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Or maybe I need Foster Craig, star center for the Nashville Devils, to show up a little dirty—shirtless, of course—ready to put out my fire.
You know, for research purposes, because I’m writing a firefighter romance, not because I’m a pervert who wants to see him shirtless. I may also have a fire in my pants he needs to put out.
Completely Unrelated.
Jesus.
I am a pervert.
I need help.
Or a nap.
Or both.
And I need to get a grip on myself. On reality. My libido. My heart. Basically, anything I can get a grip on—except Foster Craig—because he and his hockey player brethren are off limits, no matter how much I want to grip a certain part of him.
I can pretend he’s the hero in my romance novel all I want, but that doesn’t change what, or who, he is.
Once a player, always a player, and Foster doesn’t like to be tied down to a woman beyond a night.Hell, I’m not sure he even gives them that much time.
Not that I’m in any mindset to date anyone, but if I was, it wouldn’t be with someone who was looking for just a little fun. And thanks to my hockey playing shit-bag of an ex, I know that you really can’t expect a rich and famous athlete to be faithful.
Which is why hockey players are no longer allowed in my bedroom.
No sex. No kissing.
None of it.
Not even a single peck. Not even if he’s begging for it… which, of course, has me picturing Foster giving me a heated look, licking his lips, and dropping to his knees in front of me. He’d run his hands up my legs and beg me for a taste of my…
Ahhhh, fuck.
Just that thought alone has my thighs squeezing so tightly I could crack open a walnut.
No!
Bad Avery.
Thou shall not picture hockey players on their knees.
Or naked. Or touching themselves.
It doesn’t matter how charming or sexy or British they are.
As I’m lifting up from the steering wheel, mentally prepared to give myself another lecture, there’s a knock on my car window and I jump. And because I have terrible luck, my phone, that I totally forgot was in my hand, also jumps, sliding down my legs and landing at my feet.
Remember what I said about getting a grip?
I didn’t have it.
I don’t need to look out the window to know it’s Foster. There’s no rational explanation for it, but I can feel him when he’s around. And right now, I can feel his eyes on me as I turn my head in the other direction, plaster it against the steering wheel, and blindly feel around for my phone.
Could I get out and grab it?
Yes, I could have.
But this is more embarrassing, so it makes sense I didn’t think of the alternative until after I became one with the car.
