Page 13 of Arresting the Hockey Player
She finishes the last of her glass of wine. Her cheeks are rosy, but I'm not concerned about her being too drunk or inebriated in her decision-making process. It was one glass of wine, the open bottle on the table still unfinished.
Charlotte bites down on her bottom lip, scrunches her nose in the most adorable way possible, and then straddles me. Her fingers caress the back of my neck as she leans her forehead against mine.
"Do I need to spell it out for you?" she asks in a breathy voice that makes me instantly harden. It could also be her womanly scent, with floral notes of lavender and something much muskier and earthy.
Her fingers trail over my neck in soft patterns, and I imagine her spelling the words, but it could be just the pads of her fingers dancing over my skin.
I don't wait to hear more from her, the desire overwhelming as she grinds against me, making it clear she wants me to fuck her. Our lips crash together, and whether she kissed me first or I leaned in and started the roaring fire between us, I'm not sure, nor does it matter.
Heat licks us like wild flames as my fingers steady her hips and lift her slightly off me only to undress her. She's gorgeous naked, more perfect than any painting or piece of artwork I've ever seen.
Our clothes are quickly discarded on the floor in a heap. I carry her to the bedroom, our lips tangled like our bodies, intertwined, as I trip over her discarded shirt on the floor from earlier, my feet managing to twist unceremoniously.
Cursing, I attempt to regain my balance. I'm just a few feet shy of the bed and manage to place her on the bed before I lose all footing and have to catch myself from landing face-first into the mattress with my feet still on the floor.
Charlotte giggles. "Sorry, I know it's not funny." She's still laughing like she can't help herself, and I grumble, shuffling my feet and tossing the discarded shirt across the room.
Her purse is still on the floor. Turns out both items tripped me up.
"Trying to kill me before my next game? Maybe youreallyare an Island Bruisers fan." I cast an ornery glance at her.
She purses her lips and shuffles to sit up at the edge of the bed. Her arms reach out for me, bringing me to sit with her. I'd rather be doing a dozen other things had I not just made a near-ass out of myself.
It could have been worse. I could have ended up face-first on the floor with a broken nose. Although I'd have liked to have thought I have a little more grace, given all my time on the ice. But I've fallen before and hard.
For some reason, I feel I'm falling again, but this time it's not my feet tangled in her discarded clothes.
"Your friend, Jasper, told you about that?" she asks. Her teeth capture her bottom lip. I reach out, my thumb grazing her lip, willing her to release it.
"I saw it with my own eyes," I say. "And I heard you're the encouraging factor behind her supporting the opposing team."
A smirk grazes her features. "Do you like it when I do that?"
I laugh under my breath. "No, sweetheart. I like it when you cheer formyteam. You should wearmyjersey when you go to a hockey game."
"Even if it's not an Ice Dragons game?" she asks with a knowing smirk.
"Yes. Even if you're at a game with two other teams, you show your loyalty to the Ice Dragons."
She purses her lips together, pondering my statement. "That seems a little—possessive," she says. There's a twinkle in her eye, a spark that roars the warmth and fire inside my belly straight to my groin.
Damn right.
The smirk doesn't leave my face. Right now, nothing could wipe it off. The glee that resonates through me is impossible to mask.
"Good, because I don't sleep with Island Bruiser fans," I say, glancing her over, memorizing every detail of her body in case she breaks my heart and tells me she isn't an Ice Dragons supporter.
A laugh reverberates through her body as she shuffles back and lies against the mattress. "What if I told you that I hated hockey?"
I study her, the rouge of her cheeks, the blush that spreads across her breasts as she makes herself comfortable. "Is this your idea of pillow talk?" I ask, "Because I don't like it."
Charlotte reaches for my hand, and I easily follow as she tugs me to join her. I lie on my side, one hand on her hip, keeping her close as our foreheads are nearly touching. "I'm just asking, what if I hated hockey?"
"But you don't," I say. I'm confident that she doesn't hate the sport. I've seen her with her best friend, Amber, cheering on the Island Bruisers. She even owns one oftheirjerseys. There's no way that she hates hockey. "Is this hypothetical? Would I sleep with someone who doesn't like my job? Would you sleep with a guy who doesn't like the college you're at?" I turn the question onto her.
"That's a moot point," she counters, leaning on her elbow to face me as she shifts onto her side. "I'm not in college forever."
"I may not be playing for the Ice Dragons forever," I say. I'm under a three-year contract from when I was drafted. After that, anything could happen.
