by Meghan Quinn
Racer lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe his mouth, showing off his six pack—how he has one, I have no idea—and says, “Romeo over here let the cat out of the bag before I got here. Not only did he tell me about that delicious cake, but he also let it be known that he has a huge crush on you.”
God, why does he have to sound like a giant turd when he talks?
“You told Racer?” Adalyn asks, looking a little more angry than I expected.
“I did.” I rub the back of my neck, casting my eyes toward Adalyn, giving her all my attention. “He cornered me, and I’m not a good liar. I’m sorry. I know you probably would have wanted to tell him, but I was honest.”
“He was.” Racer jabs me in the ribs, buckling me over as he walks past me. Pulling Adalyn into a hug, he whispers something in her ear and then pulls away. Winking in my direction, he says, “Hurt her and I’ll rupture your nut sac with a hockey puck.” He throws up the peace sign and walks out of Adalyn’s house, leaving us alone.
What was the point of that other than Racer acting like a total dick?
Maybe he wanted to see if I was telling the truth.
Or maybe, he’s a goddamn child and just wanted a piece of cake.
I’m going to guess it’s the latter.
Silence falls in the room, making it extremely awkward. This is not how I wanted our night to start off, with this uncomfortable tension between us.
I break the silence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to tell him.”
Adalyn shifts in place, her hands twined together. “It’s okay. He said he was happy for me and that you were a good guy.” Peering up through those impossibly long eyelashes, she adds, “He also told me to tell him if you’re a dick to me at any point in time.”
My eyes find the ceiling as I shake my head. “Of course he did.” I take a few steps toward her until I’m able to grab her by the hand and pull her into my arms. I press a kiss against the top of her head and say, “I hate that he ruined the night for us . . .” She looks at me with a raised eyebrow. How can chicks do that?
“Okay. Okay. And I really hate that he ate my cake.” Adalyn and my mom will get along well, given they both possess mind reading abilities. But it’s cake.
Chuckling, Adalyn squeezes me tight. “He didn’t ruin the night, just made it interesting. And I gave him one of my tester cakes. I made three today just to make sure your cake came out perfect.”
I pull back to look her in the eyes. He didn’t eat my cake? “You made three cakes?” Shyly, she confirms. “What was wrong with the first two?”
“Just testing out certain things. I added a pudding packet to the cake mix, making it extra moist. But I wanted to be sure the cake came out right, so the first was a test, the second was a forgetful moment for me—not spraying the cake tins—and number three came out beautifully. It’s iced and ready to be consumed, untouched by Racer.”
“Hell, that’s fucking adorable.” I give her another hug. “Thank you.”
“It’s the least I could do given everything you’ve done for me.”
I take her hand in mine and let her lead me to the kitchen. “It’s not a competition, babe.”
Adalyn’s apartment surprises me. I would have guessed her place would have been super colorful, but it’s white. Almost everything is white, from her couch, to her walls, to her furniture. The only colors she has in the entire space are potted plants, throw pillows, and art on the wall. It’s very clean and crisp, with mere splashes of her personality.
When we reach the kitchen, I’m struck by bright green dinnerware in the open shelves hanging over her counters. Not one upper cabinet is present, just shelves after shelves covered in all different shades of green dinnerware. It’s . . . soothing.
“I like your dishes.”
“Thank you.” She takes down two plates and places them next to what looks like a three-layered cake covered in chocolate icing and chocolate sprinkles. Damn . . . I think I may have fallen in love.
“You made that?” I point at the cake that looks like a professional made it.
Her cheeks stain crimson as she cuts a big piece for me and a medium-sized piece for herself. There is what looks like some kind of cherry filling in the middle that has my mouth watering from the very sight of it. “I had a little help from my friend, Emma, but yeah, I made it for the most part. I hope you like it.”
“Pretty sure I’m going to love it.” I glance around her galley kitchen. “Where should we eat it?”
“Let’s go out back. I have a partition on my deck. It will afford us some much-needed privacy.”
