Page 64 of Playing the Pucking Game
“Of course,” I say, hoping like hell it doesn’t sound as enthusiastic as I feel.
Stalking forward, I stop just a beat from her body, close enough that her heat burns down my front and her sweet scent fills my nose.
I went out earlier to get some fresh air, but I think deep down, what I really needed was this.
Reaching out, I pinch the zipper between my thumb and forefinger and begin pulling it down.
The sound fills the air, and I pray it’s loud enough to hide my increased breathing.
Inch after inch of pale skin appears before me.
She isn’t wearing a bra.
Unable to stop myself, I let my finger slip behind the fabric, allowing my knuckle to graze her skin.
The second we connect, she shudders and goose bumps erupt across her skin.
I take in every mole and freckle I discover until I hit the bottom, right above her ass.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her breathing almost as labored as mine.
“I’ll undress you any time, Donnelly. All you need to do is ask.”
“Goodnight, Storm.”
At the dismissal, I take a step back.
“And…thank you.”
A wide smile pulls at my lips.
“You’re welcome, Little P. If either your foot or your body needs redressing in the morning, you just let me know.”
She chuckles but doesn’t say anything, and this time, when I walk away, I do so backward so I can continue getting my fill of her.
My breath catches when she drops her dress. The top half falls, but sadly, it catches on her hips, so I don’t get a shot of her in just her panties.
“I thought you were leaving,” she shoots over her shoulder, aware of my lingering attention.
“I am. Going right now,” I say, as I blindly search for the handle behind me.
“Great,” she says, pulling an oversized T-shirt over her head. “And anyway, it’s not like you haven’t seen them before.”
Her words are like a slap upside the head, and it only gets worse when I discover the T-shirt she’s pulled on is one of Rett’s.
His name and number are impossible to miss on the back as she shimmies her dress down, letting it drop to her ankles.
Your best friend’s little sister.
And yeah, I have seen her tits before. They’re the things dreams are fucking made of.
“Goodnight, Little P,” I finally say as I pull the door open.
“Night, Linc. Be a good boy and go and ice that leg.”
A self-deprecating laugh falls from my lips as I force myself to walk away, images I don’t need in high definition in my head.
In six years, she’s never said even a word about what happened that night.
