Page 11 of Stalked By the Hockey Player

Her nails dig into my shoulders, drawing blood.

"Mine," I whisper again.

Emila arches her back, crying out my name.

"Tell me you're mine," I demand.

Her eyes flutter open, and she looks up at me. "Yours," she pants, a spark of lust in those blue depths.

And just like that, I come, groaning into her neck.

I roll off of her, breathing hard.

"Why don't we get cleaned up?" I suggest. "I want to take you out."

Emila nods, already starting to climb from the bed.

As she stands, I watch every inch of her, the sway of her hips, the way her ass cheeks clench with each step.

We head to the restaurant down the street, my hand never leaving hers.

"Tell everyone you're mine," I whisper into her ear.

"I'm yours," she whispers as she gives me those "fuck me" eyes.

"Emila, if you don't stop looking at me like that, we won't get to have dinner."

She gasps, her face coloring when she gets my gist, but then she gives me a shy smile.

Fuck, I love those smiles. I loveeverythingabout her.

People stare, jealousy clear on their faces as they watch us. It fuels me, makes me harder.

I pull her closer, kissing her deeply, my tongue tracing her lips.

"Mine," I growl against her mouth.

Her lips part, and she moans, melting into me.

We leave the restaurant, our meal barely touched, and go back to my place.

The night is still young, and I'm not done with her yet.

When we get home, she collapses onto the bed, exhausted yet satisfied.

I strip down to my underwear, and crawl on top of her.

Emila gasps as I lick a trail up her neck, nipples hardening beneath my touch.

"You're so fucking beautiful," I murmur, leaning down to suckle on one.

She arches into me, her body begging for more.

I move lower, teasingly dragging my tongue along her stomach and then lower still.

It takes everything in me not to tear her panties off and take her right here.

I reach between her legs, two fingers slipping inside.

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