Chapter One
Los Angeles Times: The Future Looks Promising for the Up-and-Coming Portland NHL Franchise
Phoenix Sun: Can the Kendrick Brothers Sustain Their Unearthly Magic Against the Phoenix Machine?
The Today Show, Carter Wainwright: “The NHL season has been very exciting, especially with the addition of the Portland Hellions, the new franchise taking the ice by storm. Some experts had accredited the team’s early success to the Kendrick brothers duo, both accomplished hockey players and both young male shifters, wolves to be exact. There are also those, including members of Congress and owners of other NHL franchises whose rosters are one hundred percent human who fear continuing to allow shifters to participate on any sports team is the highest form of cheating. Coming up, I’ll share a conversation held with the owners of the Phoenix Blades who will weigh in on the highly anticipated game with the Hellions and what the future of hockey might look like.”
Winning.
That was the only goal on my mind, the only thing that mattered both now and into the future. The arena noise faded into a dull, distant buzzing. The only sound I concentrated on was the puck moving across the scarred ice. I kept my eyes pinned on the Blades’ center as he glided toward me, acting as if he was paying more attention to the oversold crowd than to where I was standing in front of the cage.
There were some who called me a human statue, capable of remaining stiff and still for extended periods. One aspect about me was certain. I was a predator, a devil in disguise, my eyes sharp while watching the puck being shifted back and forth.
The moment was almost poetic, a study of art in the form of violence. Every muscle in my legs was coiled and I’d slowed my heartrate. I noticed everything. The center’s subtle shifts in movements. In his eyes. His shoulders. Even with his blades. Every action taken including those decided against was a foreshadowing, a telling statement of what was about to occur.
The best goalies in the league often missed the one final, slick tic that would provide the only answer needed. I’d honed my skills, refusing failure. And tonight wasn’t going to be any different. We would win.
This was my moment. Either head into overtime or win the game. My choice. My time basking in the sun.
With the clock ticking down, the moment was eerily silent. I rotated my shoulders and hips, facing the brutal man. Controlling my patience had become another art form. At this point, I refused to leave any angle open.
And there it was, the last shot possible of the period. Nothing else mattered but this moment. Everything around me slowed, every action of the other hockey players and the crowd, the coaches holding their breath while referees lingered close to ensure a clean play.
I locked onto the puck, holding my stance without flinching, without moving a muscle.
Until the very last second.
With my push off violent, I dropped to my knees, skidding across the ice. Without second guessing, I swung out my paddle while holding my breath. I knew even before the accurate deflection I’d made the correct call to action.
Also by the number of boos coming from the stands on the one side, the cheers near the rest of the team on the other.
With a slight nod to the center who couldn’t believe I’d caught the shot, I slowly rose to my feet while our fans went wild.
There was nothing like the chants along with boot stomps from the fans.
“Hellions. Hellions. Hellions.”
If only we’d won in Portland instead of Phoenix, but a win was a win. I yanked off my mask, throwing my head back and taking a deep whiff of the chilly air. Tonight, I was relieved, more anxious than I’d let on to anyone. Maybe because the buzz with Phoenix was all about them going all the way, claiming the Stanley Cup. I’d wanted to dethrone their brutal, unending power.
Then there’d been the goddamn Today Show clip I’d heard that morning.
Big mistake.
Huge.
I’d almost lost my shit when the sellout reporter had played the game that shifters were the root of all evils. When were the fifteen minutes of blaming shifters for all problems going to end?
With another deep whiff, a scent caught my attention, so subtle and at such a distance that even most wolves would have missed it. I had extraordinary senses, much to the chagrin of my parents. The scent of a woman, evocative and powerful.
At least to a beast like me.
With movement, I caught another delicate ghosting of her perfume, the seductive trace of jasmine and citrus with a hint of vanilla creating a magnetic pull.
“Woo hoo!”
My teammate’s loud, obnoxious scream forced my attention away from something far more delicious than Kai’s stench of sweat.
