Page 12 of The One Timer

I wait for more. We stare at each other. I’m staring like I’m in a deep hypnotic state, rendered mute by her gorgeous face. I’ve never seen skin so smooth and perfect, eyes so expressive, the color of molten gold, and she… looks worried like she’s holding her breath, waiting for me to slap the cuffs on her for some kind of crime.

My mind latches onto the cuffs—and then I drag myself back to reality. There will be no handcuffs. Since when am I into BDSM anyway? Fuck. Maybe it’s the overwhelming sensuality of this woman leading my mind—and other body parts—all kinds of places.

“Who are you?” I murmur the words as they surface to the top of the trashy heap that comprises my filthy thoughts. They’re the only words that can be said aloud and not get me slapped.

She replies in a rush like she’s been waiting to tell me and can’t hold back. “A Whalers fan. Go, team.”

I laugh. “You came to Boston to watch the Whalers?”

“Not exactly. I mostly watch on TV.” She shrugs. “But so far, the in-person experience is somewhat better.”

“Somewhat?” She’s being evasive, and I wonder why. Curiosity wars with an out-of-control attraction like she has me under some spell, like some crazy witch brewed up a bubbling potion that makes a person fall from a cliff, irretrievably enslaved by their attraction to some random woman who happens to wield the potion’s power.

“Great game tonight. Congrats on the hat trick.” She’s staring at my mouth, and I return the favor, nodding and smiling…and adding absolutely nothing to the conversation.

“I’m lucky you came to the game tonight.” I keep staring back at her as she studies me like she wants to paint me from memory later. “Do you paint?”

Her brows knit. “Paint?”

I can’t believe I fucking said that out loud. “Never mind. I’m sorry. Guess the game took a lot out of me.”

She nods. “I bet it did.” She pauses and bites the corner of her lip. “Why did you have Danny, the stick boy, bring me down here?”

“I wanted to meet you.” Duh. Shit. I need to get a grip.

She grins. “Why?”

A million reasons jump to mind, like you’re beautiful, or I needed to see you up close because you don’t look real, or the way you fill out that T-shirt turns me on, or the god’s honest truth that I’m a fucking horny bastard underneath the attempt to exercise self-control and my promise to myself that I’d focus on hockey.

Shaking my head, I can’t believe I’ve almost forgotten the first and most important reason I wanted to meet her. I’m sorry, Gran, forgive me.

“I wanted to ask you how you got the tickets to my grandmother’s seats.”

Her face falls, and she starts chewing on the corner of her lip again as she takes her time replying.

Of course, she does—because you practically accused her of theft and made her feel like a criminal. “I’m sorry—that was abrupt. I mean, I was curious. And that wasn’t the only reason I wanted to meet you.”

“What’s the other reason?” She gives me a sly smile.

“You’re fucking gorgeous.” I’m not sorry for speaking my mind. Maybe I should be, but it’s the first thing I’ve said where I feel confident, my old self, my real, pre-magic-love-spell-by-a-crazy-witch self.

Her mouth opens, and her eyes go wide. Then she laughs. “At least you’re honest.” She nods. “I can live with that. You’re pretty hot yourself, Chase Whittier.”

Her compliment sends a zing whipping through me faster than Sabien’s slap shot. It goes straight to my dick with uncanny accuracy—or the accuracy of a horny bastard who was under some illusion that he had control of his dick’s desires.

“Sounds like we should go out, maybe celebrate my hat trick.”

“I wouldn’t want you to celebrate by yourself.”

A grin grips my mouth like it’s never going to let go, but before I take her like she’s the spoils of my victory—which is so Neanderthal I’m wondering who I even am right now—I realize I still have no idea how she got Gran’s tickets or who she is.

“So, how did you get Gran’s tickets?”

“Oh. That.” She waves a hand, and her eyes dart away from mine like she’s guilty of something.

My heart stutters for all the wrong reasons. “Yeah, that.” Now, I need to know.

“I’m a banker. I mean, I work in a bank, and my boss had these tickets he wasn’t using, and so, because it’s my birthday, I took them. My best friend and I came, and she got me this shirt for my birthday gift because she’s a wildly generous and thoughtful friend, and here I am.” She heaves a breath, and I watch her breasts rise and fall, straining the birthday T-shirt to within a thread of its capacity.