Page 31 of At the Edge with You

I slowly shut my eyes and remind myself that I have to hear her out and that she’s here to help me, not take anything from me. It almost works, until she enters my office. As soon as her lush, jean-clad ass drops into the chair in front of me and she leans on my desk with a file, I know I’m fucked.

Not only is Fable stunning this morning, but she has come with a file, and in the file are detailed plans and Post-it notes. It’s her mind on paper, and it’s a goddamn mess, while she looks like a walking dream. Her hair down in wild waves, she’s wearing a little makeup and gloss on her thick lips. She has on an oversized black tee that hangs off one shoulder, showing the strap of a bright-pink sports bra, leaving perfect spots bare that I want to suck on. Those painted-on jeans have rips along the knees, and she’s added a pair of pink canvas shoes. Her eyes are full of excitement and a determination that I haven’t seen since we were training together.

And she smells like a field of my favorite wildflowers.

Which only makes sense because my ice princess is as wild as they come. Gardenias, tuberose, mint, and lyreleaf greeneyes. She makes me want to roll around on her like a dog and hope I walk away with every single scent of hers on me.

Not even wishing me a good morning, she jumps right in. “The first thing we need to do is contact parents to let them know that I’ll be taking over instructing,” she tells me, pulling me from my horndog thoughts.

I take the paper from her and mutter, “Good morning to you too.”

“Morning,” she says, but I can’t focus on anything but the photo on this paper. It has a whole bunch of words and a photo of her on skates, her arms above her head in a pose, but all I see are her nipples through the leotard she wears. She’s wearing white tights that don’t hide the many tattoos along her hips and the tops of her tights. She has this hourglass figure that makes me want to fall to my knees for a chance at her, even if the sand runs out.

But then, I stare harder at the photo, my eyes widening to the size of pucks.

Fuck me, are her nipples pierced?

I blink a few times before I look up at her, and she looks back, confused. “What?”

“You picked this photo?”

Her brows draw in, her face showing pure annoyance as her little nose tips up. “Yes, it’s a good shot. I look approachable.”

“For a Hooters,” I say, my cock wanting a front-row seat to her in that white shirt with those tits on display.

Her eyes widen as she gawks at me. “Excuse me!”

“Princess, your nipples are hard and showing.”

She yanks the paper from my hand, and then a look of horror passes over her face. Her brows shoot up, her cheeks blazing red, and she coughs on air. “This isn’t the right picture.” She runs her hand down her face and shakes her head. “I had on a jacket that hid my breasts in the other one.”

I scoff, trying to hold back my smirk. “I don’t think a jacket would hide those babies.”

Her eyes darken. Fuck, she’s stunning. “You’re a pig,” she accuses, and I shrug.

For her… Yes. Yes, I am. “We can’t use that photo. Or, we can…and you’ll get all the men of Thistlebrook as students.” I give her a pointed look, and her scowl deepens. “If that’s yourgoal, just come to a game in that outfit, without the jacket, of course, and you’ll leave with someone.”

The look of disgust that covers her face pleases me entirely too much. She gives me an irritated look. “As I said, it’s the wrong photo, and I will be replacing it.”

“Good,” I say, and then my traitorous eyes fall to her lovely breasts, and I drink in the sight for a moment. She’s always had small, teardrop tits that would fit in my mouth perfectly. Now they’re just a bit bigger, but it’s all good, because I have a huge mouth.

When I look up, I meet her eyes with an over-exaggerated, bored gaze. She caught me staring at her, but I don’t care. I grin widely at her, and her breath catches audibly. “Can I ask a personal question?”

“You cannot,” she quips back, her tone breathless as she tucks her paper back into her file.

“Why not?” I ask, unable to stop grinning. She’s so flustered and I love it. “We’re friends.”

Her eyes cut to me. “Friends don’t talk about their friends’ boobs.”

“Me and my friends do.” She rolls her eyes. “And how do you know it’s about your boobs?”

Her eyes narrow. “Because I just caught you trying to look through my shirt and bra. So, no, I won’t tell you a thing about them.”

“It’s a simple question.”

“No,” she says before turning the page. “Now, I looked at the budget, and I have a list of things I want to upgrade in the west rink. I also—” I didn’t even realize my eyes have trailed back down to her boobs until she stops. “For real, Jett?”

I lean back in my chair and shrug, not the least bit ashamed. “They’re all I can think about.”

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