“Yes!”
“Fucking perfection!”
As occurred with every win, the entire team went wild, acting like five-year-olds jumping all over each other. Hey, there was nothing wrong with letting our inner children go, especially since there was so damn much testosterone on the ice.
And it never got old.
“Dis be the man of the hour!” Doc ‘the Doctor’ Wallens roared as he pumped his chest. But he wasn’t looking at me. He was puffed up and celebrating my brother’s come from behind goals, one after another.
Ford held a grin that could light up the entire stadium, accepting the thanks while his gaze searched the crowd.
“Nah,” he said as he pushed Cujo out of the way, the huge left wing moving on to giving high fives to another player. “This is the man of the hour.” His voice boomed above the cheers, his arm raised and his finger pointed down as if from the heavens above.
To me. His younger brother.
“Yeah, man. The Devil came out to play in Phoenix,” Trip ‘the Brute’ Jones shouted, deciding for some reason howling like a wolf would provide any moments of endearment.
The dude was even off key, which prompted me to chuckle as I sexy-skated, as my sister Samantha had coined my after-every-win skating habits, toward him.
Ford kept his arm held high and I lifted mine, grabbing his palm as soon as we closed the distance. “You did fucking great, man,” he said so only I could hear while pulling me into a bear hug. I’d never thought we’d play on the same team, yet here we were, both rookies in the NHL on a brand-new team that held a lot of promise.
Maybe we were a little jaded, but we’d knocked the socks off the team’s owner.
“You were fucking incredible.” Ford backed away, pointing a finger at me. “Don’t let that go to your head.”
“That’s Georgia’s line. I think that fiancée of yours is rubbing off on you.”
As soon as I mentioned the woman who’d managed to tame his wild ass down, the man beamed as if the world was full of sunshine, rainbows, and unicorns. His proposal over Valentine’s Day had been over the top. How did I know? Because the entire family had been forced to watch the video of the proposal and be subjected to the photo display for over an hour.
No more family get-togethers for me.
He laughed and together, we took our victory lap. “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you have a human mate.”
“Why does it seem like her being human bothers you?”
“Maybe because we’ve started talking about having a family.”
“Why don’t you get married first, brother,” I tossed out at him. “And get through the first season in the big leagues. Unless you no longer want that million-plus-dollar account, in which case I’ll take it.”
He turned the opposite way, skating backwards while doing one of his signature dances that had all the puck bunnies going wild.
Including now.
He didn’t mind one little bit flirting with them, taking bows and even winking at a few who had their faces pressed up against the plexiglass partitions.
“You better watch out, big brother,” I told him. “Georgia might not have sharp canines, but she does have claws.”
“Yeah, yeah. Hey, why don’t you come down to the hotel bar tonight?”
“Wifie let you off your leash?” I teased.
To which my brother clandestinely offered his middle finger. “Something like that.”
“We’ll see.”
He waved me off. I wasn’t interested in dealing with a bar full of puck bunnies or dudes determined to become hockey stars at forty plus years old.
Tonight, every muscle ached. I longed for the very few muscular therapy sessions Georgia had provided before being engrossed in her classes at medical school. She had the magic touch; the one hired by Coach Griffen was every player’s nightmare.
“Good game out there, Beck,” the coach said as I headed off the ice.
“Thank you, sir. Just doing my job.”
He hung his head as I passed. He and the rest of the team knew me as a prankster, a man always laughing. Yet right now, all I wanted was a solid, long night’s sleep.
After easing on the blade guards, I headed for the locker room, finding the hallway buzzing with activity. Reporters swarmed the corridor, all hoping to provide the perfect clip for the nightly news.
I didn’t need to worry. As soon as Ford made his way off the ice, the swarm would be all over him. That was fine by me.
“Time to par-ty!” I wasn’t even certain who’d made the announcement. I didn’t blame him. There was talk we could make the playoffs, which would be fucking amazing.
