Page 20 of Home for the Hockey-Days

“Yeah?” A man’s voice breaks the silence.

My hotel door swings but doesn’t shut.

My heart—and hand—stop dead.

I scream, jumping out of bed, smacking the light switch and reaching to the bedside cabinet to find something, anything to use as a weapon against the intruder in my room.

The lamp. The lamp will do. I played softball in high school. I’m ready to face whoever the fuck burst into my room in the middle of the night.

The stupid thing is plugged in, so it takes a couple of tugs to yank it free.

It takes a beat for my eyes to adjust, but I line up myswing, arms raised, hip popped, ready to throw down, once I figure out what the hell I’m dealing with.

Fuck.

It really is August Kade.

I thought that was some weird-ass, pre-orgasm abject terror haze.

Standing with his jacket over his arm, both hands in the air in surrender. The top two buttons of his shirt are open, and his bow tie is draped around his neck.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I might swing this fucking lamp at his face anyway, I’m sure I’d feel better for it.

His jaw hangs wide open, eyes bugging out of his head and fixed on what I now realize is my very, very naked body. “I... I... Fuck. Shit. I don’t know. My card opened the door, Rowan. I swear. I didn’t pick the lock or anything.” He’s talking at my tits, if I wasn’t hopped up on adrenaline, I might laugh.

He shuffles back toward the door, his heel catches my suitcase lying on the ground, and in what seems like slow motion, he falls on his ass with a grunt.

Dropping the lamp on the bed, I lurch toward him.

He’s already scrambling to his feet. “You’re naked!”

He’s right. I am. But I’m also not ashamed of my goodies.

Planting my fists on my hips, I go full Superman pose. Doctor Amelia Shepherd in Grey’s Anatomy says that not only does standing like this make you perform immeasurably better, but it also makes you feel more confident.

The more his eyes rake over every inch of my bare skin, the more my confidence wavers, but my anger rises.

He clears his throat. “You’re still naked.”

“And you’re still standing in my fucking hotel room, August. Only one of these things is weird right now.”

Side-stepping my suitcase, he backs up until the door clicks closed behind him, not once taking his eyes off mine.

He takes a step toward me, then licks his lips.

I’m frozen in place, torn between finishing the job I started in my pulsing lady garden, making the asshole who ruined my orgasm finish it for me, or smacking him upside the head with the fucking lamp.

CHAPTER 9

Rowan

August has left the building.

Not literally. He’s still standing a few feet from me ogling my naked body, and I don’t hate it. In fact, from the heat flickering in those eyes and the way his dick is punching a hole in his pants, I’m totally here for it.

No one has ever looked at me this way. I’m frozen in place because it feels like if I make even the smallest of moves, he’ll pounce. His chest heaves, a weird anticipation hums in the air between us, and I’m doing my level best not to stare at his pants.

It’s hard—both his cock, and the trying not to stare. Sweet baby Jesus in the manger, he’s hung.

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