Page 255 of Playing the Pucking Game
When she’s in my arms like this, nothing else in the world exists.
The chime announces that we’ve made it to the top floor, and the doors open, but neither of us even attempts to leave.
After a few minutes, the doors slide closed again.
“Linc,” Parker gasps when I kiss along her jaw and down her neck.
“Yeah, babe. What do you need?”
“You,” she confesses. “Always you.”
“Fuck,” I breathe, pressing my forehead against hers as I try to catch my breath.
When she says stuff like that, it makes me feel like a king.
Better than scoring in a game. Better than any trophy I could win. Better than any-fucking-thing.
“Come on,” I say, grabbing her hand and jabbing my finger against the open-door button.
I don’t bother stopping in the living area. It’s late—okay, that’s a lie. It’s barely ten, but I’ve got to be at the arena first thing. We’ve got a game to prepare for, and there is no way in hell I’m letting the Bandits get the better of us—not with the way they’re playing this season. Rett might be my best friend, but there is no way I’m letting him off easy on the ice. I already know he isn’t going to offer me any reprieve when he finds out what I’m doing with his sister.
Instead, I head straight for Parker’s bedroom. We both know it’s where we’re going to be sleeping tonight, after all.
The desire to detour to mine is strong, but doing so seems like a big deal.
I’m trying to take this at her pace, and until she asks, we’ll stick to her room.
I kick the door gently, not wanting to shut it just in case it freaks her out, even with me in here, before I turn to face her.
Lifting our joined hands, I kiss down her wrist to where her bracelet lies.
Our eyes hold as I brush my lips over it.
The second I saw it, I knew it would look incredible on her.
My agent was pissed when I called our meeting to a close before he was ready. But the moment the idea hit, I knew I had to follow through with it. Parker deserves to be treated like a queen, and I fully intend to ensure she knows it.
“One day,” I whisper, “I’m going to fuck you in nothing but this and those heels.”
Her breath catches, and she swallows thickly at my words.
“No one is stopping you.”
Yes, they are.
I am.
I’m stopping me.
“Turn around,” I command, my voice thick with desire from the image I just painted for her. “Good girl.”
She whimpers as I drop her hand in favor of brushing her wavy, red hair over one shoulder, exposing the zip that runs down her back.
Pinching the small bit of metal, I slowly begin undressing her.
God, this is torture at its finest—unwrapping the best gift I’ve ever received, already knowing I’m not going to allow myself to fully enjoy it.
Not yet.
