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His hands on my hips.
His thighs resting against the backs of mine, flexing as he thrust.
I wring my hands out, trying to focus on anything but Johnny. The players all skate back to the locker room, and it gets a little easier to forget how turned on I was...then they come back out to booming music.
Some girls yell, "I wanna have your babies, Johnny Playfair!"
And I'm all wrapped up in it again, because I'm remembering the way he growled in my ear, asking me if I would let him knock me up...
...and how I said yes.
With every goal he scores, I can't help but feel myself getting more and more turned on. It's like I can feel his presence in the room, even though he's on the ice. I watch his arms draw back, his muscles flexing as he hits the puck.
In. In.
He skates around the rink, and he locks eyes with me through the visor of his helmet, flashing me a devastating grin. The horny girls behind me think he's looking at them, and they scream again, "We love you, Johnny!"
I feel my heart racing, and the familiar heat pooling in my lower belly. I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts, but I can't ignore the way my body is reacting to him. It's like every cell in my body is screaming for him, for his touch, for his kiss, for his body on top of mine, ineverypossible position.
I know this is wrong. I know I shouldn't be feeling like this. But Johnny has a hold on me that I can't shake off.
And the worst part is, I don't want to.
I watch as the game intensifies, players slamming against each other, sticks flying. Johnny is in the middle of it all, his eyes blazing with passion and determination. He's so focused, so intense, and I can't help but admire him for it...and remember when all that focus was onme, on my pleasure.
He played me just like he plays the rink.
Rough.
Raw.
Practiced.
He's a force of nature.
And he's all I can think about.
With five minutes left to go in the game, the Pucks are up by two points, and the crowd is cheering wildly. Johnny's on the bench, but he's got his eyes trained on me.
My skin tingles, and I find myself biting my lower lip, wishing he'd come over to me.
Wondering how many people would notice if I touched myself right now.
I exhale, trying to focus on why I'm here.
I'm supposed to be covering the game, not swooning over one player.
I'm supposed to be objective.
But with Johnny, I'm anything but.
The game ends with Johnny back on the court, leading the Pucks to victory. I watch and take as many notes as I can, trying to analyze the other players as well. Johnny seems to work best with Luke Holden--maybe the next star after Johnny goes major league--and I write up a bit on him as I make an attempt to at leasttryto do my job.
I watch Johnny skate around the rink with a huge grin on his face, and I can't help but smile too.
I'm proud of him.
At least, on the outside I am.