She leads me to the back of her house and onto the deck, which is surrounded by three slatted partitions and white curtains. Setting the cake on the coffee table of her outside furniture set, she releases the white curtains, blocking us from her neighbors completely. Fuck, it’s super romantic with the small lantern on the table offering the only light in the space.
We both sit and before she takes her plate in her hands again, I stop her. “Hey.”
She looks at me with a question in her eyes, and all I can think is how fucking gorgeous she is.
“I didn’t get to tell you how beautiful you look tonight.”
That blush of hers takes over again. Will she blush the same way in bed, when I’m pulsing in and out of her? When she comes, does she blush, or does her face morph into something entirely more perfect, if possible?
“Thank you.”
Passing my eyes over her body again, I take in her pink dress that’s loose at her hips, but cinches in at her breasts, her cleavage killing me, and that pink makes her skin look unbearably smooth. It makes me want to run my hands up and down her entire body, slowly peeling away the fabric, revealing what’s underneath.
Is she wearing anther thong? Is she commando? Is she even wearing a bra?
I take a quick peek, and it doesn’t look like it. Fuck . . . it doesn’t look like it at all, not with how her nipples are pebbling against the fabric.
“Are you going to eat your cake?”
“What?” I clear my throat and shake the images of her hardened nipples out of my head. Get it together, man.
“Your cake, are you going to eat it?” She thumbs at my solo plate on the coffee table.
“Oh yeah, sorry.” I pick up the cake, and I’m quickly consumed by the chocolaty flavor. “This smells so fucking good.”
She takes a forkful and I watch in fascination as her exquisite lips wrap around the metal tongs, pulling the chocolate, smooth and velvety. Her eyes shut, her head tilts back, her jaw moves erotically until she swallows, the long column of her neck, working the chocolate down, pulse after pulse.
Eating has never looked so sexy.
And never in my life have I ever paid such close attention to an everyday action.
“You like it?” I ask, my voice cracking, my focus traveling from the soft column of her neck, to her collarbone, to the swell of her breasts in that sweet dress.
The night I first met her, she wore simple shorts and a T-shirt. I’ve seen her in scrubs and I’ve seen her in jeans as well, but this dress? I know it’s simple, but it’s revealing and made for her body, accentuating her shapely legs, her full breasts, and her smooth skin.
“I think it’s one of the best cakes I’ve ever had.” She eyes my plate and asks, “What are you waiting for? Are you nervous I poisoned it? Pausing to see if I croak after taking a bite?”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “Sorry, I’m just a bit distracted tonight. You look so damn good, Adalyn.”
“You mentioned that.” Head tilted to the side, she licks some icing off her fork.
Dead. I’m slowly fucking dying inside. Was her mission to torture me, to get me to break tonight? Because she’s doing one hell of a job. “Are you wishing you kissed me earlier now?”
I swallow hard.
I’m wishing I did a hell of a lot more than kiss.
“You’re making it hard on a guy, that’s all.”
&nbs
p; “Good.” She lays her legs across mine and scoots closer, the hem of her dress kissing her upper thighs. “Because I’m going to tell you right now, if you don’t at least kiss me tonight, I might go crazy.”
She’s as desperate as me at this point. Good. I’ve always been about delayed gratification when it comes to relationships. I like to feel the chemistry first; I like to know there’s something real between us before I make the first move. Lust can cloud your outlook on a person and being a “celebrity”—someone in the limelight—I like to make sure the woman I’m with is interested in me and not my profession.
“I’m making no promises.” I take my first bite of the cake and quietly moan. Fuck, this is good. Probably not as good as biting into Adalyn, but I’ll take this for now.
Poking my shoulder with her clean fork, she says, “And I’m making no promises of keeping my clothes on.”
Fucking minx.
Plates are cleared, light music plays in the background, and Adalyn is curled against me, my arm wrapped around her, my hand resting on her hip as she’s tucked into my shoulder, her hand resting on my chest, her fingers lightly playing with the fabric of my shirt.