The roar in the wide-open space was deafening.
“Alright, gentlemen, remember we have a plane to catch late morning,” Assistant Coach Parker reminded us dutifully. Okay, so a couple of us had almost missed a flight two weeks before. That was another reason I was trying to be a good boy.
A short snicker pushed up from my throat. Good boy, my ass. I had a sordid reputation to uphold. Right? I ripped off my shirt, tossing it toward the laundry bag, noticing the open doorway was crowded with reporters.
I guess beating the home team was big news.
Turning my back, I continued undressing, eager to take a long, hot shower. Before I grabbed a towel, a sharp and intense series of vibrations smashed into my system, sucking out every bit of air from my lungs. There was the scent again, sweet and sultry, lingering on my skin while it pumped into my nostrils.
I’d be damned if my entire system wasn’t immediately shoved into a raging firestorm. Which was particularly bad since I was suddenly experiencing a cattle prod to my scrotum. In my case, my cock immediately jumped to full attention.
“Uh-oh. Lady in da house, boys.”
“Who do you want to talk to?” I heard Coach Parker ask while I took my time reaching for a towel.
“Beck Kendrick.” Her voice wasn’t soft and breathless like I was used to hearing from every woman determined to carry my baby to term, but edgy, defiant.
On fire.
Maybe upon some lengthy reflection I might think the sun suddenly made an abstract appearance in the dark, almost underground space offered to members of an opposing team, but I wasn’t that kind of man. There wasn’t a romantic or passionate bone in my furry body. I’d learned a long time ago women used whatever it took to get what they wanted.
And this woman wanted an interview.
Wait. She’d asked for me. Interesting. Maybe my brother was too busy being the team star. My initial thought was that she was in the wrong place, although my way of thinking was Neanderthal at best. Mandates allowed female reporters access, which usually caused mixed, often vindictively mischievous reactions from male players.
Especially if the female invading our space was cute.
However, I was a professional, which was why I snatched a towel from the rack, tying the thin material around my waist. As soon as I turned to face the din turning into a hungry roar, the terrycloth swiped across my aching dick. What the hell was wrong with the arena owners? Couldn’t they afford Egyptian cotton?
“Hey, Beck, a reporter here to see you.” Coach Parker was used to wrangling reporters and by the time I started to push my way through the crowd of guys, a slow and steady throng of them from newspapers to local television stations were actively seeking a player in hopes of capturing their fifteen minutes of fame. “Be nice.”
“I’m always nice.”
“No, you’re always a ham,” he corrected, grinning as he did. It wasn’t but so often I was interviewed by a reporter, but the Hellions’ presence on social media had increased the last few weeks.
Maybe one day I’d be a star. At least I could snicker from the thought.
I swaggered closer, running my fingers through my hair. While I approached, a few of the guys winked, a couple striking a pose offering full frontal nudity. Did the assholes think we were auditioning for a reality show? Knowing them, yes. The closer I came to the unknown reporter, the more curious I became. She had cocks and butts inches away with no indication any one of them were impressive.
The reporter was busy studying the space around us, her back turned. With her long, dark hair in a high ponytail, her even longer legs wrapped in bell-bottomed black trousers, and wearing a white tee shirt, there appeared to be nothing spectacular about her.
Other than that her clothes couldn’t hide her voluptuous curves.
She was also wearing bright chartreuse tennis shoes that undoubtedly glowed in the dark.
“Ms. Winters, I located Beck,” Coach Parker said and passed right by where she was standing.
As if bored to death with her task, she slowly turned to face me.
And in those few seconds, my body had a ridiculous reaction, one that defied logic but certainly not chemistry.
The unknown reporter was without a doubt the most insanely gorgeous woman I’d ever seen. A single word filtered through my active brainwaves that turned into a brutal, unyielding physical need.
Mine.
[divider]Chapter Two
Sloane
Truth or dare?
