Sinfully Falling For My Husband's Hockey Son

Cameron

I was losing my fucking mind.

I sat at a sticky high-top table in the back of the neon-lit sports bar, downing my third glass of straight whiskey in less than an hour.

The burning bite down my throat didn't do a single thing to dull the image scorched into my brain: soft waist, bare shoulders, and the shadow of her exposed chest against the golden light of the master suite.

My father's wife.

"Hey, Cam. Look at the blonde by the pool tables," Mark, my center, nudged my shoulder, sliding into the booth next to me. "She’s been eyeing you since we walked in."

I flicked my eyes toward the girl. She was stunning—curvy, confident, wearing a tight red dress that left very little to the imagination.

When she caught me looking, she bit her lower lip and flashed a sultry, inviting smile.

A week ago, I would have pulled her into my lap without a second thought. Tonight? She felt entirely hollow.

My brain kept comparing her loud, staged allure to wide, tear-filled brown eyes and a plain white sweater.

"Not interested," I muttered, taking another heavy drag from my glass.

"What's got your panties in a twist?" Ryan grinned, sloshing his beer as he leaned across the table. "You’ve been a dark cloud all night. Though... can’t really blame you. I heard the news."

I went instantly still. "What news?"

"Your dad," Ryan laughed, entirely oblivious to the dangerous edge in my voice. "Brings home a hot twenty-year-old stepmom right after your season ends? That’s wild, man. What do you even call her? *Mom?*"

The table erupted into stupid, drunk laughter.

My jaw locked so tight my molars creaked. I gripped my glass until the thick crystal cracked under the sheer pressure of my fingers.

I set it down with a heavy thud, shoved my chair back, and stood up.

"I'm out," I growled.

"Aw, come on, Cam! We’re just messing—"

I didn't listen. I slammed out of the bar, the cold rain hitting my face like needles as I got into a cab, drowning in a toxic mix of alcohol and pure, unadulterated rage.

It was past two in the morning when I let myself into the mansion.

The main floor was pitched in total darkness, silent as a tomb. Holland had flown out to Chicago late afternoon for some corporate emergency, leaving the mausoleum empty.

I took the grand stairs, my head swimming with booze, intent on locking myself in my room and dragging myself out of this insanity.

But as I reached the mid-landing near the master suite, a strip of warm light spilled across the dark hardwood from the grand sitting room.

I stopped.

I should have kept walking. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to turn around, to go to my room and pass out.

Instead, my feet moved against my will, quiet as a ghost, drawing me toward the light.

I stepped into the room, and my breath caught.

Penny was asleep on the velvet sofa, her dark hair scattered across the cream cushion like spilled ink.

She looked impossibly small wrapped in an oversized knit sweater, her chest rising and falling in soft, rhythmic breaths.

On the coffee table in front of her, her laptop was wide open, casting a cool blue glow over the dark room.

I stepped closer, intending to shut it, but the moment my eyes hit the glass screen, my blood ran cold.

It was a fan archive page dedicated to the Ice Eagles.

Right in the center of her screen was a massive gallery of my action shots, my stats, and my interview quotes.

She had been researching me.

A dark, bitter smirk started to form on my face, but as I looked down at the Persian rug, my eyes snagged on an old, leather-bound notebook lying scattered among her books.

I knelt on the floor, the smell of her floral perfume instantly wrapping around my senses.

I picked up the journal, the pages flipping open to a handwritten entry dated two years ago.

"I saw the Ice Eagles play tonight. Cameron was incredible. I know it's stupid, but when he looked up at the glass, I felt like he was looking right at me. I wish I could meet someone like him one day..."

Taped right beside the neat handwriting was a worn, cut-out magazine photo of my face.

My mind exploded.

The booze in my blood burned away in an instant, replaced by a sudden, lethal rush of electricity.

Long before she ever set foot in this house, she had been staring at my face in the dark, dreaming about me.

I stood up, holding the journal tightly in my hand, my heart hammering a dangerous rhythm against my ribs.

A soft gasp shattered the quiet.

I turned slowly. Penny was sitting up, rubbing her blurry eyes against the light.

But as her vision focused on me—standing over her, reeking of rain and whiskey, holding her private diary—the color drained completely from her face.

"What... what are you doing in here?" she stammered, her voice thick with sleep, her chest heaving violently.

A lazy, arrogant smirk carved its way onto my lips as I took a step closer, holding the book out just enough for her to see what was in my grip.

"So," I rasped out, my voice thick and dark with alcohol, "you like me, huh?"

Her cheeks flushed a deep, violent crimson. Horror washed over her eyes as she looked from the journal to her open laptop.

"Give that back!" she cried, scrambling off the couch on unsteady legs, her hands reaching out desperately. "That’s private! Give it to me!"

I chuckled—a low, husky sound that echoed off the high ceiling. I lifted my arm, holding the book high above her head effortlessly.

"Private? You had my picture taped in here, Penny. You wrote about me. You dreamed about getting married to a guy like me..."

I stepped up to her, crowding her space until her back pressed against the edge of the velvet sofa, blocking her in completely.

"...and instead, you got my dad," I taunted softly, leaning down into her space.

"Stop it! Give it to me!" she yelled, lunging upward on her tiptoes, reaching frantically for the binding.

Her foot tangled in a stack of scattered books on the floor.

"Whoa—"

She lost her balance entirely, her eyes widening in panic as she tipped backward.

Before she could crash onto the floor, my arm shot out.

My hand clamped around her small waist, my grip locking her against my chest. The sudden momentum threw off my balance, dragging me down with her.

We slammed onto the velvet sofa, the journal falling from my fingers and slapping onto the rug below.

The air left both of our lungs in a ragged gasp.

I was flat over her, my heavy body trapped right between her legs, my hands braced on either side of her head.

We were so close our noses were almost touching. Her wild, wide brown eyes were locked onto mine, her breath hitting my mouth in short, frantic gasps.

The heat radiating off her was intoxicating, burning right through my clothes.

I felt her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird and beneath my shirt, mine was matching it beat for beating.

I stared down at her trembling, flushed lips, every drop of logic, duty, and morality burning away into ash.

The air turned thick, suffocating, completely forbidden.

Slowly, agonizingly, I lowered my head until my lips were hovering a fraction of an inch from hers.

"Tell me the truth, Penny," I whispered, my voice a dangerous, gravelly thread that vibrated between us. "When you look at him... are you thinking of me?"

She gasped, her mouth parting, completely paralyzed under my weight, her eyes darting down to my lips.

"Penny?"

A sharp, familiar voice sliced through the darkness from the grand sitting room doorway.

Every muscle in my body snapped locked, the room freezing in an instant…