Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
I feel him smile against my face, then hear him mutter, “Fuck it.”
And before I know it, my ex’s rival is kissing me.
Soft, confident lips brush mine. A strong hand grabs the neck of my shirt. Scruff scrapes against my soft skin. So many delicious sensations and they all go to my head, zapping my thoughts as Shaw Coleman takes his sweet time with a soft, thorough, sensual kiss that makes my head swim, my pulse race. I reach for his jersey, fisting the material just to hold on. If I don’t, I’ll wobble. The kiss is that good.
But soon he breaks it, curling a hand around my shoulder. A shudder hits me as his fingers dust over the exposed skin of my neck. He bends, his mouth dangerously close to my face as he whispers, “Been wondering something since last season.”
“What?” I ask, my voice sounding as blurry as my mind.
“If you tasted as good as you looked.”
It’s like a jolt of molten pleasure shoots down my body. “And the verdict?”
He pulls back and locks eyes with me, his beautiful brown-eyed gaze strong, steady. “Better.”
I thought I held the cards, but my body says this man might hold the cards to me.
Get it together, girl.
“Then, enjoy your good luck kiss,” I tease, then make a mental note that “Good Luck Kiss” would make for a good song name. I can hear bits and pieces of the melody—a dreamy, lush sound.
“Yes, I’m feeling very lucky, Jane.”
There’s my chance, but then he adds, “Meet me in Corridor D after the game. Tell security you’re here to see me. I’ll put you on the list, Jane Smith.”
The way he says my name with a lopsided grin tells me he knows it’s fake, and maybe likes it. Or perhaps that’s wishful thinking, so I clear my throat so I can clear the air. “I’m—”
But his teammates catcall him, and the sound of my voice is drowned out as he’s off, jumping over the boards and returning to his stretches.
The kind where he’s working out kinks in his groin, stretching like he’s almost humping the ice, and my mind is thinking about after.
After the game.
And how Jules is probably right—he’d take his time. And honestly, I see no reason why I shouldn’t fuck my ex’s rival.
Tonight.
5
CHALLENGE ACCEPTED
SHAW
She’s nervous. Distracted, maybe, as we head out into the Manhattan night. I reach for her hand. But she’s been fidgety since she met me near the players’ exit after the game. Hmm. Fidgety won’t do. I want her to have a fantastic time with me tonight. This is the chance I’ve been waiting for since last season, and I don’t want it to slip through my fingers again. Trouble is, outside the arena is not the place for a blunt conversation. Half of New York is here it seems, and the sidewalks are packed with fans in purple and gold Ice Kings jerseys. As it should be.
I usually take a subway home to the West Village after games, and that’s fine when it’s just me. This woman is far too lovely to sully with a subway ride at night. She deserves a limo, so I ordered one.
“I got a limo.”
“For our—”
“Date,” I supply.
She swallows, like something is throwing her off. “Okay.”
Did I misread that kiss? The coffee shop flirtation? The wearing of my jersey? “Was that too presumptuous? This is a date, isn’t it?”
She licks her lips. “Yes.”
“Yes, it was presumptuous?”
“Yes, it’s a date. No, it’s not presumptuous,” she says as we weave past a pack of drunken guys. “It’s just—”
But right as she’s about to say something, one of them stumbles toward her. I haul her close, keeping her out of the line of fire.
I hold her hand tighter. “The car’s not far from here, but the traffic’s too bonkers to have the driver pick us up at the arena, so I asked him to meet us a couple blocks away.”
I’m vaguely regretting that. Idling in traffic would be better so we could talk easily, but a block later, I spot the limo. The driver hops out to open the door, but I wave him off. “I’ve got this.”
I open it for Jane, then slide in, following her. When I shut the door, I tell the driver to head downtown. But I don’t offer my address. I don’t want to presume. I hit the partition for privacy then turn to her. “You seem out of sorts. Want me to take you home?”
She blows out a breath. “I’m not Jane Smith.”
I laugh. Is that what’s got her so flustered? “I figured as much.” Then I lower my voice. “Also, I never thought you were.”
But she doesn’t breathe a sigh of relief. Instead, she seems to take a soldiering breath. “I’m Camden Tinsley,” she continues. “I’m a singer. I go by Camden on stage.”