Page 56 of The Last Kind of Kiss
Bristol’s brown eyes peer at me through a canopy of thick lashes, hooded with a pinch of lust and an itinerary that tells methere’s an afternoon of bad decisions waiting for the both of us. “You’re going to distract me the entire game, you know that?”
“Why? Because I’m wearing your jersey?” I flirt.
He leans on the butt of his stick with a groan. “Because you look like a fuckinggoddesswearing it.”
Hello, Mr. Ego Booster.
My tongue darts out to swipe over the front of my incisor, and I pretend to contemplate my next set of words. “Would you like it better if I took it…off?”
Trust me, the attraction is still there. I remember the sex vividly. I remember the way he split me open on his huge cock and talked me through it with that huskier-than-hell voice of his. I remember the way he filled me up with his cum, marked me as his, and left me with a soreness in my pussy that I felt for days later. I remember the way he ate me out like he was the master of his goddamn trade.
A pained look dances across his face. “Don’t tempt me, angel. If it’s coming off,I’mgonna be the one taking it off you.”
Whew. This definitely isn’t appropriate talk for a hockey game. If I wasn’t being photographed by a ton of cameras right now, I’d break through this damn plexiglass and take what’s rightfully mine. Bristol has always made it hard for me to stay mad at him. He drives me so crazy that I should be locked up in a padded room somewhere.
The other players on the ice mill about—stretching and chatting—and I can feel the intensity of the atmosphere soar, anticipation burning like the last lit coals of a dwindling bonfire. Fans are getting antsy, paparazzi are getting cutthroat, and Aeris is watching raptly as we flirt shamelessly with one another.
“How many goals do I need to score tonight to get a kiss from you?” Bristol asks, inching just the tiniest bit closer to the fogged-up partition.
None. I’ll kiss you right now. I’ll make out with you right now. I’ll literally throw my panties at you!
Whoa. Chill, girl.
There’s an anxious twitch in my belly that stretches my resolve like Laffy Taffy, and instead of standing my ground and allowing him a single peck on the cheek, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “One goal equals one kiss.”
There’s no way Bristol will score more than one goal this game, right? Some players don’t even score at all during a game. That was a good answer. More than one kiss can be disastrous for me, especially in the weakened state I’m in.
Thankfully, the buzzer goes off right on time to signal the start of the game, and my dignity is saved by the bell. If he kept grilling me and saying all the right things, there’s no telling what could have transpired. All Bristol does is wink at me before skating off to join his teammates, which seems like a terrifying response compared to a normal agreement.
I plop back down in my seat, staring at the residual scraps of overpriced food begriming the ground.
“Wow. That didn’t…look…fake,” Aeris comments.
My throat cinches tight. “It didn’tfeelfake either.”
The Riverside Reapers are up against the West Valley Wolverines, who, according to Aeris, are formidable opponents. She’s become a hockey pro after being with one for a few years. I know my fair share of the game, but I was a bit more enthusiastic about it when I wasn’t “dating” a pro hockey player. I’ve watched Bristol play a couple times. He’s good—quick on his feet, confident, and has a foolproof technique that allows him to skate circles around his opponents. More-than-one-goal good? I guess we’ll find out tonight.
The faceoff starts with Bristol at center ice, a sheer mass of muscle hunched over in an intimidating position on the other side of the puck. His opponent is lither from what I can tell, buthe matches him with fierce competition blazing in his eyes. When the whistle chimes, a sea of blue and yellow jerseys clash into one another, merging into one frenzied coalescence. The riled shouts from the ice, the strongly opinionated voices from the crowd, and the announcer’s boisterous commentary all work together to feed the chaotic fire.
Bristol hurtles across the rink at a speed I can’t even keep up with, gaining momentum as he plays an advanced shell game with the puck flitting between his stick. It dips in and out of his legs, evading the other incoming players, and bolting for a straight line toward the Wolverines’ goal in record time.
I scoff to myself. “There’s no way he’ll make this.”
His teammates are quick to tail him, but it’s the other team’s defense that intercepts his clear shot. He instantly turns around, collides with the body of a yellow-clad player, and swings his stick low to the ground. The puck flies across the surface of the ice, aims for the bottom lefthand corner of the goal, and skims right past the goalie’s ankles. There’s a delayed attempt to block it, but the net’s already billowed back with disc in tow, and the stands come to life with raucous cheering.
I can’t believe this. There goes my one kiss. How did he do that? What evil demons did he summon to make a goal that seamless, that quickly? This…this is some sick joke. I bet he sold his soul to the Devil. Or drank the blood of a bunch of innocent orphans to give himself superpowers.
Aeris is just as shocked as I am, slack-jawed and eyes frozen open. “Damn.”
I hate that he just scored a goal—a goal that I can assume won’t be the last one of the night. And I hate it even more that my body’s getting ready for some yummy Bristol action. If I wasn’t wearing this potato sack, I’d be flashing everyone in the nearby vicinity with my hardened nipples.
When Bristol glides over in my direction, he holds up one gloved finger and gives me the biggest shit-eating grin.
A sigh flutters out of me as I turn to face Aeris, placing my hand on her shoulder. “Aer-Bear, remember the strong woman I used to be.”
She nods her head. “Don’t worry, Li. IftheBristol Brenner was wooing me, I’d probably fold too.”
I’m fucked. Oh, I’m so fucked.