I usually asked myself that same question when forced into a locker room with sweaty, hard-bodied men who believed in their heart of hearts they were all that and a family-sized bag of chips.
The truth was brutal. I couldn’t care less about the heavy load of testosterone casually tossed around by big, burly players determined to have me drooling within seconds.
The dare was simply how long it took me to lose my plastic smile, deferring to my bitchy if not terrifying personality.
While I was used to asinine, childish behavior, mostly from the male staff at the press room where I worked, there were days I was sick of cocks and butts being tossed into my face. Did these guys really want me to rate them based on their bits and bobbles? If so, they’d be sorely disappointed.
“Ms. Winters, I located Beck.” The coach’s voice was pleasant enough, although I noted a typical hint of amusement as to what I was about to get myself into.
Forget various stages of undress. The men in the locker room enjoying being gifted the opportunity to flaunt their stuff. There wasn’t a single one of them who didn’t think they were stud muffins.
“Thank you, Coach Parker.”
If only they knew what I referred to their manhood as. Twigs. It was also the term players used to describe their sticks, but, in my mind, the term was all about the tiniest thin stick falling off a tree.
Could anyone tell I wasn’t a hockey or hockey player fan?
After turning around, I allowed my gaze to travel down the length of one of the two men I’d been assigned to interview. I relied on first impressions both regarding a person’s personality as well as his or her body language. Or in this case, hard, hulking chiseled perfection.
Rarely was I attracted to a player. I’d been there, had a brief texting relationship, and finally came to my senses.
After the quarterback had called me by the name of another reporter, including detailing the fling they’d had on top of a washing machine. Who did that kind of thing? That had been the final straw in a long list of reasons leading me to concentrate on my career above all else.
However, I would give credit where credit was due. The contours of the player’s chest were spectacular, every ab muscle so well defined it appeared chiseled as if in stone.
Rare was it that my breath hitched under any circumstances, including when a jerk had recently been stupid enough to attack me with a knife after dragging me into an alley. He learned very quickly how my interest in both pole dancing and kick boxing had become a useful weapon.
Unfortunately for me, my body’s reaction to Beck Kendrick’s could only be described as a full betrayal.
My upper lip was covered in sweat, although the instant reaction could be explained away by the excessive heat in the room itself.
And the ache sweeping directly into my core, which caused an intense throbbing pulse between my legs that had no chance of being seen given my dark trousers. As a bonus, given the massive overload of testosterone in the room, there wasn’t a chance anyone could gather a whiff of unwanted, unneeded desire.
What could come back and haunt me was how tight my nipples had become. I’d made a huge mistake in wearing a tight white tee shirt. I didn’t need to dip my head to know they were poking through the material. I could feel the ache.
The moment I’d turned around, the man’s radar had gone into overload. Beck’s eyes narrowed until they were so hooded, I wasn’t certain he could focus. Then his nostrils flared just before he took a deep, long whiff.
His sigh of satisfaction set the tone of the interview.
His reputation as a man-whore seemed to be a badge he wore with pride.
Thankfully, while half the other players had purposely stripped off their uniforms, parading around in front of me naked in hopes of causing a reaction, the man standing in front of me had some sense of decency.
Although… Well, this wasn’t going to go well. The towel he was wearing was two sizes too small and was thoroughly and unapologetically tented.
If anyone actually bottled and sold arrogance, a solid seventy percent of male sports stars and more than half that of female athletes would keep them in business forever, keeping a bottle in every location.
Refrigerators.
Lockers.
Glove compartments.
In my career as a sports reporter, the expression ‘I’ve seen it all’ had carried an entirely new meaning. Arrogance came in a dozen creative forms from confronting me in darkened hallways to a very nice and well-thought-out, let alone expensive marriage proposal to the typical act of bribery disguised as a special ‘gift’ because I’d rocked their world.
Bullshit.
