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I wonder what girl he kept around long enough to ink his skin for.
“I have no problem with that. I love to eat.” He licks his lips, and the implication behind his words is obvious. “Sleep tight, Red. You have no idea what you’re in for.”
Hartwell’s hockey skills are on a different planet, and I think I might be a little bit in love with her.
I’m going to dream about the way she hits the puck until my dying days.
“Besides, how hard can it be to play on an NHL team? Boys do it.” “Yeah. Boys do it.
It’s going to be hard to win if your hands are around my neck and cutting off my air supply.” “You’re not into that? I’m surprised.” “I might be. Want to find out?” “Dream on.”
A smile—the tiniest, faintest smile I’ve ever seen—pulls at her lips, and I’m the proudest motherfucker in the world. I want to set off a confetti cannon. Hang a banner from the rafters of the Civic Center that says I MADE EMERSON HARTWELL SMILE. Put it on a T-shirt and wear it around town. I think she’d actually strangle me if I did that, but it makes me want to do it even more.
That earns me another half smile from her, and I want to collect them all. Shove them in my pocket and keep them for myself.
“Says the guy who follows people around like a lost dog.” “I’m just looking for an owner I guess.”
I don’t like that he’s making her laugh. I don’t like that she thinks he’s funny, and I liked it better when it was just the two of us.
Hey. What are you doing tomorrow night?” I ask, dropping my voice. “Not you.”
His eyes sweep me up and down, from my jersey to my skates, and even from here, I can see his dimple pop. He motions me forward, and my feet move on their own.
I’ve always considered myself a feminist, but there’s something so goddamn sexy about a man in a backwards hat that has me ready to drop to my knees for the patriarchy.
No one’s called me sexy before, and I scoop up the compliment.
“You said you wanted me on my knees.” He drops a kiss to my shin, then kneels on the ground in front of me. “And I’ve always liked being a good boy.”
I love sex, but I love this more. Going slow. Learning her body. Finding the rhythm she likes and repeating it again and again.
“No one’s ever made you come like this because you were with boys before. I’m a man, and I told you I like to eat. Now fucking sit.”
I’ll never tell him this, but Maverick Miller did give me the best orgasm of my life.
Heat rolls through me at the thought of his hands between my legs. The slick glide of his fingers and the sparkle in his eye when he called me Emmy girl.
“You’re into science now?” “When it comes to your pussy, Red, I’m Bill-fucking-Nye.”
I also love that he touches me when he’s not supposed to, little stolen moments when no one else is watching because he can’t keep his hands away.
It’s nice to be wanted.
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m fucking addicted to you.” I press my cock against her ass, and her breath stutters.
She smiles at me. There are four hundred people are here, and she’s picking me to give out her smiles to. I’m the luckiest bastard in this room.
“When are you going to wear my name on your back?” “I’d love to make that happen, Red.”
Real athletes, like we don’t all play the same fucking sport.
I want her as so much more—a partner. A girlfriend. My best friend.
No man has appreciated my body like Maverick does. There’s no race to get to the final product; he likes to take his time and savor every inch.
You did something very, very right. It’s always the girl wearing the guy’s jersey, not the other way around. This is so cool.”
“That’s your girl?” Hudson asks. “Yeah.” I grin, and there’s an arrow lodged in my chest. “That’s my girl.”
