Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
I practically invited him to spy on me.
How horrible is that?
Brodie putzes for a few more moments. He removes his shoes and puts his hands in his pockets, then removes them from his pockets.
I dip my head to hide my smile.
He’s cute when he’s flummoxed, not sure how to behave around me, and awkward in general. Poor baby spends too much time on the ice and not enough time around females—in my professional opinion.
Transfixed, I watch as he pulls the navy hoodie over his head, eyes fastened on the expanse of exposed skin when he has his arms up, the sight of his belly button and pleasure trail positively thrilling.
His navy shirt clings to his muscles, and I soak up every bit of it as I wait for him to plop down next to me and get comfortable—the couch is too small for both of us to lounge or even spread out but it does the trick. That is the beauty of the love seat.
Maybe I’ll lie down and put my feet in his lap…
Maybe I’ll put my head in his lap…
Maybe I’ll…
I face him, sitting so I’m crisscross applesauce. Easier to look at him this way.
“I always forget how big you are,” I tell him as I observe our differences. “Let me see your hands.”
He holds up his palms, and I hold up mine, pressing them against his and surveying the sizes.
“Yours are twice as big as mine.”
Brodie swallows, causing his Adam’s apple to bob in his throat.
I lean forward to kiss it, unable to stop myself—he’s just so yummy and delicious—and he tilts his neck, anticipating my movements.
I inhale how good he smells.
Take my palms off his so I can run them down his chest, cool moisture-wicking fabric beneath my fingers. He’s solid. Firm.
His pecs are so defined under his shirt that I could cup one in my palm as if it were one of my boobs.
I feel his nipple harden and run a fingernail over it, teasing him.
He watches intently, gaze heating.
Immobile.
Stoic, even, as if he’s fighting for self-control.
Don’t fight it, Brodie…
Grab me and toss me on the bed…
Do it…
His hands move to my hips, pulling me into his space on the couch with minimal effort—and no resistance from me. We lean forward so our mouths can fuse.
He tastes like peanut butter.
Dessert.
Delicious.
He groans deep in his chest, and I know it won’t be long before kissing me isn’t enough, although the kissing is to die for. It’s literally curling my toes.
We kiss for seconds.
Minutes.
A half hour, all the while my body is burning with lust for this guy—this quiet, content-to-be-home, giant of a hockey player—who can’t decide if he wants to tear my clothes off or wrap me in a blanket and send me home.
All part of his appeal.
His charm.
“You’re so sweet,” I whisper when his rough hands trail down the column of my neck. They’re a bit scratchy and coarse but send shock waves to my pussy.
“Gee, thanks.”
“That was a compliment. I wasn’t calling you so nice.” Although he is.
So nice.
So good.
Two things guys don’t want to hear…
More things society has deemed the downfall of the male personality prompting quotes like: nice guys finish last. Articles called: how to stop being a nice guy. And preventing them from getting swiped on dating apps.
Apparently, being nice doesn’t get the pussy wet, or some other such bullshit?
Well, mine is soaking.
“I could eat you up,” I tell him, raking my fingers through his hair, moving them down the back of his scalp to his nape. “I want to climb into your lap and…”
“Uh-huh.” Slowly, Brodie nods like a bobblehead, his voice hoarse. “You should.”
I should. I abso-freaking-lutely should.
He doesn’t have to tell me twice.
Brodie has his legs manspread. I rise from the couch, standing in front of him, figuring the best way to climb on board his big, strapping body without making it complicated or awkward. The best approach seems to be kneeling with my legs on either side of him.
His eyes are hooded—he’s got that look a guy has when he’s turned on and about to get sex face, his features all distorted because all the blood has rushed to his junk.
That face is a victory for me.
I mentally pat myself on the back, sitting in his lap, basking in the sensation of his big hands on my butt. His fingers toy with the raw hemline of my white shorts, which tickles so good.
But here’s the problem.
He’s wearing a shirt, and I’m wearing a sweatshirt, and we’re inside, so shouldn’t we be at room temperature?
Yeah. That’s what I thought.
As a girl who’s always prepared, I stuffed my tits into a lacy bralette—which doesn’t offer any support, is sheer, but could also be worn without a shirt.
His reaction does not disappoint.
Brodie has no idea what to do with his hands, palms, or arms, hands suspended mid-reach, afraid to put them on my bare skin.