What I’d learned in only recently being assigned to interview hockey players, especially those who’d made it to the NHL, was that most, although not all, were cocky sons of bitches. Before anyone, including their fans, decided to confront me on how dare I say something so atrocious, I had a thing or ten to show and tell providing proof.
And that was based on the shift in my career from covering football only occurring three months before. My boss hadn’t asked if I’d wanted to change directions. He’d told me in no uncertain terms I’d be taking over for a reporter who’d been covering hockey since the beginning of time. At least Jeff had only retired and not died while forced to watch yet another dull game. Evidently the lateral promotion, as Matthew had insisted had been bestowed on me, had come down from the owner of the media firm himself.
As if I should feel like the hand of God was showered down on me. The truth was they had no one else to fill Jeff’s shoes.
I knew what people would say. Hockey was exciting. Violent. Even passionate. But to me, the concept of a man with a stick in his hand hitting a rubber puck into a net held no appeal.
Yes, I knew all the right terms. Cold. But that didn’t mean I ate, drank, slept, and fucked hockey. Not a snowball’s chance in hell.
I’d been sent to Phoenix from Chicago with one goal. Interview the Kendrick brothers. Both drafted into the same new franchise, they were supposed to be the next Saint and Steven Masters, brothers who’d taken the hockey world by storm. They’d become stars on a grander scale, their talents turning both into national celebrities. Hell, the two had even walked the red carpets.
What was it with people worshipping male athletes?
I digressed. I was here to do my job and that’s exactly what would happen.
Beck offered a killer smile, finally lifting his gaze from my tits, where they’d been locked for the last sixty seconds.
“Hi,” he said. So coolly. So coyly. But there was something very odd about the way he was looking at me. Over the years of being in a heavily male-oriented field, I’d learned to read men fairly well. His reaction wasn’t the same as I’d seen with other players, other than the sweep of his gaze before noticing my physical reaction.
If I wasn’t mistaken, his reaction was possessive. That seemed to confuse us. With me, I was used to charging in on a series of preplanned questions. My silence was as unexpected as the way his chest rose and fell. At least I wasn’t sticking a camera in his face, forced to capture the awkward moment for both of us.
Snap out of it, Winters. You have work to do.
Blinking, I shoved aside the fact the man was at least six foot five of all muscles, the tiny towel unable to hide his thick, carved-to-perfection thighs or the deep V leading from his abdomen, disappearing under the pesky towel.
Somehow, I managed to pull out my notepad. While I’d tried using electronic equipment when chasing interviews, they always seemed to get in the way.
Especially in tight quarters.
Or wide-open spaces where the players liked to crowd mine on purpose. At least he was keeping an arm’s length away, which was almost chivalrous in comparison to what I was used to.
“Mr. Kendrick. I’m Sloane Winters from Channel 7 news and the Chicago Tribune here to interview you. How does it feel to be the reason the Hellions won this game?”
His smirk drew attention to his handsome face, aristocratic features with high cheekbones that seemed perfectly symmetrical. When he took a deep breath in preparing to answer, his strong jaw clenched. The action highlighted a pair of dimples. Wearing my Converse shoes, I was forced to tilt my head to try to look him directly in the eyes.
Which you always did with athletes. You never allowed yourself to look anywhere else. However, in doing so, I was caught studying his disheveled, sweaty, and perfectly sexy thick mop of hair.
The smirk widened and I fought everything in my reaction to keep from blushing. “I’m not going to lie and suggest my actions weren’t thrilling, but the win was an entire team effort. Without all the work, dedication, and sacrifice from my teammates, we wouldn’t be standing here today.”
When he’d started his soliloquy, I’d almost thought him humbler than I was used to. Then he had to give a speech as if accepting an Academy Award. I could feel my expression harden, my chest tightening.
Had I mentioned I couldn’t stand hockey players?
Make that double.
“Mr. Kendrick. While you might not understand or appreciate that I have a job to do, that’s why I’m here. The fact you have more talent in your little finger than most men do in their entire bodies is the reason I’m standing here asking you questions. Now, if you’d prefer, I can always find someone else who is far more… interesting to interview.”
