Page 7 of He Has MVP (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“Why not?”
“It’s too cliché.”
“Right. Nothing like you. Your layers are more like a wedding cake.”
“How do you figure?”
“I bet you taste sweet and creamy.”
Containing the heat that’s now bursting between my legs, I manage to keep my cool. “You’re wrong. I’m more like the onion because I’ll make you cry.”
We lock eyes and I realize the truth of my statement with a stab of regret. His grin is gone and I squirm under the Full Monty stare of the serious Aiden. Eyes blazing and intense like he wants to eat me up right now, like he’d enjoy it. Immensely. My eyes flicker away from his. They go straight to his crotch again. There’s no doubt about that fiery intent in his eyes and the now bigger, harder bulge in his pants makes me suck in a quick breath as my heart jumps into that aroused gear it hasn’t tried for a while.
I think of Bixby, but all of a sudden, with this male specimen staring me down like I’m his next meal, Bixby is out the window and nothing but real flesh and pulsing blood will do.
Fuck. Stop the fantasy, Pink. He’s not your type. You’re not interested in a one-night stand. You don’t really want to make him cry.
I don’t. But then, what makes me think he’s the crying type? He’s a big boy. He’s had lots of women. What makes me think Icouldmake him cry? I’m nothing but a flirtation to him, just like every other woman. He’s not interested in any more than a hot fling like always, right?
I don’t do hot flings. I have standards. Being a notch on a player’s belt isn’t me. I’m better than that.
But my angry, weeping pussy yells back at me that no, I’mnotbetter than that because right now I’m literally starving for what he has to offer. One night of passion will do nicely, thank you very much.
No, no, no. I’d have to face him in the morning and ultimately reject him because work comes first. I don’t think I could stand that. I’d have to face him again and again every time I got together with my friends because he’s part of the group as much as I am.
“You’rewrong.” When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse and he clears his throat.
“You’ll never know,” I say, because that’s the way it has to be. My pussy, the bully, protests with a sharp pain of longing and more juice than my panties can handle right now. I sit down on the desk chair and squirm. Oh God, please don’t let him see my discomfort. But he’s not blind.
His eyebrows fly up and that grin that I want to slap from his face returns. Before he can throw a wise-ass remark at me, I speak up sharply.
“Please leave—and take the dogs with you—so I can get some work done.” Then I turn to the desk to put my computer there and find I need to push his things aside, his shaving cream and such, the kinds of intimate male things that belong in the bathroom. The kinds of things I haven’t seen in a long while. My pussy sends another pang of suffering shuddering through me.
“If you say so, Pink,” he says from behind me and I don’t turn. But I hear the bed sound relieved as he gets up, and the scratches of the puppies’ paws as they jump to the floor, and the gentle click of the door as he closes it behind him. Then I’m left in blessed silence so I can concentrate on my work.
The only problem is, as I stare at my computer screen, that I can’t concentrate for shit now. I could be looking atWar and Peacewritten in Chinese backwards and upside down and I’d have an easier time deciphering it.
Or you could be looking at porn,my evil little pussy whispers.