“Do you think your family will like me? Well, perhaps I’m asking more about your dad and brothers here.”
A lonely cricket chirps in the background, adding to the summer-like ambiance surrounding us. Adalyn draped a blanket over us about half an hour ago once the temperature dropped. I feel goosebumps on her arms but every time I ask her if she wants to go inside or if she wants a sweater, she tells me she doesn’t want to move.
“My dad? He’s not a pushover, but he has age and life on his side to trust my judgment more than my brothers do. However, the boys are a tough crowd. Very protective. There aren’t many men they would approve of.”
“Hmm . . . do any of them like hockey?”
She chuckles and pushes against my chest. “You can’t win them over with autographed paraphernalia.”
Laughing and oddly loving the little jabs from her finger, I say, “A guy can try. Hell, to win them over, I’m not above whoring my teammates or myself out. I have access to all the Brawlers. I can get them to sign anything. Season tickets, done. What do they want?”
“None of them watch hockey.”
“Whh-what?” I peel away and look down at her. “They don’t watch hockey? What kind of men are we talking about here? They live in the northeast for Christ’s sake. Hockey is life up here.”
Adalyn shakes her head. “Football is life.”
Pressing my lips together in disgust, I shake my head. “Fucking football. Hockey is so much better.”
“Yeah? How so?”
“Really? You want me to list off all the reasons why it’s better?”
“I do. I’m kind of liking that you’re going into a tizzy, so I want to hear all the reasons.”
“Okay. First, I am not and do not get in a tizzy.” I sit a little taller and disengage myself from her warm body. Ticking off the reasons on my fingers, I say, “Well, one, it’s a longer season. Football is like two games long, and hockey is about seven months long.”
“Sixteen games. Football is sixteen games.”
As if I’ve been slapped, I scoot back on the couch. “Uh, excuse me . . . are you a football fan too?”
“Of course,” she answers not even sugarcoating it for me. “I’ve never been to a professional hockey game before and forget about watching it on TV. You can never see where the puck goes.”
What?
WHAT?
Shaking my head, blinking fervently, trying to comprehend what she’s telling me, I say, “You’ve never been to a professional hockey game? You’ve got to be kidding me. But . . . but hockey is . . . God!” I stand from the couch and start pacing her small deck. “You’re going to a game.” I point at her, one hand on my hip. “You’re fucking going, and you’re going to enjoy it, damn it!” Now pointing to her house, I say, “Get up, we’re going to review some game tape. That’s your punishment. We are spending the rest of the night going over hockey highlights on YouTube.”
Laughing, she shakes her head. “We are so not doing that.”
“Uh, yeah we are. Come on, stand your pretty little ass up and march it over to your computer. We are reviewing every last hockey highlight tonight, and if we’re lucky, I might let you watch a blooper reel here and there.”
I pull on her hand to guide her up, but she stays put and pats the bench next to her. “Sit before you have a heart attack.”
“Fine.” I sit next to her while pulling my phone from my back pocket. Ignoring the multiple text messages and missed calls I’ve received since I’ve been here, I enter hockey highlights into the browser on my phone and start looking for some good material.
Palming my phone, she snags it from my grasp and puts it behind her back. “We are not watching hockey highlights.”
“To hell we’re not.” I reach for my phone, but she has it tucked completely behind her, not exposing an inch.
She wants to do this the hard way? I have no problem getting handsy, especially when my sport is on the line.
Snagging her ankles, I yank her down the length of the couch, the hem of her dress rolling to just below her panty line. No time for distractions, I’m on a mission. Moving over her, one of my knees tucked between her legs, my hands straddling her slender shoulders, I try to dig around for my phone behind her.
Giggling and pressing hard into the couch, making it hard to find my phone, she blocks me. Her hair—fanned out on the cushion, her smile—beautiful and addicting, her laugh—a seductive sound igniting a heat of warmth to erupt over my skin. God, she’s so gorgeous.
Even if she speaks blasphemy.
