Page 353 of Faking the Goal

Little menace.

She knows I'm here.

She hasn't looked over once.

Hasn't acknowledged me.

Yet every movement suddenly becomes just a little too deliberate. Just a little too unhurried.

We've been playing this ridiculous game for over a week now. The rules couldn't have been simpler: don't be seen together. Turns out, that's a lot easier to say than actually do when you're hopelessly addicted to someone.

Every time Conrad disappears, one of us somehow ends up finding the other within minutes. At this point, Detective Matthews has stopped asking why I keep showing up at the café and has started rolling his eyes every time I tell him it's a coincidence.

He's right.

It isn't.

We just can't seem to stay away from each other.

Frankly, it's becoming a little pathetic.

If anyone deserves an award for complete lack of self-control, it's probably us.

I lock the door. The click is soft but definitive, and I see her shoulders stiffen for just a fraction of a second before she relaxes again. Playing cool. Always playing cool.

Three steps. I'm behind her before she can turn, one hand finding her waist and pulling her back against me. She's warm through the thin cotton of her shirt, and I press my hips forward so there's no mistaking what I'm working with here. My cock is hard enough to hurt, straining against denim, and I feel her ass settle against it with a little exhale that might be shock or might be satisfaction.

"You're enjoying this far too much, Trouble," I whisper into the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.

She giggles. Actually giggles, soft and breathy and delighted, and the sound goes straight to my groin like a physical thing. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Bullshit." My hand slides up under her shirt, palm flat against her stomach. Her skin is warm, slightly damp from the stuffy room. "You've known I was here since I walked in."

"Maybe." She leans her head back against my chest, and her scent drifts up to me, familiar enough to settle every restless part of me and intoxicating enough to stir all the others. "Or maybe I just have a very sensitive spidey-sense for a particular hockey player."

I nip at her earlobe, not hard, just enough to make her gasp.

"We shouldn't be doing this." But she's already arching into my touch, her hips making small, involuntary circles against me. My hand has found its way to her breast, thumb brushing over her pierced nipple through her thin laced bra, and she makes this sound—half sigh, half moan—that makes my vision go briefly white at the edges.

"I thought you liked sneaking around." I squeeze gently, feeling her nipple harden against my palm. "Because it's thrilling," I nip her neck again, "...and makes you wetter."

Another giggle, but this one cracks halfway through, turning into something needier. "That's not—"

I drop my other hand, sliding it down the front of her jeans, beneath the elastic of her panties. She's soaked. Absolutely fucking drenched, and the sound she makes when my fingers find her is primal, guttural, nothing like the careful laughter from before.

"Mm," I murmur against her ear, grinning like the devil himself. "Very wet. And very ready for me."

I push two fingers inside her, curling them forward, and her knees buckle. I catch her with my other arm around her waist, holding her up as I work my fingers in and out, slow then fast, finding that spot that makes her whole body go rigid. She's making these noises now, little punched-out whimpers that she tries to smother against her own forearm, and I love it. I love how she falls apart. I love that I'm the only one who gets to see it.

"Ken—" she starts, but it dissolves into a moan as I add a third finger, stretching her, feeling her clench around me.

"Come on, Trouble." I tell her, my voice gravel. "Let me feel it. Come for me."

She does. Hard and sudden, her body shuddering against mine, her inner muscles gripping my fingers so tight it almost hurts. I keep working her through it, gentler now, until she's trembling and panting and leaning all her weight back against my chest.

For a second, we just breathe. Her heartbeat thuds against my palm where it's still pressed to her chest. Mine is doing something similar against my ribs, a frantic, uneven rhythm that has nothing to do with cardio and everything to do with the woman in my arms.

Then she turns in my grip, facing me, and her eyes are dark and huge. Her lips are swollen from where she's been biting them. She looks wrecked, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.