“D-d-don’t you still care about me?” she says between sobs.
“Of course I still care, Jessica, but this is making it impossible for either of us to move on.”
My response is followed by more sobbing. I spend the next ten minutes trying to reassure her that it’s not her, it’s me, and that not talking for a while doesn’t mean we’ll never speak again. I’m so busy talking her down from the emotional ledge that I nearly miss Queenie leaving for the day.
As it is, I watch her get into an Uber. I don’t want to wait until tomorrow to talk to her, so I hastily end the call with Jessica and follow the Uber, hoping I can catch her. I have to drive over the speed limit and run a couple of stale yellows to avoid losing her.
Based on the neighborhood, and the direction we’re headed, I have a feeling she might live with her dad. I’ve been to Jake’s a couple of times for team get-togethers over the years. He lives on the corner, so I pass the driveway and make a right before parking on the street at the side of the house.
Jake is still at the arena, although I have no idea how far behind Queenie he’ll be, so I need to make a move. I wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs and cut the engine. After stepping out of the vehicle, I round the corner and knock on the front door, then ring the doorbell, but no one answers. It’s a nice day, so maybe she’s outside.
I have limited options, so I follow the driveway to the back of the house, past the detached garage, and down a short path that leads to a quaint bungalow. Beyond that is an Olympic-size pool.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, scaring the crap out of me, and I nearly stumble into a rosebush. I check to see if maybe it’s Queenie messaging, finally, but it’s Hanna. While I’m generally pretty open with her about things, I never mentioned my one-night stand, and I’ve been avoiding the family chat today because I’m freaked out. I’m sure she’s noticed.
I tuck my phone back in my pocket and knock on the door of the bungalow. After thirty seconds, no one answers, so I knock a second time but still get nothing. Maybe she’s by the pool. I round the back of the bungalow. A small table and a pair of lounge chairs are arranged close to the back door.
I scan the pool area, but it’s empty of Queenie. She has to be inside.
I approach the back door and have to step over a potted plant and some empty containers. I open the screen door, which groans on its hinges, and knock for the third time. Curtains cover the windows, but there’s a small gap in the gauzy fabric, allowing me an inadvertent glimpse inside.
The floor plan is open concept, so I can see from one end of the small bungalow to the other. The place is messy, dishes littering the counter, clothes layered over chairs. In one corner of the kitchen is an easel draped with a paint-streaked white sheet.
I’m poised to knock again, when Queenie appears in the narrow gap. Between one blink and the next the pretty navy dress she was wearing today slips over her shoulders, exposing her bra straps. She’s undressing in the middle of her living room.
I take a quick step back, aware this is a horrible invasion of privacy. I trip over a ceramic flowerpot and stumble into one of the lounge chairs. It tips over, landing on the stone patio with a loud crash.
I freeze as the curtain is yanked open. One of her arms is barred across her chest, covering most of her bra and her cleavage. Most, but not all. The top half of her dress hangs loose around her waist. It takes an incredible amount of willpower to keep my eyes from dipping down, away from her face.
Queenie’s gorgeous wide eyes meet mine through the glass. Her perfectly shaped eyebrows pull down and then shoot up. “What the fuck?” Her voice is slightly muffled through the glass, but I can still hear her as clearly as I can see her.
The curtain drops, and her form moves away from the window. I hope she doesn’t call the police on me.
“Queenie?” I knock on the window and whisper-yell. “I’m sorry. It’s not what it looks like!”
A few seconds later the lock clicks. The storm door flies open as Queenie appears, again. “So you weren’t watching me get undressed?”
“I knocked a bunch of times, but you didn’t answer. I didn’t know you were getting changed. I’m sorry.” I’ve raised a hand to cover my eyes when she lowers the arm barred across her chest. I’m not quite fast enough, so I catch a glimpse of pink lace cups before my hand is in place and my lids are closed.
Several very long seconds later, she tugs on the back of my hand. I allow it to drop but keep my eyes closed. “Are you decent?”
“You didn’t seem to be too worried about my decency when you were peeking in my window.”
“It was an accident. And you were changing in your living room.”
“Usually there aren’t random hockey players spying on me. And you can open your eyes.”
I crack a lid, relieved to find she’s wearing a wrinkled tank top. “I’m so—”
“Sorry, yeah. You keep saying that. What’re you doing here?”
“I followed you home.” That sounds far worse coming out of my mouth than the actual act of tailing her felt while I was doing it. “I mean, I waited for you in the parking lot, but you got into the Uber before I could catch you. We need to talk. I promise I’m not a stalker.”
She rubs the space between her eyes, but after a few seconds she steps back. “Well, come in then.”
I cross the threshold and find myself submerged in her scent. It’s a combination of a subtle floral perfume, lotion, and her vanilla shampoo. My sheets held that combination after she spent the night. In my bed. Naked. With me. Which I need to stop thinking about.
Her dress is still hanging off her hips. She crosses over to a small dining table and grabs a pair of shorts draped over the back of one of the chairs. I avert my eyes again as she pulls the shorts up her legs. She tugs the dress past her hips, and it drops to the floor. Queenie steps out of the puddle of fabric, nabs it from the floor, and tosses it over the back of the chair. Maybe she doesn’t own a laundry hamper.
