King
This girl was on a dating app?
She should have men lined up around the circumference of the Earth just to breathe near her.
Not that I’d let them.
Because her search for Mr. Right is over.
Her body language is closed off and a little panicky, and I get it. I’m a handful when I’m not so fucking keyed up, but her eyes are telling me there’s something inside her that’s with me already.
Firecracker.
That’s the word that’s been on repeat inside my head since the moment I saw her standing in the bar last night.
Even Victor keeping me up half the night playing Call of Duty in my living room didn’t prevent me from waking up steel pipe hard, dreaming of her soft curves riding my face as I drooled into my pillow.
But, Jesus, up close she’s a thousand times more beautiful. She’s a fucking knockout.
She deserves to be painted on the side of some vintage World War II bomber.
The way her green eyes glimmer as she sizes me up with obvious pleasant surprise is making my nutsack tighten and my balls start to fill. Her fire colored hair hangs around her peach shaped face in ringlets and waves and my fingers twitch thinking of them through the silky wildness.
I even forget about the lingering pounding in my head from that beer bottle shot.
“Look,” she says, scratching at the top of her head.
She’s so fucking cute, I want to carry her around on my hip for the rest of my life.
“Last night needs to stay outside this office. I hope you read through the Code of Conduct that Dr. Hoffman said he emailed you yesterday. You did sign the documents electronically, but that doesn’t mean you read and understood them.
This is a platonic, professional relationship.
So, we need to forget about last night.”
“I don’t even get a thank you?”
My fingers twitch, wanting them around her throat, desperate to feel her pulse pounding against my hand.
But that’s not the only pounding I’m thinking about.
I imagine rolling down those black stretch pants, stripping the pink t-shirt with its Bristol Empathetic Counseling Yin-Yang logo off her head. It’s making it hard to think of anything but what she might taste like.
There’s a hint of citrus and cherries in the air around her. Sweet and tart. Just like she looks.
A vent in the ceiling blows cool air onto my damp hair, making me shiver against the ball of heat ricocheting around inside me like an out-of-control pinball.
Sweat trickles down the indent of my spine as my mouth turns drier than the Sahara. She’s got just the thing to quench my thirst, and I’m not talking about water.
As she stares, her sparkling green eyes narrow, lips popping together as an uneasy and unfamiliar tension centers around my heart.
I fucking care about this girl. More than I should. More than I have ever cared about a woman before.
Except my mom, but that doesn’t count.
How dare she wiggle herself through my hard shell with barely a look?
“I appreciate that you understood I was in an uncomfortable position. However,” She clears her throat with this cute as fuck little defiant stare, her fists pressing into her womanly hips, then finishes, “you need to learn to control your violent outbursts. That’s the reason you’re here.
And I do not need a man to save me. I am perfectly capable of saving myself. ”
Hell, yeah. Give it to me, firecracker.
“That so?” My eyes drift from hers for a moment, taking in the controlled space around us. Clean, white, neat, without frills or anything that makes the space feel like she belongs here with her unruly copper waves and state-of-the-art curves.
I note the way everything on her desk is set up in grid like organization, and I want to make a mess of her office while making a mess of her more than I want to breathe.
Instead of crushing my lips to hers in a sloppy kiss, then shoving her to her knees, showing her she’s mine now, I say, “I like your hair better today.”
See, Firecracker? I can control myself.
Her eyes snap wide, brow furrowed, silence falling from her open lips as I run the flat of my hand up and down my chest, watching her gaze drop, eyes lighting up before her cheeks ripen deep pink, as she gobbles up an eyeful of my hearty gray sweatpants-salute from down below.
“Mr. Hertzof.” She stumbles for a beat on my name as I reach forward to spin her phone that’s sitting perfectly perpendicular to her keyboard a few degrees to the left. Everything here is at ninety-degree angles. It’s unsettling. “You are here for a service, a platonic service.”
“You mentioned that already,” I reply, running my hand through my hair, wondering if she’s reminding me or herself.
Her face is clean and fresh. Fucking glowing.
Last night she was more made up, but today, she’s all business and more beautiful than any woman I’ve ever seen. And her freckles?
I’m memorizing each one as I wonder if she shaves her pussy bare or if she has a little strawberry blonde bush for me to rub my face against.
