Page 75 of Played
I blink. “Sorry? You have practice tomorrow? And all of you are partying like this?” I wave a hand, encompassing the hockey players in various states of fucked up.
“Hungover or not, we’ll all be there.”
“Wow.” I whistle. “That’s discipline.”
“Nah, that’s wanting to be the next Grant Fuhr and Jarome Iginla.”
I stare blankly at him.
Chuckling, he shakes his head. “The first Black hockey player to win the Stanley Cup and the first Black captain of an NHL team. C’mon, ma. If you’re fucking a hockey player, you’re gonna have to learn something about the sport.”
I suck my teeth, lightly slapping his chest with the back of my hand. “Whatever.” I roll my eyes. “Anyway, are those your idols?”
“Yeah, Grant Fuhr was one of the reasons I wanted to play for the Edmonton Oilers, and Iginla is a legend. They both are.”
I study him for several moments, and he cocks his head to the side.
“What?”
“You keep surprising me.” I shrug, ignoring the melting sensation in my chest. “You’re so different from the jerk I first met. I mean, your mouth is still as wild, but you’re ...” I twirl a hand. “More. So much more.”
He stares down at me, those green eyes vibrant, intense. Part of me longs to glance away, afraid of what I’m projecting back to him with my own gaze. But I can’t. He’s too ... everything.
A big hand curls around my hip, and the other settles low on my back, right above my ass. He tugs me closer until my breasts press against his chest, my thighs align with his, and his dick digs into my abdomen.
Bending his head over mine, he growls, “I got more for you, ma. You gon’ let me give it to you? You gon’ take it?”
Holy shit.
My eyes briefly close. This man is slowly turning me into someone I don’t recognize. Hot in the ass. Needy.
Compromising.
Pushing aside that last one, I lift my lashes and nod.
His face tightens, and I recognize that look. He’s getting ready to fuck my world up. Again. And again.
Turning, he grabs my hand. I look up and catch Minnie watching us, wearing that same expression from earlier. I still can’t read it. Is it anger? Irritation? Hurt?
No, it can’t be any of those. I don’t have anything to do with Minnie other than the occasionalhiandbyewhen I’m talking to or with Noni. So what could I have done to elicit any of those feelings?
Solomon tugs on my hand, and I promptly forget about Minnie and her weirdness tonight. I only focus on him leading me out of the VIP section, down the steps, and toward another door guarded by more security. Spotting Solomon, they both give him head nods and step aside, opening the door.
We enter a quiet, shadowed hallway, and when we reach the second door on the left, he pauses in front of it, twisting the knob. I follow after him into a private bathroom with a gleaming double sink, a privacy stall, and a couple of chairs with a round table.
He doesn’t give me too long to survey the room, because in seconds, he closes the door behind me and then turns back, lifting me up and setting my ass on the sink.
“Six days, ma.” His fingers go to the zipper under my right arm, pinching the tab and slowly drawing it down. “Six days without your mouth on me.” When the zipper stops just under my hip, he releases my arms from the sleeves one at a time and pushes the top down to my hips, leaving me clad in a nude strapless bra from the waist up. He trails a fingertip over the top of my flesh. “Without tasting these pretty-ass titties. Six days without getting in this perfect pussy.”
Getting in this perfect pussy.
The five words reverberate in my head and my sex. An ache sets up deep inside me, and it’s an itch I can’t scratch.Ican’t. But damn,hecan.
Lowering his head, he trails his lips over my collarbones, from one shoulder to the other. Still avoiding my necklace. I shiver, eyes closing at the soft, damp caress with a hint of tongue. Gasp as he reaches behind me and unhooks my bra, slipping it off me.
“Why won’t you leave me alone, Dina? You’re in my head.” He buries his face in my neck as his hand comes up and forms a necklace around it. My breath catches. But not because of the grip around my throat. His words choke off the air in my lungs. That note of pain, of quiet desperation, leaves me breathless. “I’ve fucking begged you to over and over, but you won’t.”
Anger filters into his voice, as if he’s blaming me for his preoccupation with me. Am I supposed to feel guilty about that? Shit, I think it’s only fair, since he refuses to be evicted from my head too. “I’m tired of fighting it,” he whispers, and my stomach clenches in excitement, fear ... hope. “Tired of fighting myself. Especially when there’s no way in hell I’ll win.”