“So . . . I didn’t know you were a hockey player.”
“I wouldn’t have brought you home if I’d known you were Jake’s daughter.” I cringe. “I don’t bring girls home. Women, I mean. Especially not when we’re under the influence and not thinking clearly. It wasn’t . . . I’m not . . . I don’t—”
She raises her hand, and I take it as a signal to shut up, which is probably a good idea since everything coming out of my mouth seems to be making this worse instead of better. “I don’t need you to apologize or justify your actions. I don’t usually hook up with random guys, either, so we have that in common. Is it awkward that my dad is essentially both of our bosses? Yeah, but neither of us knew that until today.”
“He lives there.” I thumb over my shoulder to the main house. It has zero relevance to our current discussion, but it’s what popped into my head and consequently came out of my mouth.
“Uh, yeah. I can’t afford a place like this on an assistant’s salary.” She blows out a breath. “He won’t be home for a while, though, and we don’t talk about my sex life, so you don’t need to worry about him murdering you or anything.”
“That’s good. That he’s not home, and that he’s not going to murder me for the things I did to your body. To you.” I wish I could stop saying the first thing that comes to mind. Another inconvenient memory surfaces: me on my knees between Queenie’s spread legs, warm and wet and—I slap a palm over my mouth to prevent me from saying anything further.
But then I remember I didn’t find any condom wrappers the next morning.
“We didn’t use protection.”
CHAPTER 5
DIRTY BOY SCOUT
Queenie
Ryan, or King, or Kingston, or whatever people call him, looks absolutely horrified. And ridiculously hot, but mostly horrified.
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, because whatever he said came out all garbled and unintelligible.
He drops his hand. “A condom? Did we use one?”
“Seriou
sly?” I don’t know whether he’s joking or not.
“I didn’t find any the next morning. Used ones, I mean. There were two on the nightstand, still unopened. Oh God.” He grabs the back of his neck and paces the length of the kitchen. His face is the color of a beet. “I’m never this irresponsible. Ever. Or do the one-night-stand thing. That’s not how I operate. I date.” He stops pacing for half a second, eyes flaring even wider, if that’s possible. “What’s wrong with me? I didn’t even buy you dinner.”
“You bought me a lot of drinks.”
“That’s even worse!” Now his hands are in his hair, messing up his perfect part. “Have you gotten your period since we . . . were together?” He doesn’t give me time to respond, instead barreling on with more questions. “Should we go get tested for . . . things? I mean . . . I’m clean and I’m not saying that you’re not, but just . . . it would be a good idea for peace of mind, don’t you think? I can take us to a clinic that will be discreet. We could see the team doctor.”
I hold up a hand. “There is no way I’m going to the team doctor to be tested for things. Besides, we didn’t have sex.”
He ceases his relentless pacing and stops in front of me. He’s a big man. Broad, with thick shoulders and bulging biceps, ropy veins lining his forearms. I remember what it was like to have him between my thighs, one hand cupping my ass to tilt my hips up, the other cupping a breast so he could thumb my nipple while he licked and nibbled and sucked me to orgasm. More than once. Ryan Kingston is very, very skilled at oral and very, very giving. So giving.
“We didn’t?”
I can’t decide if his apparent relief should offend me. “No.” Although we got close—very close. Closer than we should have without a condom on. And we sure as hell covered every other conceivable foreplay option available, multiple times.
My lady parts clench at the memory of how unreal his stamina was that night. They also seem unaware that his proximity does not mean it’s going to happen again. It can’t. No matter how much I might want it to.
His brow furrows. Even that expression is fairly adorable on his distressed, pretty face. “But I remember . . .” He trails off.
“You remember what?” He was definitely far more intoxicated than I was, although I can admit now that I was tipsier than is generally safe when out alone with a strange man. And while parts of that night are fuzzy—like the last shot we did and the glasses of water we chugged—most of what happened between and on top of his sheets is not.
“I was . . . we were . . .” He’s back to pacing. “You were under me, weren’t you?” His eyes move over me, causing my already alert nipples to peak.
“That’s correct.” Our eyes lock, and some weird energy passes between us. “I was under you.”
“We were naked.” His voice is gravelly and low.
“Very naked, yes.” And I sound like I’m ready to get naked all over again.
If he weren’t a hockey player on my dad’s team, I wouldn’t be opposed. But he is. The level of complication is too high, and engaging in additional foreplay activities will not make this bad situation we’re in any better. No matter how good it will feel.
This is my internal argument as I hold on to the counter behind me to keep from doing something like grabbing the front of his shirt and biting his neck. He really liked that. A lot.
His brow creases again. He seems so confused.
“How much do you actually remember?” I ask.
“Uh, bits and pieces of everything? I think . . . apart from the sex, which you’re saying we didn’t have?” It’s more question than statement.
“Not technically, no,” I explain.
He takes a step closer, bringing him inside my personal-space bubble. I have nowhere to go, since I’m pressed up against the counter. I inhale, getting a whiff of his cologne and his deodorant. “What does that mean, ‘not technically’?”