There were just enough people paying attention another player whistled, which prompted Beck to shoot them a look that could drive the man into the ground. With the very pinky I mentioned.
“You’re right, Ms. Winters. I apologize. I’m blessed to have such talent in my little finger.” He wagged it on purpose just to shoot back at me. “The simple answer is that it felt damn good to crush the opponent. That’s what I’ve lived for my entire life. And while I assume you don’t understand that playing hockey is a part of my blood, the reason I get up in the morning, that’s why I’m here. I plan on being the best not only for this team but in the industry. Now, my guess is you don’t care about anything but gathering a sound bite that will possibly be memorable enough to boost your career. So here’s one for you. Tell your readers you just had a hot fling with a member of the team who will go on to win the Stanley Cup.”
“You think you’re that good?”
He leaned in, offering me one hell of a sultry look. I could tell by the glint in his eyes that all he was doing was trying to fluster me.
I also gathered a sense he didn’t like to be pushed unless he controlled the situation.
Neither did I. At this point, I could keep the wall between us or try to break it down brick by brick. I don’t know why being here had put me in such a bad mood.
Oh, wait. I did.
That’s because just earlier I’d been getting ready to leave for the weekend, including having plans with my friends. Matthew had snagged me inside the elevator on my way out. He’d shoved a plane ticket in my hand, told me run home and get packed because I was leaving on a flight in a couple of hours. He’d then tried to ply me with compliments, telling me I was the only one who could provide the spark needed to entice readers of all ages.
When that hadn’t worked, he’d resorted to bribery with the hotel, which was far removed from where the players were staying. He knew how I enjoyed my privacy and quiet time surrounding writing the article itself.
When I’d balked, he’d simply told me it was an order and had stepped off the elevator, leaving me fuming.
The only good news was that he’d had his secretary find me a hotel, which happened to be the Four Seasons outside of Scottsdale. She’d emailed me the hotel details, leading with her having booked a suite with a plunge pool and a few pictures of the spa and wellness center. At least she understood the one luxury I’d ever allowed myself. With an extra day given the flight schedule, I could enjoy taking a day to myself.
However, only if I got through tonight.
What the hoopla around my mission had told me was that the company owners believed the Kendrick brothers were very important. I’d be the judge of that.
With heat slipping from my core, tickling every inch of my skin and my breath resisting all efforts to remain controlled, I knew this had become a battle of wills.
We were both intent on winning, but what game were we playing?
With the closeness of his massive body, the boost of jet-fueled electricity arcing between us, I needed a savior to claw my way out of our sinful tête à tête.
Ask and ye shall receive—if only you believed in divine intervention.
A player smacked directly into Beck, which caused a chain reaction. He was caught off guard, pushed forward. I sensed a huge mass weighing almost twice what I did about to crush me and threw my hand out for protection. I was caught by surprise, which in turn had me dropping my notepad. When I tried to grab it just after the small book slipped from my fingers, I grabbed something else instead, yanking on instinct.
Only after the dust settled did I realize what I’d jerked free instead.
The towel keeping the arrogant player’s cock and butt safely from my viewpoint.
Now with them on full display, another instinctual moment took over and I gasped. Maybe in shock. Perhaps in appreciation. Definitely out of embarrassment. However, not just from bearing witness to a magnificent work of art in one thick, long, and throbbing dick.
But in the fact that after we’d both stopped moving, all time had ceased to exist, and there was one obvious situation that would forever horrify me and create enjoyable memories for the goalie.
My hand had landed on his shaft. Not only that, but my fingers had automatically wrapped around the thickness, holding on as if the man and his cock were a lifeline.
A slow and steady, even evil smile crossed his face while I couldn’t react quickly enough for common decency, my hand lingering in the forbidden area a little too long.
