Those Three Little Words (The Vancouver Agitators, #2)

by Meghan Quinn

I learned from a young age that life is short, and you have to fucking enjoy every second of it. So my rule is to say yes. Say yes to as much shit as you can.

I was entranced. I was hooked. I was stolen for the rest of the night. My mind wanted one thing. Her. She had my attention, and no one would steal me away. No one would stop me. Because in all honesty, I’ve had my eye on her for a while, ever since I met her two years before.

This is the story of how I wear the title “Ultimate Fuckup,” because not only did I accidentally get the girl in the hot pink dress pregnant . . . But I broke bro code. Because the girl in the hot pink dress is the sister of my teammate . . . and best friend.

Never hurts a man’s ego to hear the woman he’s been lusting after for two years thinks he’s attractive. Nope, I’m going to keep that little nugget of info very close to my dick.

“Uhh . . . because you’re a fucking goddess and being recognized by you feels really fucking amazing,” I say before I can stop myself.

“For your information, from the moment I first met you, I’ve wanted to fuck you. Don’t believe it if you want”—my lips graze her ear—“but it’s fucking true. Those lips of yours, I’ve wanted to own them. Your tits, I’ve wanted to worship. And your pussy, I’ve wanted to taste it.”

“Every time I’ve run into you, every time I’ve made eye contact with you, or anytime I’ve been close enough to smell your perfume, I’ve thought about all the dirty, naughty, delicious things I could do to you. Dreamed about it. Wondered what it would be like to have you riding my cock, your tits bouncing near my face, your pussy pulsing against my length. So don’t for one goddamn moment think what I said was a joke. I’d never joke about fucking you . . . ever.”

I. Want. Her. Need. Her. Bad. And I’m not sure anything can stop me from having her tonight.

Penny Lawes is done with me. Even though I’m not remotely done with her.

He shakes his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, Penny. Hockey doesn’t come first. You and this baby do.”

Penny: Oh my God, Blakely. I’ve had to fart so bad, and Eli finally left the room. Why is this happening to me? I snort so hard, droplets of snot fly out of my nose. Oh shit, she’s going to be absolutely mortified when she realizes she sent the text to the wrong person. And we just moved past the awkwardness. I have a feeling this might set us back. But . . . I chuckle.

Penny: I just farted again. I’ve never felt so light in my life. Do you think all the gas I’ve been having lately is the reason for the nausea? I think I’m going to ask Dr. Big Pecs. Dr. Big Pecs? Who the hell is that?

“Hey, how are you feeling?” I ask. “Fine.” She pushes her toe into the floor, not making eye contact with me. “I, uh, I see that you have your phone.” Oh shit, she figured it out. “I do,” I say. How should I navigate this? Should I tell her I read the texts? Should I act like they never happened? I know one thing is for sure . . . Don’t. Fucking. Laugh.

My mind went so far to think that as I’m walking through the door of my apartment to the tangy, tomatoey smell of lasagna, he’s waiting on the counter, stretched out completely naked with an oven mitt on his ding-dong, waiting for me to rip it off and start sucking. Yes, sucking. That is where we’re at, folks. Sucking a man on a countertop.

Instead, he’s leaning on the counter, looking at his phone . . . dressed. Sure . . . he looks great and all in his light blue sweater and dark jeans with his hair styled to the side that says, I’m meeting the parents tonight. There is nothing about him screaming, “suck my cock, bitch,” and it’s incredibly disappointing.

Not only is she smiling but there’s also a cheeriness in her voice that raises the hair on the back of my neck. Warning. Warning. Proceed with caution. If you’re thinking, you should be scared, Eli, you’re right. Given her past hormonal changes, this could be a real doozy. And I don’t know how to react to that other than in fear. My belly button’s all puckered up, shrinking as she moves around the kitchen, grabbing herself water.

Does she know I fucking live for the smell of that lotion? That I so look forward to the smell of it at night that I actually bought myself a travel-size bottle. And I’m so pathetic that I rub it on my hands at night before I go to bed when I’m away.

Love me. Make love to me. Tell me that I’m the only woman you ever want in your life. Truly make me yours, brand me, mark me, make sure it’s obvious I belong to no one else but you. Eliminate this tormenting feeling that’s pulsing through me every time I look into your eyes. Don’t leave me alone in this world of love, wondering, hoping, begging that you’ll open your eyes and see how much I can offer you.