Oh God, when he said we needed to talk, I didn’t think he meant rehashing all the down and dirty. “Well, uh . . . you went down on me—”
“I remember that.” He rubs his bottom lip, like maybe he’s recalling it in vivid detail.
“Do you remember what happened after that?” I have to tip my head back to look at him because he’s so close.
“I made you come with my mouth.”
“And your fingers.”
“And my fingers.” He nods his agreement. “You seemed to enjoy that quite a bit.”
Oh, Jesus. Here he goes again with his color commentary on my reaction to his foreplay skills. “I did. Like it, I mean. A lot.”
“So did I.” His tongue drags across his bottom lip. “But it gets murky for me after that.”
It’s definitely not murky for me. He’d prowled his way back up my body. Kissing bare skin, stopping at my nipples on the way back up to my mouth. He’d wanted to kiss me so I’d know what it was like for him to have me in his mouth and down his throat. A warm shiver works its way along my spine and pings around between my thighs at that lovely memory. He’d propped his huge body up on one forearm so we could make out while he fondled my boob.
I’d been the one to wrap my legs around his waist. I’d also adjusted my position so our sex parts could line up and we could achieve some mutual friction. Was it the smartest thing I’d ever done? Definitely not. Did it feel really good? Hell to the fuck yes.
“We wet humped,” I explain.
“‘Wet humped’?”
“Yeah, you know, like when you were a teenager, you’d dry hump someone through their clothes, but if you do it with the absence of clothing it’s considered wet humping.”
“Did we almost . . .” He trails off, as if he might be finally remembering that part of the night.
“You slipped low once.”
“Yes. I did. By accident.”
We nod at the same time, both of us obviously mentally taking a trip down wet-hump memory lane. The feel of his shaft gliding over my clit. Our lips brushing as he rolled his hips. His heavy groan when the head nudged my entrance and slipped inside, just the tip.
We’d both stilled for a moment, clearly aware that it wasn’t a good idea, or safe, but it had felt really good. He’d rushed to correct himself, and that was the point where he told me that as much as he wanted to have sex with me, he didn’t think it was a good idea because we were both still under the influence, and he didn’t want either of us to regret it. Or not remember it. It was incredibly sweet.
So instead we wet humped the living hell out of each other, several times.
We’re both breathing heavily, kind of like we were that night.
His expression becomes horror struck again. “Did I come on you?”
I can feel the heat in my cheeks. “On my stomach, yeah.” I motion a little higher. “And my chest.”
His eyes slide closed, and he shakes his head. “Good Lord. I am so sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing? You were pretty into it, and so was I.”
“It’s not normally something I would do.”
“Me, either, but I had fun, and I’m pretty sure you did too.” Sadly, it’s the only fun time we’ll ever get to have.
His face turns a more vibrant shade of red, which is impressive, considering how red it already was. “But you left.”
“I was late for a thing with my dad. We always go for a run on Saturday mornings, and then we have brunch together. He was worried, and you and I had agreed the night before that we weren’t making this a thing, so . . .”
He jams a hand in his pocket. “So it had nothing to do with my performance?”
“No. Your stamina is legendary and your performance was exemplary. You probably devoted a good hour or more to providing oral pleasure, which is more than I can say for any guy I’ve ever been with before.” I need to stop talking; instead I keep rambling, trying to erase the concerned look on his gorgeous face. “Plus, I came a million times, and we didn’t even have sex. And you needed almost zero recovery time before you were ready to
go again.” I stupidly motion to his crotch, drawing attention to it. I also happen to notice that the fabric is tight there—indicating this conversation might be making him as excited as it’s making me, based on the hardness of my nipples and the very noticeable ache between my thighs.
Not that I’m going to do anything about it, even though I kind of want to. Okay, I definitely want to.
“That’s good. About my performance, I mean. And having legendary stamina.” One side of his mouth quirks up, the first hint of a smile since I caught him lurking outside my window. “You were great too.”
“Thanks?” I’m not sure if he’s tacked on the compliment just because.
“I’ve thought about your mouth a lot since that night.”
I’m not sure if he’s referencing my blow job skills or what. “That’s . . . good.”
“My ex-girlfriend wouldn’t do that . . .” He cringes and trails off.
“Whoa, wait. She wouldn’t do what?”
“Uh.” He motions to his crotch, which is kind of hilarious, since he’s very much a graphic talker when he’s getting down and dirty. Politely graphic, though. “Use her mouth on me.” He mumbles the last part, so it’s hard to hear.
“Your ex wouldn’t blow you?”
He jams one hand in his pocket and rubs the back of his neck with the other. “She had a sensitive gag reflex.”
“Did she even try?”
“Like, once or twice. It wasn’t . . . enjoyable for either of us.”
“I guess that relationship didn’t last long, huh?”
His cheeks puff out. “Uh, actually we were together for a long time.”
I’m totally enthralled with the turn this conversation has taken. “How long is a long time?” I dated a guy for almost a year once, and it was on and off during that time. It was during college, when I also almost completed my art degree.
“Around eight years.”
A Secret for a Secret Page 4