haze. I vaguely remembered stumbling into a dark, leather-scented interior, falling against a solid, unyielding chest. I had clung to a stranger in the dark, seeking comfort with reckless, drunken desperation. The man had gone completely rigid for a long moment before his strong arms wrapped around me, pulling me close, grounding my spinning world with a fierce, intoxicating warmth that wiped my mind completely blank.

A blinding shaft of morning light pierced straight through my eyelids.

I tried to roll over, groaning from the jackhammer pounding against my skull, but my body wouldn't move. A strange, heavy lethargy weighed down my limbs, accompanied by a faint, unfamiliar soreness that made my cheeks burn at the implications.

Across my ribcage lay a heavy, bare arm. It was thick with solid muscle, pinning me flat against the mattress.

Slowly, fighting the nausea of an epic hangover, I looked down at the tangled silk sheets. Inked across the dark golden skin of that forearm was a black, hyper-detailed hockey crest, crossed sticks wrapped in barbed wire, leading down to the initials KD.

My stomach dropped straight through the floor. I turned my head an inch at a time, my neck joints clicking in the dead silence.

Next to me lay Kurt Duran.

The undisputed captain of the New York franchise. The most ruthless, untouchable man in the entire National Hockey League, and the absolute ruler of the sports empire that paid my meager entry-level salary.

I hadn't just slept with a stranger. I had spent the night with my boss. The notoriously cold captain himself. This was an unmitigated disaster.

Panic flared hot and sharp behind my ribs. I began edging toward the side of the mattress, sliding a fraction of an inch at a time, desperate to sneak away before he woke up.

Before I could clear two inches, the heavy arm flexed.

With a smooth, effortless motion, Kurt pulled me backward. My spine pressed directly against the wall of his bare chest. His skin was burning hot, radiating the sheer physical power of an elite athlete, and the scent of cold cedar and expensive tobacco wrapped around me.

I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. I turned my head slightly, catching a glimpse of his handsome, sleeping profile. His breathing was even. It was just a subconscious reflex. I let out a quiet sigh of relief and tried to wiggle away again.

But this time, a much stronger, deliberate pull yanked me entirely into his embrace. We were pressed so tightly together I could feel the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart beating against my back.