Page 91 of Double Puck

I masturbated in front of Beck Morrison.

Jesus Christ.

I actually did that.

I lay naked on my bed, spread my legs and touched myself while Beck watched me with that filthy, hungry look on his face, one hand wrapped around himself as he told me exactly what he wanted to see.

And somehow, that's not even in the top five most scandalous things I did with Beck Morrison last night.

We had sex four times.

Four.

Very distinct, increasingly depraved times.

The first one apparently obliterated whatever remained of my professional boundaries, because by round three, I was the one dragging him back into bed. Somewhere after that, I ended up on all fours with his hand fisted in my hair, his body pressed hard against mine and that deep, rough voice in my ear telling me, “Let me hear it, baby. Let me hear you scream.”

I'm pretty sure I bit him.

I don't know when. I don't know where. But Beck definitely left my apartment this morning with teeth marks somewhere on his body, and the fact I can't even narrow down the incident responsible is probably something I should unpack with Dr. Sinclair.

Aaaaand there it is.

The blush starts at my chest and races straight to my ears as I hurry toward the arena entrance, sunglasses firmly in place despite being indoors now.

Except the horrifying part is, I'm not embarrassed.

Not really.

I'm just remembering.

Because that wasn't even the worst of it.

At some point after the first time, when I was still lying there trying to catch my breath, Beck apparently decided twenty minutes was an adequate recovery period. He pushed my thighs apart again and buried his face between them, licking slowly through the evidence of what we'd just done.

Like the filthy bastard couldn't stand the thought of wasting a single drop.

Including his own.

Jesus Christ.

I remember looking down and seeing his broad shoulders between my thighs, his mouth slick and his eyes locked on mine while he tasted both of us straight from my body, completely fucking shameless about it.

Who does that?

Beck Morrison, apparently.

And apparently I let him.

I shove my sunglasses farther up my nose and limp through the concourse with as much dignity as a woman can reasonably summon when she's just discovered her previously respectable sex life was apparently the physical equivalent of eating unseasoned chicken.

"Get it together, Darcy. You have a meeting. A professional meeting. About hockey."

I can absolutely do this.

By the time I reach Colin Holden's office, I've managed to straighten my blouse, smooth my hair and rearrange my expression into something vaguely resembling the functional, capable adult woman my parents spent thirty years meticulously creating.

Perfect. Professional.