Yup. I shut my laptop and pat myself on the back. At least I tried.
Resolving to continue looking for a new place tomorrow, I settle in front of the big TV and order a pizza. Extra-large, extra mushrooms and ricotta. If I'm the only one here to enjoy it, I might as well have what I really want.
Then I binge the scariest true crime documentaries that Thorne’s premium cable package has to offer. A few times, I find myself checking the time.
Where is Thorne?
Around 9:30, I turn the TV off with a yawn. There's still no sign of Thorne. Don't know why I'd find that in the least bit surprising.
I store the leftovers in the fridge and head for bed. The hallway upstairs is quiet. I move through my routines, brushing my teeth and washing my face, then I change into an old Seattle Havoc T-shirt. I climb into bed, remembering that Thorne actually gave me this shirt when my brother first joined the team five years ago.
Turning my head, I give it a deep sniff, even though I am the only person that's worn it. Wishful thinking that maybe it'd somehow smell like Thorne.
I flick the lights off and settle back into my pillows, closing my eyes. As soon as I do, I feel restless. Tossing, turning, stuffing pillows under my head and between my legs.
The image of Thorne sleeping in the next room pops into my head, unbidden. Sure, I'm pretty certain that he's out volunteering for charity or sponsoring some kiddy hockey team. But in the dark, dirty corners of my mind, he's thinking about me.
Not just thinking about me, but horny for me. Picturing what I look like naked. How my tits feel under his hands. How the silky skin of my inner thighs feels as he parts them and runs a fingertip down my hot, aching slit.
I’m fucking soaked already. My face flushes.
I made a rule about dating hockey players. I made it for good reasons. But there’s nothing in my rule that says I can’t fantasize about hockey players.
I really shouldn't be doing this, but I rub my clit and moan. “Thorne… God, Alex…” I imagine him kissing my thighs, rubbing his face against my pussy. I picture coming for him, gushing, maybe even squirting. Sure, it’s never happened in real life. But Spicy BookTok says it’s a strong possibility with the right partner.
Would he love the way I taste? Would he devour me like I’m a five-star fucking meal?
“Oh fuck. Oh fuck.” The thought of looking into his eyes while I unravel for him pushes me over the edge. With one hand circling my clit furiously, my hipsrocking, and my free hand plucking at my left nipple, I shatter. “Alex!”
I lie there for a moment, sweat beading at my temples. I’m vaguely annoyed with myself for getting off thinking about Thorne, a man who kissed me once and then went back to pretending I don’t exist. Lame.
I need to get a grip. I need to stop thinking about Alexander Thorne, the Havoc’s golden boy.
I’ll get over him… preferably by getting under another guy. That’ll show him.
Chapter Ten
Thorne
It's pitch black in my room, when I hear Mollie padding up the stairs. Between overdoing it at the rink earlier, low-key avoiding Mollie, and having a faint headache, I am flat on my back in bed, staring up at the ceiling as if it can tell me what the future holds.
Will I get traded to some shittier team while I'm playing through my final years on the ice? Shit, maybe I'll just fuck Mollie. Then when Beck finds out, he'll legit murder me. Problem solved.
Faintly, through the vent high on the wall, I hear Mollie moving around her room. She sounds like she’s settling in for the night. I haven't needed to follow her around since she moved in. Now I know where she is at all times and the idea is soothing and disturbing at the same time. Faintly, I'm aware that a stalker would probably have the same thoughts.
But Mollie needs me to keep her safe. And aside from stealing her panties and fantasizing about her, I haven't —
"Alex."
My eyes snap up to the vent. Mollie moans again and mutters a curse.
Is she doing what I think she's doing? And using my first name, the one nobody has called me since I was a kid?
That's like four different fantasies all rolled up into one. A fuck-hot woman wants me so bad she touches herself and thinks of me? Calling me by a private name that's special to me? And I get to accidentally overhear her getting off because my house's ventilation is ancient?
Mollie has somehow raided my stash of horny fever dreams and is now acting them out.
This is fine. I'm not freaking out.