“Where is it?” I ask. “Give me my phone and no one gets hurt.”
“Never.” Like the vixen she is, she circles my waist with her legs, pulling my hips onto hers. At the same time, she links her hands behind my neck, trapping me.
Fucking fooled, that’s what I am.
“What do you think you’re doing? I’m mad at you.”
She shakes her head. “No, you’re not.” Her fingers play with the short strands on the back of my head, a comforting touch. “Now tell me what the other reasons are why hockey is better than football.”
Damn this woman. Just when I’m trying to pretend to be mad at her, she distracts me. Sighing, I lean back, taking her with me so I’m sitting upright and she’s straddling my lap, her knees now pressed against the seat cushion. To keep her where I want her, I place my hands firmly on her hips, plastering her heated center to my lap.
She feels so fucking good.
Her thumbs rub a little patch of skin on my neck, soothing my tension to zero. Slouching, I enjoy the view in front of me, of this beautifully addicting woman, as I explain exactly why my sport is so much better.
“Besides the long season and numerous games, plus the badass trophy at the end, hockey takes more precision, more focus. Not only are we being tackled—using a football term for you—but we’re doing it on skates while trying to control a small three-inch puck with a stick.”
“What else?” She shifts on my lap causing a light groan to rumble from my chest.
“Uh, we have fights, all-out brawls, and they’re not stopped right away like in football.”
“Mm-hmm.” Her hands fall to my pecs where her palms rest, her fingers playing with the patch of skin exposed from my button-down shirt. Unabashedly, she undoes two more buttons, and pulls my shirt open, exposing more of my chest.
Fuck.
Another shift on my lap, but this time, her hips continue to slowly move back and forth.
A low hiss escapes my lips.
Every part of me hardens, from my grip on her hips, encouraging her rocking, to the muscles in my chest where she’s stroking my pecs, to my quickly growing cock.
“What else, Hayden?”
I’m blanking. What else is good about hockey?
“In hockey, there’s . . .”
Shit, her hands feels so good. “In hockey . . .”
What’s good about Adalyn? The way her breasts sway with her movements, the way her nipples are so impossibly hard right now, and how she lightly bites on her bottom lip while she rocks above me.
“Uh . . . nachos,” I mumble. “We have nachos.”
“There are nachos in football.”
“But these nachos . . .” She grinds on me. “Fuck . . . these nachos are . . . so good. Fuck, that’s so good.”
My head falls to the back of her couch, my eyes shut, Adalyn glides over me, her pace picking up now. Slipping her hands inside my shirt, she scrapes her fingers along my nipples and I swear to God, I nearly come apart.
“Adalyn.”
“Hmm?”
“You feel . . . goddamn, you feel . . .”
“What?” Her head is bent forward now, her mouth near my ear. “How do I feel?”
“Fucking perfect,” I hiss when she grinds down harder.
“Good.” She nips my earlobe and then lifts off me in one swift movement, taking her warmth, her touch, her seductive ways with her.
“Wh-what are you doing?” I ask, watching her walk into the house.
“It’s getting late. You should probably get going.”
“Going?” My eyebrows shoot up. Pocketing my loose phone, I stand—painfully—my cock scraping along the crotch of my jeans. “What happened to staying over?”
Like a needy puppy dog, I follow her into her house and shut the screen door. She’s in the kitchen fiddling with dishes when I come up behind her, pressing my front to her back, my hands to her hips, my mouth hovering near her ear.
“Are you playing hard to get now?”
“It’s working, isn’t it?”
“Maybe.” I run my nose along the soft cartilage of her ear, down to her neck. Clamping her hands over mine, I feel her tense when I meander my perusal back up to her ear. “Do you really want me to go?”
“You know I don’t.” Spinning in my grasp, she places her hands on my chest as I lift her to sit on her counter, reminding me of a position we were in not so long ago. “Is this the moment you’ve been looking for?” Her voice is meek with a hint of desperation, like she’s been waiting all her life for this one kiss, for my lips to be pressed against hers.