Page 54 of Must Love Dogs… and Hockey

I slowly turn to face her again. Our eyes meet in a burst of sparks that I feel prickle all over my skin. “Thanks.”

She bites her bottom lip in a way that has my dick stirring.

“You look hot in pajamas.”

She glances down at herself and laughs. “These are the unsexiest clothes ever.” She straightens her legs to survey her feet, covered in fuzzy pink socks.

“Well, truthfully, you always look hot, so it probably doesn’t matter.”

Her cheeks rosy up. Her long eyelashes drift down, then back up. Heat shimmers around us. We’re both saying things we probably shouldn’t, but I don’t care. Sheishot. I’ve thought that from the moment my dog attacked hers in the park. I don’t care if she’s my dog walker or my dishwasher or what the fuck ever. I want her.

Her lips part and I focus on them…so plump and pink. Her breasts rise and fall beneath her gray shirt in quick breaths. My entire body seizes with arousal so fierce I can’t breathe.

I think we both move, practically jumping each other, our mouths crashing together, and then we’re making out like horny teenagers on her couch, our hands everywhere, mouths joined in long, frantic kisses. I slide my tongue inside her mouth and her tongue teases mine. Christ, I’m so hard it hurts.

She draws back and stares at me, eyes hazy, her mouth wet. “Oh wow.”

I trace her cheek with my fingertips. “Yeah. Wow.”

Chapter 11

Lilly

When Easton walked in looking so defeated and down, my heart contracted. I knew they’d lost the game, obviously, but it didn’t seem like a reason to be that devastated. Teams lose games all the time. I also knew he’d made a mistake near the end of the third period because the hockey commentators talked about it, but it didn’t register with me that his coach would be pissed and give him shit for it. I should have known, from what I’ve heard about him. Asshole.

Not only did I want to make him feel better…I just wanted him. Dressed in his suit, looking so freaking hot and big and buff, hair falling over his forehead in that rebellious tumble, walking his dog…my ovaries pretty much exploded and hormones flooded my body.

I’d been thinking about what it would be like…to be with him…even knowing we shouldn’t. But those hormones obliterated my common sense, and now we’re sitting on my couch, panting, staring at each other after the most explosive, heart-pounding, panty-melting kisses I’ve ever had.

Holy shit.

“Your roommate?” He murmurs.

“She’s in bed.” I jerk my head toward the closed door at one end of the room. The apartment is a decent size by New York standards, but it’s still small.

“Ah.” He rubs his thumb along my bottom lip.

“My bedroom’s upstairs.” I gesture vaguely at the spiral staircase.

“Let’s go there.” He pauses. “Okay?”

“Yes.” I stand on weak legs and he rises too, picking up our glasses of wine from the table. I’d leave the wine; all I want is him. But it’s nice that he’s doing that and it doesn’t feel like he’s just trying to get me into the sack. It’s like he’s trying to…seduce me.

I like it.

I leave the lamps on, because who cares, and lead the way upstairs. I feel him behind me all the way up, and I hear Otis following too. Not sure how this is going to work, but we’ll figure it out.

My bedroom and tiny bathroom occupy a sort of loft area in the apartment. I also have sliding doors onto a small deck at the back of the building. I love my bedroom; it’s my sanctuary. But it’s decorated with flea market finds, like the black iron bed frame, old oak nightstands, a painted dresser, and a chair I recovered with a pink-rose-patterned fabric, mixed with IKEA deals like the small desk and chair, the rug, and the piles of soft blankets and cushions on the poufy duvet, all in shades of rose and ivory and pale pink, different patterns and textures. The fairy lights around the sliding doors and above the bed come on when I flick the light switch. There isn’t an overhead light in the room, just the twinkling white lights and the antique lamp beside the bed.

I don’t know what he’ll think of this. I turn to face him as he hands me my wineglass.

“This is a cool room,” he says softly.

“Thanks.” We watch each other as we sip our wine. Then we both turn to observe Otis curling up on the round rug in the corner, right in front of the big mirror that sits propped there. We face each other again, smiling.

“Good boy,” he murmurs.

“Yes.”

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