Page 21 of Home for the Hockey-Days

And he’s looking at me like he wants to eat me.

It’s tempting.

I’m sure if I risked stepping closer to him I’d find a pool of drool at his feet.

A long, strained silence stretches out between us.

“You’re Johnny’s girl.” His low voice is a raw growl, like he’s physically fighting his dude-urges to bend me over and fuck me.

I puff out my chest. “The fuck I am. For one, I’m no one’sgirl, and for two, that egomaniacal asshole and I parted ways a while back.”

Something registers on his face, but I can’t figure out what it is. He takes a full step toward me, and it’s as though the closer he comes, the thinner the air gets. His gaze flickers to my chest, and I swear my nipples tighten in response. This guy is practically controlling my body with just a stare.

He takes another step. Part of me wants to see how far he’s prepared to go, and the other wants to taunt him, push him, make him snap. I can’t help myself. “I know you hate him.”

He grunts like it’s an understatement.

I smirk. “What? You don’t want his sloppy seconds?” I know I shouldn’t provoke the giant caveman currently being ruled by his meat compass, but I’m angry, and horny, and I’d much rather August finish getting me off, than leave me to my own devices.

The space between us is eaten up by his long strides, and before I can even blink, my back slams into the wall. He towers over me, his hand holding my jaw so I meet his intense stare. “You’re no one’s sloppy anything, Rowan. Do you hear me?” He’s grinding the words out between gritted teeth.

I’m throbbing, everywhere, desperate for him to touch me. My brain has short circuited. I know he wants me to answer, but my senses are overwhelmed. His dick presses against me, his eyes burn into mine, and he smells of... man. That’s the only word I can think of to describe his musky scent.

“I asked you a question, Rowan.”

I’m not proud of how visceral my body’s reactions are. I’m scared to look down, because the pool of drool that I joked about forming at his feet? That ain’t got nothing on the thick coat of arousal making the tops of my thighs sticky. I offer ajerky nod, but instead of relenting, his entire being presses me more firmly into the wall.

“I need to hear you say it, Rowan. Out loud.”

Fuck. Guys like this don’t exist outside of dirty books and movies, but I’m a puddle of need, painfully aroused, and shamefully eager. “I’m no one’s sloppy seconds.”

“I need to touch you.”

I’ve never known someone to be so transparent before. If his body wasn’t telegraphing that he wanted me, the words fall from his lips like he doesn’t care who hears them.

Deciding I haven’t poked the bear enough, I lean forward and drag my tongue from his jawbone, all the way up to his cheekbone, before placing my mouth close to his ear. “Then fucking touch me.”

He shakes his head. “I need to apologize first.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. He picks now? This moment right here? After I’ve just told him to fucking touch me, to say he’s sorry?

This guy sure has a great sense of comedic timing.

“You do? Now?” My voice is pained.

“Yeah. Now.” His words are gruff. “I shouldn’t have laid hands on you without your permission.” He straightens, putting some space between us, too much fucking space for my liking, but I like how he’s trying to roll back his animalistic tendencies to be a gentleman, or... something.

He pulls back, his eyes flickering to my lips, his chest rising and falling with slow, heavy breaths as though he’s trying not to jump, as though he’s fighting every urge to take me, to own me, to ravage me.

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, indecision and pain in his eyes, his jaw tense. “I wanted to shock you the way you shocked me with a pie in my face, but... I was out of line.”

I roll my lips so I don’t laugh, because he’s right. Heshould be sorry. Just because I liked it doesn’t make his actions right.

“You were out of line.” I nod.

He stares at the hair that falls across my face, picks up his hand, his fingers hovering so close to my skin, I shiver. His eyes search mine for permission, and when I nod again, he tucks the hair behind my ear.

“Consent is sexy.” I somehow manage not to shout over my pounding heartbeat. “And important.”

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