Page 106 of Playing the Pucking Game
Images I shouldn’t have fill my eyes, and the second a smirk curls at the side of his mouth, I realize he can read my mind.
Goddamn him.
“I’m not coming near you if your balls are hanging free, Storm.”
“Aw, I love it when you talk dirty to me,” he mocks as he tucks his thumbs into his sweats and shoves them down his legs, revealing his tight black boxer briefs beneath.
“You’re a nightmare,” I mutter under my breath.
“Nah, I’m pretty sure I spend more time in women’s dreams.”
“Christ.”
Grabbing my water bottle from the counter, I follow him toward his bedroom.
Linc’s house, especially his bedroom, is so different to what I was expecting when he first brought me here.
In my head, it was going to be a bachelor pad with clothes and takeout containers strewn everywhere. Posters of naked girls on the walls and pairs of panties hanging from lamps. But the reality is far from that.
This place is homey. From the moment I walked through the front door, I felt relaxed. It doesn’t scream sex den or party pad. I could actually live here, which is a thought I really don’t need to have. I also don’t need to get used to it, because the kind of place I’m going to be able to afford is going to feel like a cardboard box after this.
I may have been in his bedroom already, but today, the second I step over the threshold, it feels completely different.
The air is thick with tension, and I can only assume that’s because there is a half-naked Adonis of a man lying on the bed.
I run my eyes up his solid, muscular legs, pausing when I get to the bulge in the front of his boxers.
Walk away, Parker.
Go to your room and lock the door.
“Little P?” Linc questions, and the second I realize I’m standing here staring at his dick, my eyes dart to his and my face burns bright red.
“Sorry, I?—”
“It’s okay. You look all you like.”
“Linc,” I warn as I move closer.
Despite knowing it’s the worst thing I can do, I’m drawn to him like a magnet.
“Tell me about your date,” he demands.
A laugh erupts. “You really don’t want to hear about that.”
“I do,” he argues.
What he means is he wants to know why I walked home in the rain, and probably why I looked so miserable when he found me dripping all over his expensive wooden floor.
“It…it wasn’t right,” I say as I trace up his adductor muscle, watching his reaction for any sign of pain.
“In what way?”
I sigh as I begin massaging the area he’s been struggling with.
In a way that I couldn’t put myself in a position of being with another man when I can’t get thoughts and memories of you out of my head.
“I don’t know,” I lie. “Seemed like a good idea through a screen. The reality wasn’t what I thought it would be.”
