Page 12 of He Has MVP (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
Chapter 4
Pink
Iwish he wasn’t being so nice and reasonable and calming. Fuck if I don’t need all that right now. The way the firelight flicks across his playboy features tweaks me right between my legs like he’s a violinist bowing my strings. If watching him and his fucking eyelashes and his rippling muscles and that dark stubble gets me wet, imagine if—no, donotimagine him touching me or those lips of his on mine, or on me anywhere. Do. Not.
Searching for something safe to talk about as I take a sip of pinot noir to wash down my peanut butter and lust, I strike on it.
“What’s with you and bridge doodles?” I say. Relaxing a fraction, I can’t wait to hear the explanation for this. It should help throw a bucket of water on my oversexed libido.
“I’ve always wanted to build bridges. And dams.”
“Why?” I laugh-snort, then take another quick sip of my wine.
With his usual sexy smirk and a negligent shrug, he says, “The dream started when we took a family vacation to visit the Hoover Dam and the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“So you gave up the dream for hockey?” A spark of intrigue tightens my chest, having nothing to do with my over-sexed libido and maybe posing a more serious risk. Stop it. Stop it now. I compress my lips as if the act is some kind of defense against the onslaught of whatever the hell emotion fills me. Or maybe it’s the wine. It better be the fucking wine or I may be in trouble.
“Not exactly. I still may do it,” he says and for a second I’ve forgotten what the hell he’s talking about. I take a deep breath to clear my foggy brain. It has to be the wine.
“Bridges and dams,” I say. That’s what we’re talking about. Tilting my wine glass all the way up, I sip the last of the too-tempting drink and let it roll around in my mouth in spite of my smarter self, who’s warning me to slow down.
He gives me a calculating look and adds. “Secret?”
He wants to share a secret and I nod automatically, well past my ability to resist the tantalizing prospect in spite of how it smacks of intimacy, the exact kind of thing I need to avoid with him. Or any man.Right?For the sake of my career and the quest for a million bucks. I figuratively pinch myself with the reminder as I swallow my wine.
“I was a civil engineering major at Cornell,” he says.
I almost choke as I cough.
“Are you shitting me? Cornell? University? Fucking engineering?” My disbelief may be permanent.
“No shitting. You didn’t know I went to Cornell? Top-notch hockey program.” He takes a nonchalant sip of his drink while I sputter my way to recovering my usual aplomb.
“I’m sorry, but I may need to see a copy of your diploma before I believe you. And even then I may need to have it authenticated.”
He laughs. “I should be insulted.”
He doesn’t look the least bit insulted as he downs the last of his whiskey or scotch or some such shit. It’s all poison as far as I’m concerned.Like him. He’s a devilish temptation, the way he eyes me over the rim of his glass, swirling the golden liquid. The darkening of his pupils and drooping eyelids make my mouth go dry and my pussy crying wet. Damn, damn, damn. I clear my throat.
“But you’re not insulted. Why not?” It’s a stupid question, bordering on deep, and stretching the intimacy meter. Why do I care, anyway? I do not. But I watch him, waiting for his answer, not even pouring another glass of wine. Possibly not even breathing.
“Because I know you’re not serious. You know I’m not a liar or a poser.”
“I do?” I do, but I’m not ready to admit that to him, possibly not to myself either.
He nods.
“You’re ridiculously confident, aren’t you? Does that come from being smart or from being a hockey star?”
“Neither. It comes from being a chick magnet.”
“Oh my God.” I can’t help the burst of laughter. I shouldn’t hoot and snort with such amusement, I should be outraged. But I’m not. Because I know he’s not serious.
I reach out and smack his shin because his legs are stretched out near me as we sit across from each other on the plush rug. I’m leaning against an ottoman and he leans into the puppys’ massive bed, propped on an elbow, absently stroking Moe’s fur. My pussy gulps with thirst and I can sense an urgent protest coming on, so I search for a distraction.
My hand has other ideas as I rest it on his solid shin, the soft bristle of his leg hair tickling my palm, taunting me to slide up higher, to—WTF? I lift my hand with scorched quickness and then pretend to push hair from my face, as if that had anything to do with my inexplicable jerky move.
The slow smirk he levels at me, though predictable, does nothing to calm my nerves and I shift.
