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I increase the pressure on her clit and thrust into her with wild abandon.
“Come for me, Princess.”
My name is a whisper on her lips as her entire body tightens and spasms as she complies, her orgasm traveling through her whole body. Her pussy grips my fingers, and I swear my eyes roll to the back of my head.
As her orgasm starts to subside, her grip on my shirt loosens and I fall forward, resting my head on her chest, both of us struggling to catch our breath. I slip my hand out of her panties and lightly grip the back of her thigh.
I press a kiss to her skin, push myself up, open my mouth, and that’s when the bloody doorbell rings.
“And that would be the Chinese food I ordered.”
Avery laughs, burying her face in my shirt. “Of course it is.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
I’m fooling no one.
Absolutely no one.
Not Lucy when she came to kick me out of the house so she could spend the day with Mason. Not the woman at the bakery who supplied me with a red velvet cupcake I didn’t need. And not this woman passing me on the street with the judgmental eyes and x-ray vision that can see right through my teal turtleneck to the large hickey underneath.
I don’t know what the protocol is for a love bite given to you by your fake boyfriend you’re not supposed to be fooling around with, who’s also your brother’s friend and teammate. But I feel like ‘hide it from the light of day’ seems like the most appropriate response.
Doesn’t seem like a choice that Mrs. Judgmental likes though.
That’s right, lady, I had a hot British hockey player get me off last night. Get over it. You don’t like it, don’t look at me.
Maybe it would look weird if it were mid-summer and hot as balls out. It’s the first week of November however, and though the weather isn’t what I would call cool, it’s still fall.
Dammit.
I’m only sweating a little. But I swear everyone who glances in my direction knows. I don’t know how they know, but they do. It’s like I have a sign on my forehead that reads,freshly fingered.
That’s a phrase I could use in the brand spanking new hockey romance I started writing last night after the Chinese food settled and Foster went home.
Well, and after the shock of what actually transpired between us on my couch wore off. I relived that moment over and over, trying to convince myself that I imagined the whole thing while I was eating sweet and sour chicken.
Like I got some sort of food poisoning that caused very sexual hallucinations of hockey players who were supposed to be in the penalty box, and not in my pants.
The spot on my neck, right by my ear, and my tingling clit say differently.
My heart—and my brain—know that we both got swept up in the moment and it’s not likely to happen again. We still want two different things, and even though I might also want to see what his unusually large male appendage looks like outside of his pants, I’m okay with using my imagination.
As an aspiring romance writer, I’d like to think I can do that. You know, fabricate penises on the spot.
I feel like that’s a very important skill to have.
With a snort, I cross the street to get to a bookstore I found online.
Maybe they’ll have some monster romances. My hats are off to those authors; they really are fictional penis experts.
I need to read a few more.
You know, for research purposes.
I pull up my turtleneck as high as it can go and make sure my hair is fluffed around my face for maximum hickey coverage before opening the door. The second I walk into Just One More Chapter, the bell overhead announces my arrival, and I pause as the door shuts behind me.
This is Heaven.
