Page 70 of Slap Shot Scandal
Back to Weston and his piercing blue gaze.
Butterflies zoom around my belly as his eyes rake over me, assessing the situation.
I should probably feel self-conscious. The man’s gorgeous, a professional hockey star. I’m sure he’s seen his fair share of beautiful women.
But surprisingly, I’m not nervous or insecure.
All I feel is buzzy excitement.
This is really happening.
He reaches up, his large hands wrapping around my waist, pulling me into his lap again.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, his fingers tickling my bare stomach. “So damn perfect. I’ve been wanting to see you like this.”
“Like what? Naked?”
He chuckles, a low, throaty rumble sending a ripple of excitement zinging through me.
“Yes, that. But I was going to go with something more poetic. I was thinking more along the lines of undone.”
“Oh.” I lick my bottom lip, contemplating his answer. He’s definitely deeper than I gave him credit for.
“And I wanted to be the one responsible for that. Maybe someplace a little more romantic than the video room, though.” He traces his finger along my cheek, down my jawline to the divot in my neck.
I half-sigh, half-giggle as he undresses me slowly, soslowly, my blouse slipping off my shoulders, my arms, until it pools on the floor in a silky puddle.
“This…” He drops his lips to my ear, heat rushing over me. “Right here. This freckle’s been taunting me since I met you.” His tongue darts out, licking the spot.
Cupping my cheek, he kisses me softly and I melt into him. He tastes so good, fresh and minty, his lips moving over mine. I open to him and his tongue slides in, exploring. Chill bumps rise on my skin as his hands tangle in my hair.
I could stay like this, locked away with Weston, forever.
So this is what it feels like to choose myself over other people’s expectations. To prioritize my happiness over family reputation, personal desire over professional perfectionism.
My father would call it weakness. But it’s the toughest thing I’ve ever done.
I feather my fingers over his strong pecs, his biceps. The man is ripped, his muscles visible even beneath his gray T-shirt.
Breaking our kiss, he reaches behind him and yanks his shirt off, dropping it to the floor next to mine.
Fuck me.
He’s every bit as gorgeous as he was in the locker room. I didn’t know there was such a thing as an eight-pack in real life, but he’s got it. I trace the ridges of his abs, the deep V of his hips peeking out from the waistband of his shorts.
Sexy as hell.
I’m torn between savoring the moment and cutting straight to the chase, my pussy throbbing with desire.
Weston drops his lips to my chest, kissing the delicate skinpeeking out of my bra. My nipples harden into sharp points as he thumbs them through the thin satin material. Reaching behind my back, he smoothly unhooks the lingerie, lowering the straps over my shoulders and freeing my breasts.
Cupping the tender flesh in his palms, his calloused fingers tickle my sensitive skin. Wetness floods my panties and a moan falls from my lips, loud in the quiet space.
“Fucking gorgeous, baby,” he murmurs, bending down to lick and suck my nipples. “I’ve been dreaming of these perfect tits since the first press conference.”
My entire body’s hot and humming with desire as I straddle him, hitching my skirt up around my hips for better movement. He’s fully aroused, his cock thick and hard against my belly through his shorts.
I need this man right now.
