Page 71 of Slap Shot Scandal
“Weston…” My eyes flutter closed as I get lost in the haze of him—the crisp scent of his cologne, his tender touch, the desire shimmering between us.
I can’t think, can’t second-guess. All I can do in this moment is feel and it’s fucking magical.
“Harbor?” His deep voice brings me back to reality. “I’m only going to ask you this one more time. Now’s your chance to bow out. Because once we do this, there’s no going back.”
No going back.
To the safety of professional distance, to my father’s playbook of perfection.
The point of no return. Maybe it’s exactly what I need to finally start living.
“Are you sure?” His gaze is steady on mine, pupils dark and wide.
I’ve never been more sure about anything in my whole damn life.
I nod. “Absolutely. I want you, Weston.”
What I don’t say—can’t say—is:I need you.
Too much, too soon.
I’m borderline already going too far, but right now I don’t care.
All I care about is the incessant pulsing between my thighs, the racing of my heart as he slips his hand between my legs.
“Yes…” I practically hiss the word, my hips moving all on their own. Wanting—needing—more.
Harder, faster.
He strokes the sensitive skin, teasing my swollen clit through the satin of my panties.
God, I need this man.
To show him how sure I am about this, I shimmy off his lap and slip my panties down my legs, losing the skirt in the process.
I’m fully naked in front of him and his lips break into a Cheshire cat grin.
“What?” I raise a brow, biting at the corner of my mouth.
“You’re sexy as fuck, you know that?” He stands up, ripping his gym shorts off and freeing his cock. Fisting himself, he pumps a few times before rummaging through his bag and producing a condom.
“Wow. You’re prepared. Was this on your to-do list today?”
“No. But I am the oldest child by five minutes. Preparedness is a byproduct of the position.” He tears open the foil packet and rolls the rubber over his impressive length. Then he sinks back down onto the chair, pulling me toward him.
I drop down onto his lap, gliding my hand up and down his stiff shaft. He’s big.
Like, really big.
I mean, proportional and everything. But the man’s six-five. A giant to my five-foot-four stature.
“You still good?” Weston’s hands still on the small of my back, eyes narrowed.
I swallow hard. “Yeah. It’s just—you’re really…big.”
He laughs, his chest vibrating. “Don’t worry, Hurricane. It’ll fit. I won’t break you. Promise.”
His expression’s so intense, so sincere, and my breath hitches in my throat.
