Wes: Yeah, because you fucked it up. She’s clearly got it bad for you.
Me: How do you know she’s singing to me?
I scan the video to make sure I’m not in it or tagged. I’m not. I flip to my social media to ensure there’s no photos or videos of me here or with Pen. Again nothing. The last post on my page is still an apology to my teammates, coach, family, and fans. Not to Landon. I won’t fucking apologize for punching him and would gladly do it again.
Wes: Dude, I can tell. Looking at her you can tell she’s singing to someone, and it’s not the Noah Kahn wannabe playing the guitar. So, why are you texting with me and not with her?
Why indeed?I fling my phone onto the bed beside me and press the heels of my hands against my eyes.
I yank on socks and runners. It’s midnight and the inn’s small fitness center is closed, but I need to work this off. Regret pulses along my limbs and winds through my muscles. A long run will zap the regret.
Pulling open the door, I stop. Pen stands at her open door and steals my breath. Her long legs on full display in blue sleep shorts dotted with silver stars. The toes of her bare feet painted pink. A camisole, a few shades lighter than the shorts, hugs her full breasts and I try not to fixate on how I can tell she’s braless.
Our gazes lock and her heart-shaped mouth forms an O. “Rowan.” It’s breathless, needy, and fucking unlocks the beast inside me that I’ve tried to cage all day.
The primal need for her is unleashed. Like a hungry wolf ready to devour Little Red Riding Hood, I prowl towards her.
Eyes wide she swallows. “Please tell me you’re going to kiss me.”
“Yes.” I take her mouth. There’s no other way to describe it. Each press and nibble proclaim those plump lips belong to me. I devour her like she’s my last meal.
“Rowan,” she gasps with the slow lick of my tongue down the column of her throat.
“What, luv?”
“You’re really good with your mouth.”
“Mmhmm.” My mouth trails back up to her lips. “We’re just getting started.” Coaxing her mouth open, my tongue slides over hers.
Whimpering, her arms circle my neck and I lift her up. Those long legs fold around me. Her pussy scorches through the layers of fabric. Greedy to have her alone, I carry her into the room and kick the door shut behind me. I don’t want prying eyes nor anyone who might have recognized me tonight to see us. As drunk as I am about this woman, I have enough clarity to keep her safe. The last thing she needs is a salacious picture of theNHL’s currently most hated player defiling her in a sleepy inn’s hallway.
With three long strides, I reach the bed. Laying her atop the cream-color duvet, I peer down at her. Her hair a little mussed from my fingers stroking through it while kissing her. Sleep shorts riding up. Her eyes starry. The camisole straps have fallen off her slim shoulders. Her lips are kiss-swollen and her cheeks rosy.
“Shoes by the door,” her command is hoarse and a little sultry.
Smiling, I comply.
“I don’t want to trip on them in the middle of the night,” she says, scooting up and laying her head on the pillow.
“It is the middle of the night, luv.”
She waves her hand dismissively.
“Has that happened before?” I crawl onto the bed and settle myself between her legs.
“Do youreallywant me to answer that?” She removes her glasses and places them on the bedstand.
“No.” I claim her mouth, hoping to kiss away the memory of anyone else before me. I’m selfish, possessive, and starving for this woman.
She yanks my shirt off and drops it beside us on the bed. “Much better,” she purrs. Her hands run along my collarbone, to my pecs, down the ridges of my stomach, and back up. “You are…impressive.”
Her legs wrap around my waist. My hand drifts up her bare thigh and plays with the shorts’ silky hem. I kiss down her neck and nip at her collarbone. Little mewling noises fall from her lips, spurring me on. My hands curl around her thighs and inch her higher on my torso. My mouth devours hers. Her pelvis moves against my hard cock.
“Fuck,” I groan, pressing my arousal harder against her.
“Yes,” she moans, her nails dragging down my back. “Right there.”
“There?” With increased pressure, I rub myself against that spot again.