The points of her nipples are waving hello through the pink fabric of her t-shirt, and I imagine them as the same color.
I groan through my teeth, my mouth going from dry to drowning, my gaze devouring the lush lines of her body, already knowing I’m going to spend the rest of my life drinking at the heavenly fountain between her legs.
Which is something I’ve never done with a woman before. Somehow, that felt like too intimate an act with anyone I’d been with in the past. Wrapping my cock in latex and indulging in my baser instincts, until now, felt detached.
But, with her, I want it all. Skin to skin, tongue to pussy. I want to get to know her clit up close and personal. I want her flavor to brand me. To make me hers as much as she’s going to be mine.
The urge to establish a physical connection to her overwhelms me as I brush my fingers down her arm, watching the flush spill onto her chest and goosebumps rise under my touch but she doesn’t pull away.
Sweet torment flows over me like warm honey as I restrain myself from throwing her on top of that desk and sinking home.
“Mr. Hertzof, I really must…” She side-steps away as I lick my lips.
Then she notices her cockeyed phone, frowns, and sets it straight again.
“If you want me to give Dr. Hoffman a fair report on our session, I suggest you do what you can to get yourself under control.” She nods toward my growing stiffy, making me grin as her fingertips dig into her palms. “It’s not unheard of for a male client to have this sort of physical reaction, but I will not proceed until you return to a flaccid state. ”
Flaccid?
Did she just say flaccid?
After my eyes have laid upon your perfection, I’ll never know flaccid again, my dear.
A dark chuckle rattles in my throat. “Not sure we have that much time, baby.”
“I do not allow my clients to use pet names.”
“I’m not just a client. I’m the guy that defended your honor. I think I should be allowed to color outside the lines a little.”
I’m not usually so forward with women. I’ve indulged, yeah, but my seasonal celibacy brought me to a conclusion: my hand is far more efficient and less complicated than meaningless pussy. And relationships? Never found one that was worth the effort.
But, this girl.
This. Girl.
It usually takes an act of God or a baseball bat to the side of my head to make me feel anything besides anger or a ragey sort of competitive focus.
There’s nothing meaningless about this beauty. She’s got mine written all over her.
But, no matter how much my dick wants to break the rules, fuck, I gotta simmer down.
My ‘team comes first’ mantra feels hollow, looking at the swell of her tits and the way she’s not afraid to put me in my place, but still, I’ve got a locker room full of guys, and their families, relying on me getting my suspension shortened and getting the team name engraved on that cup.
This boner-inducing beauty is apparently the key to that door.
No pussy until the season is over.
That’s my hard and fast rule, and fuck if I want to break it.
Unless it breaks me first.
I fucking know if I get off the starting blocks with this green-eyed man-eater, I’ll be ten kinds of distracted and won’t play worth shit.
That can’t happen.
That’s what I tell myself, but persistent new feelings are writhing inside of me like a basket full of cobras, telling me otherwise.
“Mr. Hertzof?” Her curious, wide eyes lock onto mine, making me imagine her legs wrapped around my ass as I bang her up against the white wall, exhaling with every thrust. Oof, oof, oof. Pump, pump, pump. “Are you listening to me?”
She’s smart and in charge. This is her domain. I like it.
“I’m all ears, baby.”
She tsk’s on an eye roll, but leaves the sentiment without admonishment. The way she presses her lips together with a slight lift of one shoulder tells me she’s carrying too much on her own and needs someone to ease her burden.
God, I need to be the man who does that.
“Are you ready to proceed with our session? If you can get yourself under control, I’ll overlook your…
reaction.” There’s a soft lilt in her voice, and a tsunami of that protective instinct that had me knocking out that asshole last night sweeps through me in a dark rush.
“Keep things on a professional level from now on, make some progress, and I’ll write a report to Dr. Hoffman that gets you back on the ice.
Keep in mind, our goals here are the same.
” She sweeps her hand in the air toward a door. “Shall we?”
“Lead the way.”
Her gaze flicks down again. Even at half-mast, my ‘reaction’ inspires fear and awe. It’s not a point of pride, but when you’ve been playing hockey as long as I have, you see a lot of dicks in showers and locker rooms.
I’m an overachiever when it comes to that particular body part, something that’s earned me an unfortunate nickname from my teammates.
King dong.
Fuckers.