Page 309 of Playing the Pucking Game
I laugh. “Good to see your ego is intact.”
“Always, babe. Now, go get ready. I’m excited for my first date with the girl of my dreams.”
I continue to stare up at him.
How?
How has this happened?
I lean forward to kiss him, but he presses two fingers against my lips, stopping me.
I frown, unimpressed by his move.
“If you kiss me now, we’re never going to stop. I want to at least attempt this date before we get distracted.”
I bite down on my bottom lip. “But getting distracted sounds so good.”
I’m so ready for what comes next for us. My body is desperate for it.
I want him. All of him. And my patience is running out.
“Go and get ready, pretty girl,” he demands. His voice is rough, and it makes my core clench with need.
“Okay,” I breathe before finally snatching the jersey from his hand and rushing toward my bedroom.
I strip naked in record time and take the fastest shower known to man to freshen up, and in exactly ten minutes, I’m back in the living room wearing nothing but his jersey.
Linc is leaning against the kitchen island, wearing just his gray sweats and staring down at his cell with a small frown playing on his brow.
“Is everything okay?” I ask in concern.
His eyes lift a beat before they widen, a smile spreading across his lips. “Fuck,” he grunts, taking me in from head to toe. “Everything is absolutely perfect. Turn around for me.”
Unable to deny his request, I spin on the balls of my feet.
“Lift the hem,” he demands when my back is to him.
Hooking one finger around the fabric, I pull it up, letting him see my bare ass beneath.
“Fuck. I think I just came.”
I giggle and glance back over my shoulder.
The expression on his face is everything. I wish I could bottle it and keep it forever.
That one look alone makes me feel so loved, so cherished, so beautiful.
Marching forward, Linc grabs my hand and tugs me toward the couch.
“On you get,” he demands, slapping my ass the second I bend over to crawl on.
He growls, rumbling deep in his throat, and I put a little extra wiggle into my hips as my jersey begins to ride up as I crawl forward.
“Goddamn, Parker,” he groans.
I flip over and find him still standing at the end of the couch, his hand massaging his neck and a tent in his sweats.
I did that.
