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I run my hands up the outside of her thighs. “You are a wet dream.”
She laughs as she grips the hem of my T-shirt and pulls it over my head. “If I had wet dreams, you’d be mine.”
Her palms flatten against my chest and then drift lower until she’s cupping me through my pants. “God, you’re hard.”
“See what happens when a gorgeous, half-naked woman beats me at air hockey and comes on my table.”
Violet gives me a squeeze. “What else makes you hard?”
Slipping my finger underneath the elastic of her panties, I’m met with smooth, wet skin. Her eyelids flutter.
“Shit. You really did come.”
I go lower, finding her hotter, slicker, wetter. Twisting my palm, I slide my thumb under the fabric as well. Violet bites her lip, stifling a moan as I ease two fingers inside her. She holds onto my shoulders, closing her eyes tight as she rides my hand.
“Christ, you’re sexy.”
While I enjoy the feel of her hand on my dick—even if the sensation is muted by two layers of fabric—it’s impeding my view.
“Let go, baby—”
“I’m almost—”
“I want to see—”
She obeys my request and uses her free hand to brace herself on the table. Her whole body starts to shake. I look down to where my fingers disappear inside her. Her panties have shifted to the side, exposing more of what I want. For half a second, I’m in my own personal heaven. Then I’m not.
“What the fuck is that?” I jerk back.
Violet’s head lolls forward. “What?”
A huge purple mark mars the crest of her pelvis. I clench my jaw to keep from saying something I may regret and search my brain for a reasonable excuse for what I’m seeing. I can’t find one. It looks as if someone else has been touching my fucking pussy. I don’t understand why Violet would agree to go out with me if she’s been letting someone else get all up in there.
My voice is a nearly unrecognizable growl. “Is that a hickey?”VIOLETAlex’s expression reflects nothing of the blissful serenity I’ve been rocking up until now. Confused, I touch my neck, feeling around for the hickey. It’s a fruitless action; you can’t feel hickeys, you can only see them. Besides, if I have one, he put it there.
His gaze is trained lower. I check out my chest. No discoloration there other than the usual blotchiness that’s a result of being sexed up.
His grip tightens on my thighs. I whimper, the sound drawing Alex’s attention to my face. Holy shit. He’s absolutely livid. His fury—similar to what I’ve previously witnessed only when he takes someone down on the ice—feeds the hockey hooker in me. I’m leaking on his air hockey table.
The fog from my orgasm-induced euphoria begins to clear. It’s my naked beaver he’s angrily eyeing. In my lust-induced haze, I forgot the ugly bruise from yesterday evening’s impromptu waxing session. I can see how he might mistake it for a hickey.
I gesture to the horrible mark in a flaily, manic way. “It’s not what it looks like.” In saying this, I’ve made it seem like exactly that.
Alex’s body is rigid aside from the twitching corner of his mouth and the pressing of his thumbs into the juncture of my thighs. He’s an inch shy of my clit on either side. While staying still is killing me, an explanation is necessary.
“I didn’t have time to make an appointment with my waxer because you sprang the date on me. My beave was getting unruly, and I wasn’t sure how tonight would go. I wanted to be prepared in case this happened . . .” I motion to his hands.
Alex follows the movement with his eyes. His thumb moves over the purplish-red spot. Sadly, this means his thumb also moves away from my clit.
“I thought I could do it myself. You know, wax my beaver?” Alex’s brows come down low. Of course he doesn’t know. “I do my own legs sometimes, and I figured it would be easy. Judging by the result, I was wrong.” I finish with a poke at my bruise. I cringe; it hurts.
He tilts his head to the side, his expression doubtful. “Waxing?”
“Only you and your fingers, and your mouth, and your behemoth dick, and my fingers, and my collection of vibrators have been near me in the last six months. Oh, and the gyno—”
Jesus, why can’t I shut up?
“The gyno?”
I nod vigorously. “Uh, yeah, she’s female, so no worries there.” He doesn’t ask why I went to the gyno. I don’t want to tell him the truth. After sleeping with him I developed acute paranoia, afraid I contracted a contagious hockey whore disease.
Thankfully, Alex focuses on the other tidbit of information I let slip in the midst of my verbal vomit.
“You have a collection of vibrators?”
His thumbs inch in closer. Actually, it’s more like millimeter in closer. I do the damn moaning thing followed by an odd sobbing sound, wishing I could lie.
