Page 42 of Tricky Puck
“I don’t get intimidated easily—and by that, I mean—”
“Never?”
She snorts. ”You ruined everything by questioning me, Link. Just when I thought you were my biggest supporter.”
“I am your biggest—size wise.” Shit. It seems all conversational roads lead to flirtation with her. And flirtation leads to more temptation.
“You’re right.” She clams up then and I take that as my cue to kiss her. One last kiss for the road. I take my time, going deep, pulsing my tongue to mimic my cock thrusting inside her. Shit.
I let go.
“Wow. Way to rock the good-bye kiss, Milano.” She clears her throat.
“That wasn’t a good-bye kiss.” My words are a knee jerk reaction to hers because I don’t do goodbye kisses.
“Right. That was an until-I-see -you-again kiss.”
Fuck, that sounds worse. I shake my head. “Don’t get romantic notions about my kisses, Delaney. Sometimes a kiss is just two sets of lips enjoying each other.”
She laughs. “Good. I was worried for a minute you were getting sappy on me.”
“Nothing to worry about.” I say.
“Well, wish me luck with the fireplace and priming the pump for water because I’m off for my idyllic little cabin in the woods to write poetry.”
“How rustic is this cabin?
“I don’t know. I’ve never been there. All I know is it has running water, albeit from a well and a fireplace for heat—"
“No central heating? Ouch. That’s going to suck at night when it dips into the thirties.”
“I might even miss you—strictly for your heat producing qualities.”
“Don’t try and distract me with talk of making heat. I have practice this morning and I plan to get there early.”
“Aren’t you always early?” She makes the comment casually, but I flinch. Shit. She notices and gives me a curious look. “Not such a rhetorical question after all,” she says. “You were late the other day. After—”
“Never mind. You have a date with a rustic cabin and a blank page waiting for your songs.”
She smiles and nods slowly, but firmly. “You’re right. Thanks for setting me straight.” She sounds only partly sarcastic and that sends a zip of pleasure through me. Not sure why.
She gets in the car without another word and I drive her back to the arena garage in silence. Feelings, like I’m out of sorts, fog my mind and it’s all I can do to concentrate on driving the short distance.
When we arrive, I don’t give her another kiss, good-bye or otherwise, since she’s called me out on that—or I called myself out on it.
Once she’s settled in her car, she rolls down a window with a hand crank as she sits staring up at me with her eyes matching the patchy bright green paint of her beat up old junker. “See you when I see you, Milano,”
“Next home game, Delaney.”
Shit. Am I looking for a disaster or what?
Fourteen
DELANEY
Acabin the woods sounded romantic to my Irish poet’s soul, but my practical New York City toughness carries me through the first cold night where I wish for one large hockey player spooning me and keeping me warm. But who am I kidding? There’s no such thing as warm when it comes to Link Milano. He’s either hot or cold.
In the morning while I try typing on my computer while wear gloves and cringing every time I take a sip of the mud-inspired coffee I made with the old-fashioned percolator, I let my blood boil—partly to keep me warm and partly to plot revenge on stupid a-hole George for generously allowing me to stay in his cabin. Because he failed to mention that this is strictly a summer place and not in the least winterized or fit for human habitation in the winter—unless you’re an Eskimo or you invite a dozen or fifty people to keep it warm with body heat.
