Page 109 of Playing the Pucking Game
“Look at me,” he demands.
I don’t.
“Parker, I said look at me.” His voice is deep and commanding, leaving me powerless but to follow his orders.
Our eyes collide, and the air crackles between us.
Mimicking his move from earlier, he lifts his hand and tucks a lock of loose hair behind my ear. My tumbling curls are no more; instead, it’s a frizzy mess. My makeup isn’t faring much better, either. The outside of me looks as bedraggled as my insides feel.
“Whatever you need, all you need to do is ask. I told you once before, and I’ll tell you again, I’ll do anything for you, Parker. Anything.”
A sob erupts, and I squeeze my eyes closed to try to ward off the threatening tears.
These aren’t the words I need to hear. Not from a man who spends his life collecting puck bunnies like they're going out of fashion.
He’s a player in every sense of the word, and in one way or another, they always break your heart.
I stopped it from happening six years ago. I protected myself and got out before I fell in too deep. I doubt I’ll be strong enough to do the same thing twice.
The heat from his body burns down my front, and his warm breath tickles over my skin, making my nipples pebble behind the soft fabric of my tank.
It would be so easy to fall into something stupid here.
So fucking easy.
When he steps forward, his body bumping mine, my eyes fly open and I jump back. Only I don’t get very far because I hit the wall.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Parker. Always have been,” he whispers, his voice floating around me like a prayer.
“Linc, please.” The words fall from my lips without instruction from my brain. It’s my pussy talking, my desperation to get off and ride that high for a few blissful seconds.
His hips press against mine, allowing me to feel his hardness. Heat floods my core as my clit pounds in time with my racing heart.
“God, Parker. I fucking dream about hearing you beg me.”
He leans closer, and my fingers twist in his T-shirt.
Pull him closer.
Push him away.
Take what you need.
Protect your heart.
Your job.
You’re—
“No,” I cry a beat before his lips brush mine.
I dart from my position pinned between him and the wall and run toward the exit.
“Shit. Parker. I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m sorry, alright?”
“I know, Linc. I know,” I cry as I race toward my door and swing it closed. The slam echoes around the bedroom.
My chest heaves as my heart continues to race. His scent still floods my nose, and my core continues to beg for what could have been.
