Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
I come again with his name muffled against his shoulder, clenching around him so tight his rhythm stutters. Two more thrusts and he follows, burying himself deep and groaning my name as tender as it is animalistic.
We stay tangled for a minute or two, sweat cooling, hearts hammering against each other. “Well… that happened,” I murmur with a lazy smile his way.
“Yeah… that happened.” He presses a lazy kiss to my temple, then carefully pulls out and ties off the condom, dropping it in the trash by the bed.
The silence stretches, comfortable and terrifying all at once.
Eventually, he rolls to his back, one arm flung over his eyes. “I gotta go,” he says, voice rough. “Early meetings before our pre-game skate tomorrow.”
I nod against the pillow even though he can’t see it. “Right.”
That one word of affirmation and he bolts from the bed. Bending over, he finds his boxer-briefs, steps into them. I watch the flex of his back muscles and try not to feel anything about it.
“So,” I say, pulling the sheet up to my chest. “That was fun.”
“I figured a little release would do us both some good.”
“Think you might be right.” I slowly twirl a lock of my hair around my index finger as I consider the implications.
“I’m rarely wrong,” he says, grinning, his eyes raking over me with appreciation.
“This was just a mutual release,” I say, half question, half statement.
He exhales, drags a hand through his hair. “Yeah, nothing more. More like a much-needed moment of weakness. Temporary insanity. Pick your label.” He glances over his shoulder, expression unreadable. “I’m not a relationship guy, Turner. You know that.”
I force a laugh that doesn’t quite land. “Good thing I’m not a relationship girl.”
His mouth quirks. “We should probably… not do this again. Keep it professional.”
“Agreed,” I say quickly. Too quickly, and I ignore the pang of sadness that punches through me.
Grizz pulls on his jeans, zips up, finds his T-shirt. I stay in bed, clutching the sheet. When he’s fully dressed, he pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame.
For a second he just looks at me—hair ruffled, lips swollen.
Then he gives a short nod. “’Night, Turner.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
I stare at the ceiling for a long time, listening to the city outside, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to keep anything professional when my body is still buzzing with the memory of him inside me.
Chapter 12
Grizz
I’m in the hallway that runs along the basement perimeter of the arena, doing what I always do on game days… trying to outrun my own brain.
Country music pours into my ears. The stuff I grew up on—small-town tunes by Chesney and McGraw, the same order every time. I’m in my warm-up sweats, kicking a soccer ball against the wall, letting it rebound at just the right angle. I juggle it with my feet, keeping it airborne for as long as possible.
Right foot. Left. Knee. Shoulder. Back to the right.
The repetition keeps me focused, and once I get locked in, I can slip into a trance that becomes meditative. The touch, redirect, control, repeat. Junior hockey habits that stuck with me longer than anything else in my life, my routine before every game. The mental preparation is as important as the physical.
But today my focus is shit. Every touch is too hard. Every rebound is off by an inch. I stop the ball under my foot, chest rising and falling, and I already know why I can’t get into my rhythm.
Daisy.
Last night plays in an endless loop in my mind. Her legs wrapped around me. Her voice saying no before screaming my name. The way she looked right after—kiss-swollen mouth, hair a mess, cheeks flushed.
And I hate myself for replaying it.
No. That’s not even true. I like replaying it. Too much. That’s the part that scares the hell out of me.
Daisy’s so different from any other woman I’ve been with. Different in all the ways that matter. Different in ways that are both amazing and a fucking nightmare. She doesn’t put up with my shit, doesn’t shrink, doesn’t look at me as though the entire world hinges on my mood.
She stands up to me. And I don’t like that… except I kind of do.
The ball skitters off toward the trainers’ room and I swear under my breath as I trot after it.
This is what happens when I let someone get into my head and let myself get too close to a reality I can’t control. Sex is supposed to be simple: release, forget, move on. Last night wasn’t that.
And now she’s everywhere in my thoughts, in places I don’t want her.
The way she kissed me like she wanted to win the kiss. The way she touched me like she was trying to memorize a body she wasn’t allowed to keep. The way she looked at me afterward, trying so hard to make it seem like it didn’t mean anything.