Page 2 of One Kind Goal

Morgan hadn’t been upset about it at the time either. She’d had numerous one-night flings in her life. She’d made almost a sport out of it. Placing Sawyer in the Been There, Done That box with the other guys she’d had a good time with should have been easy.

Only it wasn’t.

Because, yeah, she was still thinking about him, months later. Morgan had taken up watching RI Anchors hockey games. With Sawyer being a center forward, he received a lot of air time. The cameras freaking loved him. His name and photo were regularly plastered all over sports websites, magazines, TV shows, and newspapers. Probably why it’d been hard for Morgan to shake him from her system. Reminders of the man’s extreme sexiness were everywhere.

And who’d known watching a hockey game was a good way to get oneself off? Morgan groaned now thinking about the last game she’d watched.

The last game during which she’d touched herself.

Watching Sawyer skate clear across the rink, in total control of the puck and driven to make a goal for his team, had become a major aphrodisiac for Morgan. Sometimes she got in a bonus, self-induced orgasm when Sawyer did a post-game interview. His black hair would be wet from a shower and his jersey swapped out for a hoodie bearing the RI Anchors logo. She’d be mesmerized by his broad shoulders, his whiskered face, his hazel eyes, his tempting mouth.

God, that mouth.

She let out another groan, happy the music drowned out the sound of her pathetic hunger for Sawyer. What she needed was a hookup with one of the hundreds of available penises in this club tonight. That would get Sawyer and his sexual genius out of her system.

Morgan tossed back the last sips of her margarita and set the glass on a nearby table. “Excuse me,” she said, squeezing Samira’s arm. “I’m going to prowl around.”

Samira arched a dark eyebrow over a brown eye. “I thought you weren’t into it tonight.”

“Well, that would be an awful waste,” Tight Blue Shirt Guy said, giving her a smile and letting his gaze comb over her.

Morgan winked at him. “Right?” She returned her attention to Samira. “Text me when you’re done catching up here.” She gestured to the two other women and Tight Blue Shirt Guy then slipped away before T.B.S. Guy could follow up with his interest. His available penis wasn’t what she needed tonight. But surely the right penis was in this crowded club somewhere.

“Hey, bitch, over here!”

Morgan swiveled her head to find her sisters waving her over. They loved each other profusely, but name-calling happened. Often.

“What trouble have you whores found?” she asked when she reached them.

Claire grabbed her arm. “Brooke got us a pair of twins. They went to get us some drinks.”

“I’m sure we can score a single rider around here somewhere for you,” Brooke said, turning in a circle to survey the guys around them.

“I can catch my own hottie,” Morgan said, not wanting her sisters to throw her a pity penis.

Brooke held up her hands. “Fine. Don’t get all cranky.”

“She’s only cranky because she hasn’t caught her own hottie yet,” Claire said. “You sure you don’t want some help?”

“Quite sure.”

Two tall guys with dark hair approached with drinks and mile-wide smiles. And why wouldn’t they be happy? Claire and Brooke were gorgeous. Of course being identical triplets made Morgan biased.

“Have fun,” she said. “Be smart.”

Claire and Brooke blinked at her, and Morgan clamped her mouth shut.

“Did you download Austin’s playlist of brotherly advice?” Claire asked.

Morgan shook her head. “No. I don’t know where that came from. Ignore me.”

She let the crowd swallow her before she checked to make sure her sisters had condoms in their purses. The three of them had been clubbing since before they were technically old enough to do so. They had an unspoken agreement to always be smart and of course they’d rescue one another if the situation demanded it, but generally, Austin was the one who found it necessary to verbally remind them not to do anything stupid.

Until tonight.

Morgan didn’t like this unraveling feeling. She scanned the crowd now with more purpose. The Penis of the Night was here somewhere, and she was going to thoroughly fuck some sense back into herself.

Her gaze landed on a few potentials, but she found something wrong with each of them. Too tall. Too short. Too much hair product. Bad dancer. Good dancer but knew it. Paisley print shirt. Hairy arms. A neck tattoo of a headless body.