My pace is relentless, and maybe I’m a bit rough, but Ava seems to like it. I wrap my hand around the slicked-back blonde ponytail. “Come for me.”
“I can’t. I?—”
“Can’t” isn’t in my vocabulary. She’s damn well getting there.
I adjust her hands on the counter so my hips dig in at the right angle, then slip my fingers into her lace panties and press my thumb against her clit. She shudders against my touch before her body tightens on a shocked gasp, then she comes.
My own release is so close.
Ava reaches between us, trying to roll the condom down. “I want to feel you. Fill me up. Just once, Jack. Please.”
Hot? Yes. But it’s against the rules, and I don’t need complications. The risk of getting caught is the only thrill I’m chasing here. With her.
“Not right now.” Instead, I catch her hooded gaze in the mirror for a brief minute and lightly curl my hand lightly around her throat how I know she likes it.
“I hate how good you are…” She rolls her hips and melts against me.
I thrust, slamming my eyes shut. I don’t want to look at her, don’t want to think about the fact we’ve done this enough now that we know exactly what we each need to get offso quickly.
“Jesus, Jack…”
I come a second later, groaning against the back of her neck. She makes this small, satisfied sigh before I pull out. She adjusts her dress as I spin toward the wall to clean up.
It’s quiet for a minute before Laura knocks again. “Let’s go.”
Ava chuckles, whacking her boot against the door, spurring on a frustrated groan from outside in the hallway. “Seems our secret is out.”
Laura might be pissed, but only because she got stuck babysitting me this season. My senior agent, Heather, wants me to eat, breathe, and live only hockey.
“Played great at the scrimmage today, Murphy.”
“Thanks.” I run my hands under the icy faucet water, pausing long enough that my pulse settles into a slow, steady thud. “That was the last time, Ava,” I say, clearing my throat. The water runs over my wrists a second longer, but it’s not enough to numb the pain in my head.
“Sure.” She grins, slaps me on the cheek, and slips out, but not before I catch a sliver of Laura’s glare in the bathroom mirror.
I open the door, somehow missing the phone chucked at my face, instead walking straight into my agent’s high heel when she kicks me.
“Oww. What the fuck, Laura?”
She adjusts her glasses and tugs on her navy suit jacket. The dim lights of the club spark off the single diamond solitaire that hangs around her neck against dark-brown skin. Her hair is braided and pulled back tight, only drawing more focus to her brown eyes that are boring into me.
“The coach’s daughter? What are you thinking? Never mind, I know. You’re not! You’re ruled by thatthingin your pants.”
“Thethingyou just chopped off with those spikes?” I rub my hand over my tailored pants, grimacing.
“Knock that shit off and focus.”
I stretch my neck from side to side, ignoring the throbbing pain in my balls from her Louboutins. I grin, using my dimples to plead my case. Apparently, I have an image problem, and my sponsors are getting nervous, hence the babysitter.
“Eww, no,” Laura says. “That’s not going to work with me.”
“You told me I was a pretty boy.”
For the record, she did. Two weeks ago, Heather and Laura both sat me down before the start of training camp and begged me not to be a problem this season. They didn’t appreciate all the extra work my PR team had to put in when I wrecked my Porsche last spring.
“Are you happy?” she asks, tossing her arms into the air. “Love your contract, your condo, that house you’re renovating? The girls?”
I shrug just to piss her off. “It’s not a bad life.”
