Page 30 of He Has Charm (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
Ten
Maddox
“Don’t worry, Harper. If you don’t want it, you and I are not happening.” I let out a big breath of exasperation, because in spite of her words to the contrary, she looks and acts like a woman who wants to fuck. Who I want to fuck, hard and bad like a Mack truck barreling down the highway. And that is just unacceptable. Because like she said, she’s a no-go zone, but not because of warnings by Ham or the agreement with the Brawlers or Ryan O’Rourke’s directive or Coach’s veiled threat or any of that outside bullshit.
Harper is off my table of female delicacies because she is who she is, and she is not someone to play with. I don’t want her to lose her job and I don’t want to mess up my season, but she’s all wrong because she’s the serious kind of woman, the kind …fuck. The kind I need to avoid because I could fall for her, get all kinds of lost in her green eyes, her lush red hair, and her sassy mouth. Shit. She’s too strong and determined and passionate to fuck with.
“I’m leaving,” I say.
“Where are you going? You can’t—”
“Relax.”
“Don’t say that.” She frowns, not diminishing the delicious look of her lips. I smirk because it’s all I’m allowed, all that’s left between us, that contrary scrape of teasing banter.
“O’Rourke texted me,” I say. “He invited me to his house to shoot pool with some of the guys.” I don’t tell her she’s invited too. Instead I watch the war on her face between her duty to keep track of me and her need to distance herself. I should be at least mildly insulted that she’s decided I must be avoided, but I’m not. Of course not. Why should I be? She’s not my type either, in spite of all the uncontrollable chemistry. That’s just fucking deprivation playing tricks on me and I need to get used to it like an addict going cold turkey. The first couple of weeks are going to hurt and then I’ll be okay.
“Okay. Fine. O’Rourke can handle you for the night. According to coach, he’s the one in charge when you’re on road-trips.” She waves a hand. “But don’t stay out late because we have to move out in the morning and then you have a game.”
“Yes, warden. Anything else?”
“This is serious, Knight.” She deepens her scowl and stomps one foot but it’s bare on carpeting so it doesn’t have the effect she’s going for, of putting her foot down. She doesn’t have the killer instinct of Delaney, who is filled with the innate ability to be mean when warranted. Not Harper. She’s soft.
So fucking soft and sweet I want to bite into her. Fuck.
“Yes you are, Harper. Serious as a nun.”And that’s exactly why you’re not my type.I enjoy her glare.Maybe I should tell her she’s not my type, but I have a feeling she might take it the wrong way and I’m not into causing anyone to feel bad about themselves. Most women don’t want to be told they’re not your type, especially when you’re a so-called tomcat.
Meanwhile we both know on some level she is my type because the fucking chemistry between us doesn’t lie. She’s right to push me away, to do the right thing, but I know it’s in spite of the fucking pull of lust between us.
She keeps her mouth shut and her eyes on me, stormy and troubled. Giving her a wide berth, I head to my room to dress. Though after I shut the door behind me, it’s obvious that my cock is still far too ready and worked up over our close encounter. I consider locking myself in my room and relieving my pent-up tension for a second time in ten minutes. This has to be a record. I don’t think a woman ever drove me to jerk off twice in ten minutes before. Forcing myself to shove the idea from my head doesn’t work.
No, I’m sure Harper is the proud record holder of driving me to jerk off more than should be healthy. And I shudder at how easy it would be to do. All I need is to shut my eyes and remember the way her mouth parted, lips glistening and her skin flushed, when she looked at me while I was naked and aroused with those glassy, promise-filled eyes like tempting emeralds. She stared at me like I was her next meal and she hadn’t eaten in a fucking long time.
Fuck. I slip a hand inside my shorts and grip my cock, giving it a squeeze.
Her mouth on me would feel so good, but I wonder how tight she would be if she let me inside her. If she’s been without a man for a very long time, she would strangle my cock, squeeze it until I could barely breathe. I move my hand up and down my hardening shaft, not even giving a fuck if she hears me again. I’ve already given away the big bad secret that I’m a horny bastard and that I want to own her pussy in every way possible.
I lean against the wall as my legs shake with the thunder of blood rushing and extreme arousal coming to a head as rapidly as I can make it, because I need to purge her from my system, to wrench back control and my senses. She’s not that sexy, I tell myself through clenched teeth as I squeeze and stroke, seeing her flushed face and glossy gaze in my mind’s eye, projecting how the hot ample flesh of her breasts would feel in my hands. How her aroused pussy would taste in my mouth, would feel clenched around my cock.
And heaven help me, I let out a strangled cry of release as cum spurts across my belly and I sink to my knees, cursing the name of Harper St. John and her fucking forbidden pussy. The fucking forbidden pussy of every woman for the next four months. Fuck.
Taking a minute to get my heavy breathing and thudding heart to settle down, I kneel on the plush carpet, shaking my head in self-disgust. This is what I’ve sunk to. But damn it, I’m better than this.
I push to my feet and stalk to my bathroom where I splash water from the sink on my overheated face and clean myself off with a wash cloth. The mirror accuses me of being a depraved animal with wild eyes, unshaven stubble, and disheveled hair, naked and still glistening with sweat, ripe for another cleansing shower. But that’s not happening. Instead, I throw on a pair of jeans and an old New Orleans hockey jersey because that’s all I have suitable for cold weather.
Fuck the guys if they can’t take a joke. But something tells me they won’t be offended by my old team’s jersey even if they pretend to be and use it as an excuse to give me shit. Tonight is my chance to get to know my new teammates, to really fit in, without Harper intervening. I might even find out a thing or two more about her from the guys that she’d never tell me about herself.
After I run a comb through my unruly hair, I deem myself ready for a crowd of hockey players who won’t mind two days’ scruff on my face and a modicum of residual sweat on my body. Pausing a beat with my hand on the doorknob, I scoff at myself for the roll in my gut at facing Harper again and then curse at myself for the ghost of arousal that tremors through me at the mere anticipation of seeing her.
Fuck it. I fling open the door.
She looks up from the computer on her lap. She’s working, of course. She sits on the couch, comfortable and cool as if nothing ever happened between us. Except that I see the telltale blush rise up her neck.
“I’m going,” I say. “Don’t wait up for me.”
“Of course I’ll wait up for you,” she says. “You won’t be late, right?”
I shake my head, our eyes caught up in that seemingly perpetual force field of sexual energy between us. She looks away first and clears her throat. Then she waves her hand as if shooing me away like an errant child. Or maybe that’s how I feel though I’m far worse than that. More like the devil’s spawn of depravity daring to get caught up with the sex kitten dressed in sensible clothing.