If I wasn’t mistaken, he’d inched even closer so the sweat and heightened level of testosterone created sheer intoxication.
“Is there something you like, Ms. Winters? Would you enjoy a test run? I’d be happy to provide one for you.”
There was no easy or cool way of ignoring the awkward situation or even returning the interview to some sense of normalcy. The moment called for a completely different tactic.
After a solid squeeze, I rolled my hand all the way to the tip before I released my hold. As I did, I wore a judgmental expression while slightly cocking my head.
Beck watched me intently, playing the part as the perfect candidate.
When I offered a loud-enough-he-was-holding-his-breath ‘hmmm,’ I tried to chastise myself for enjoying the moment.
It failed. “I think I’ll pass, Mr. Kendrick, but I do appreciate your teensy-tiny offer.” I locked my eyes on his, prepared for almost any rebuttal followed by his attempt at being vocally insulted.
Instead, his eyes burned with a fire I’d not seen in a long time, the shimmers of gold surrounding his irises captivating. “You’re missing out, Ms. Winters.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Now that we’ve broken the ice, why don’t you consider getting dressed so we can finish our conversation. I’ll wait outside.”
Beck remained where he was for a few seconds before dragging his gaze down the length of me while crouching down to grab my notebook and pen. He knew exactly the level of torment he was providing, the deliberate movement snagging my attention all over again.
How could a man be so well endowed? Did his groin ever ache after a game from all the heavy swinging? The images forming in my mind were beyond utter filth.
As if he knew exactly what I was thinking, he brushed his other hand across his cock as soon as he stood. With the notebook being offered, he stepped closely enough there was zero space between us. His acts of intimidation weren’t going to work on me. I lifted my head while grabbing the notebook at the same time.
There was such a thing as chemistry or what some would call kismet. I’d just been a bridesmaid for a friend of mine. She’d met her now husband at a grocery store when reaching for the last package of a blood-red filet. The rest had been history, a true Prince Charming.
I hadn’t wanted to burst her bubble that undoubtedly the man was a red-eyed, forked-tongued, grotesque asshole underneath his fancy clothes. She’d need to learn that the hard way.
Beck chuckled, grabbing and holding onto my attention.
The moment our fingers touched, poof, I was lost, my mind one fuzzy blur of madness, sinful images popping through my brain one after the other.
His mouth on mine.
His teeth biting my aching nipples.
His cock thrust inside my pussy, filling me. Fucking me.
Using me.
Claiming me.
The pull was so strong I sensed a gasp erupting from the edge of darkness, a sweet abyss I was ready to slip and slide into as if drunk on shots of tequila.
Wow. I was lost in some erotic fantasy, but thank goodness the various disciplines I used for exercise curtailed my actions before I fell straight into a damning oblivion.
I managed to jerk my arm free. I even calmed whatever ridiculous reaction I’d just experienced and offered him a curt, as professional as possible look.
In his eyes.
He took a step away, looking down toward the goods; of course he intended I’d follow his line of sight.
I didn’t, using every ounce of control. At least he seemed disappointed.
“I’m perfectly fine the way I am. Unless of course I make you uncomfortable. I would never want to do something so ungentlemanly.”
A series of nasty barbs was right on my tongue, but thankfully, I reminded myself that I truly was a professional. I’d worked very diligently through the years to get to this position of respect. Including dealing with assholes with God complexes. This man I could handle with two hands tied behind my back.
“I’m fine. Would you like to sit or stand?”
“Why don’t we sit. I certainly want you made at ease as much as possible.” Without waiting for me to agree because why would he, Beck moved to one of two long benches spanning the locker room. So as not to be caught in a lie, I headed to the other. Of course he decided to sit like a guy with his legs spread wide open, his junk free to breathe.
Did he not understand the power I wielded in my cheap but powerful red pen?
As I sat down, I clicked the pen, exposing the tip. “This is perfect. Now, why don’t you tell me what you love most about hockey.”
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