Page 5 of He Has Charm (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“Yes, those of us who are interested in arealrelationship and not a quick… never mind.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’re interested in? Arealrelationship?”
“Never mind.” She tries to shut down the conversation, but I’m not discouraged in the least.
“It’s important for us to come to an understanding, don’t you think? Since you’re going to be myhandler?”
“Maybe handler is the wrong word. You should think of me as your warden…” She goes on, but my mind gets stuck because those emerald eyes hypnotize me.
“Knight, are you even listening to me?” I nod, wearing my reaction on my face, flat-out admiration. She rolls her eyes. “Don’t pretend like you’re looking at a sex kitten in a g-string. I’m a professional in a suit.”
“It’s not the suit that makes a woman...” I want to say more, but I have no idea what, so I keep my mouth shut for a change and leave my response at a genuine-as-all-fuck smile. Because she doesn’t even get how fucking sexy she is. When the hell does that ever happen in my world? Never. Fucking never.
Every puck bunny, hell, every woman whether they knew a puck from a fuck, that I’ve been with in the past two years here in NOLA was all about the sexiness and only the sexiness. I’m not complaining, but myhandleris the kind of woman I haven’t been around for a while.Purposefully.
“We won’t have time to check luggage so I hope that duffel of yours fits in the overhead bin,” she says as the limo pulls up to the departure gate.
“Sorry. I’ve been used to flying on private jets.” Fuck, that sounded dickish.
“Of course you have.” She gives me a look dripping with dismissal and I should want to speak up, defend myself, but her green eyes spark and her fiery hair glows in the car light as the door is opened. I’d rather kiss the fucking dismissal from her as my eyes lower to her lips. “Change of status, Madman. Get used to it. The Brawlers are nothing like your former team.” Her eyes rove my face and one side of her mouth twitches up like she’s enjoying my come-down. “Your current status is so low you’ll be lucky not to end up living in a sub-basement apartment.” She steps out of the open door and I follow her. I grab our bags and have to fucking wrestle her for the privilege of carrying hers while I try to keep my dick under control and worry about my recently acquired submissive kink.
But then I understand the real attraction I have for her. And it’s nothing to do with this temporary submissive-dominance routine she’s trying to sell.
“I got this,” I tell her, taking firm hold of her luggage and swinging it away from her reach. “It’s not a statement about your femininity or position in society. Think of it as a polite gesture by a guy who happens to have some spare muscle power.”
She blows out an exasperated breath and gives me a stony glare.
“Fine. A polite gesture. Good boy. Keep up the Boy Scout act because you have a long way to go.” She takes off with her heels clicking across the tile floor and I keep up with her only because I have long legs and I’m wearing sneakers. Shit.
“You’re a woman on a mission, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Mr. Knight. I believe we covered that.” She stops when we reach the preferred flyer desk and we check in. “You’re my mission.” She hands me my boarding pass. “And I’m not going to fail.”
I believe her and that comforts me like a warm blanket on a frigid night. Maybe she doesn’t hate me. I feel her lust, that attraction between two adults that’s purely physical, but she’s convinced me she may not like me past my cheeky smile and strong body. She may not be into my brand of charm. That would be the first time in a very long time.
And it would be sad. When we get to the boarding area, I pull my cap down in defense of recognition. Normally I don’t mind signing autographs and shooting the shit with fans, but since the video… Well, let’s just say the conversations have tended to be more awkward, less pleasant.
First class is called to board the plane.
“That’s us,” she says and picks up her bag. “I’ll carry it on the plane myself.” She inhales and adds, “Thank you anyway.” I nod and follow, happy to watch the hypnotic sway to her hips and perfect peach ass as we walk through the jetway. And if I’m not mistaken, I see a peek of red on the soles of those sexy heels she’s wearing. There’s definitely more to Harper St. John than a business suit.
When she reaches the plane’s hatch, I’m right behind her, within touching distance. But as she steps across that gap between the bridge and the plane, she stumbles. I reach out and grab her from behind, preventing her fall.
“Oh shit. My shoe.” I hold her against me with one arm and she looks up at me, her face close to mine, her brilliant eyes filled with shock, the kind that I can feel running through my entire body from each point where we touch.
“Is it stuck?”
She nods, then pushes away from me, drops her bag and jerks her foot free.
“Shit.” She looks down and so do I. Her shoe-clad foot is free, but the heel is missing from her fancy red-soled pump.
“Is that your heel stuck between the gangway and the plane?” She’s bent down, too busy trying to pull it free to acknowledge me. One of the flight attendants intervenes to help.
“This happens all the time,” he says, smiling at her. “Let me help.” He puts a hand on her shoulder and I feel the sting as if he’s touching me and I don’t like the familiarity. My protective instincts jump from their recesses, unbidden and whether they’re appropriate or not.
“I’ll get it.” I drop my bag and as I grab hold of the stuck heel and wiggle it free, she reaches in around me.
“I can get it.” She grabs for it, looking at me with determination. But before she can get hold of it, the heel loosens and slips through the crack. I hear the clicking sound of the heel as it hits the tarmac.
