Page 19 of Mister Hockey
Whoever got a shot with their wildest fantasy? No one, that’s who. And better yet, here she was getting exactly that.
“Hey,” he breathed, pulling back, cupping her cheeks, forehead resting against hers.
“Hi.” She let her lids fall shut and just existed. “Be in the present,” was one of those nauseatingly pragmatic pieces of advice like drink lots of water or get eight to nine hours of beauty sleep.
Of course it was a sensible idea, but coffee was so delicious and so was wine. And who could go to bed before midnight when there was always another chapter?
But right now, right here, she was in the present and it was good here. So good. The past didn’t matter. Neither did the future. Just the now. Just this.
Jed West stroked the soft skin near her temple with his thumb, touching her like she was of value. Precious.
“Let me see those eyes, pretty,” he rumbled.
And when Jed West put the sheer force of his will to something, it happened. Her lids sprang open.
“I’d better be careful,” he whispered. “I could get lost in there.”
She mashed her lips.
“Too cheesy?”
“I happen to love cheese.” She kissed the corner of his mouth. Because those were perfect lips. Because she could. “That was a gouda compliment. Get it, good-a? Eh? Eh?”
“That’s terrible,” he groaned.
“I’m here all night, ladies and gentlemen,” she said in a fake late-night host voice.
“Get back over here.” He slanted his mouth over her and they didn’t come up for air for an hour. Night fell outside the windows. An hour of nothing but kissing and it was easily the hottest encounter of her life. Finally they broke off, panting, entwined and unsure where to take it from here.
“What’s that?” he mumbled, shifting to better get an arm around her waist.
“On my shelves? They are called books.” They were literally exploding with titles. She’d stacked two more piles on either side of the case. There were classics there, Mark Twain, Jane Austen and Virginia Woolf. But also the entire Sweet Valley High series. And V.C. Andrews. Was he trying to judge her reading because nothing besides someone dissing the Hellions made her feistier.
“I meant the photo.” He squinted, rising up on one elbow. “Is that you?”
“Let me guess.” She groaned, knowing exactly what he was talking about without looking. “You want to know why I’m skating with a traffic cone?”
“I’ve seen toddlers do that I think, but...”
“I was eight. My mom coached me,” Breezy said grimly. “She was actually good back in the day. Really good. Qualified for the U.S. championships back in the seventies good. A couple of years ago she married the Zamboni driver at her rink, my stepdad, Jim. Neve was pretty good too. Didn’t go as far as Mom, but had the knack. They bonded over it. Mom made all her costumes.”
“What about you?”
“No knack.” She shrugged. “No bond. I appreciate skating as a sport. I do. But not going to lie, I suck monkeys at it. I’m good at reading. It’s kind of my thing. Sports? Nope. But enough about me and my boring sibling rivalry. Big sister good at everything. Little sister can’t keep up. Blah. Blah. Zzzz.”
That’s when she sensed it. A tenseness. A fidgety unease.
Zzzz was right. This was supposed to be sexy times. She was boring him batty with tales from her sad-sack childhood.
Of course he wanted to go. Could she be any more of a boner killer?
At least she’d get to have bragging rights for the rest of her life. Fodder for a sassy PG-13 story to be regaled over future family dinners.
Hey, Mom,wannahear about the time Jed West chose me for an hour of not-so-innocent tonsil hockey. Not Neve. Me!
Yeah. Or maybe she could just keep this little chestnut to herself.
If she sucked the face of a hockey god and no one ever found out, did it actually happen?
