Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 200(@200wpm)___ 160(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 200(@200wpm)___ 160(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
"It depends on the day. Are you always so bossy?"
"It depends on the woman." He grimaces as soon as he says it. "That didn't come out right. There are no other women."
"Because you don't do puck bunnies?"
"Do puck bunnies?" He chuckles ruefully. "Well, that's one way of putting it. But yeah, I don't do puck bunnies." His gaze flickers across my face. "I don't do any women."
"So you're gay?"
His brows wing together. He isn't mad, though. Just surprised by the question, I think. People probably walk on eggshells around these guys all day, every day, afraid of offending them. I am not that person. I can't do my job if I don't cross boundaries and get to the uncomfortable bits. Trauma isn't fun to talk about. If it were, everyone would do it.
"My dick is standing at attention right now because you smell like peaches, you sound fucking incredible when you whimper, and you're soft as hell," he rumbles. "I'd very much like to know if you smell that good everywhere, exactly what sound you'll make when I'm kissing you, and if you're just as soft beneath me. No, I'm not gay."
Well, then. I guess I'm not the only one in this hall comfortable crossing boundaries.
I squirm at the thought of him kissing me.
Heat blows through me at the thought of me beneath him.
Neither sounds like a bad time to me.
"What I meant to say is that I don't fuck around."
"Why not? Being a manwhore is pretty much a prerequisite for this sport." It's true. According to my father, most hockey players don't know how to keep it in their pants. I figure it has to do with spending their entire lives working to get to this level. Once they finally do, they're able to let loose for once. They take it to extremes because moderation isn't in their vocabulary. If it were, they probably wouldn't have stuck with a grueling sport they started playing when they were three.
Nash does not strike me as the type who takes things to extremes. He was probably born with his shit together, telling people what to do. It's kind of hot, honestly. I'll never be that put together or self-possessed.
He stares at me for a long moment, his gaze flickering over my face as if he's deep in thought about something. And then he shakes his head, a tiny smile curving his lips up at the corners. "You're going to be a problem, aren't you?"
For him? Absolutely. In general? Also, absolutely. If you aren't causing a little trouble in life, you're doing it wrong. At least, that's my motto.
Hockey players aren't the only ones who have spent a lifetime focusing on their goals. I spent mine trying to get into college. And then I spent my college years determined to be the best. Now that I'm done, maybe I have a few wild oats to sow.
"Who me?" I bat my lashes. "Never."
He chuckles again, shaking his head. "Why do I get the feeling you're lying your ass off?"
"Because you have a suspicious mind? It probably comes with the territory."
"Being in the spotlight isn't too bad." The hint of shadow in his eyes tells me that isn't entirely true. I think being in the spotlight has been a lot harder on him than he wants to admit, especially after he lost his parents the way he did.
People never really let him forget it. He's never allowed to just be Nash Whatley, incredible left defenseman. He's always Nash Whatley, the incredible left defenseman who tragically lost his parents and opted out of the draft to raise his sister.
"Who said anything about that?" I smirk, teasing because I can't resist. I want to erase that shadow, replace it with laughter. "I was talking about circle jerks in the locker room. Doing that where anyone can walk in?" I arch a brow at him. "Talk about risky behavior, Whatley."
"We don't jerk off in the locker room."
"Together or separately? Because, honestly, that seems like a missed opportunity right there. That locker room is fancy."
He growls, something wholly predatory flashing in his eyes as he gently backs me up against the wall. "You talk a lot of shit for someone your size."
"Jealous of my size now, huh?" I ask, my voice breathy as he looms over me, caging me in against the wall. I'm not a small girl. I never have been. I'm five six and wear size twenty on a good day. But next to him, I might as well be four feet and ninety pounds. He's just that freaking big.
"Jealous I don't know what that fucking mouth tastes like yet," he grunts, his gaze dropping to my mouth. "Your size is part of the reason I might just be jerking my cock in the locker room today—for the first time, I might add. And no, I won't have an audience."