Chapter 18
Eighteen
Kaeli
If anyone were to ask me whether or not I enjoyed Ezra’s kiss, I wouldn’t say yes in a million years.
But it doesn’t matter if I admit it or not; the truth still stands, rooted deep in my heart and soul.
That kiss.
God, that was the best damn kiss of my entire life. No boy has ever kissed me like Ezra Moore did.
That’s right.
Because he’s not a boy, no. He’s all man. And he kisses like one, too. He just doesn’t kiss; he sucks your soul right out of your mouth, feasting on it like you’re his last meal, swallowing you like you’re his salvation.
Just one kiss has me forgetting my entire existence and the worries brimming in my head, pulling me out of the deep hole my mind was spiraling in after that encounter in the stadium.
I’d think it was a figment of my imagination if it were the first time this happened. But that monster has been haunting me for far too long.
Even though I hate to admit it, Ezra’s lips on mine elicited an emotion in me I’m unfamiliar with. His angry, heated kiss provided me with a distraction and comfort I didn’t know I needed, yet was craving for.
One is compelled to wonder if he kisses the woman he hates like this, I don’t think the woman he loves has a choice but to surrender her entire being. She’d offer her heart on a silver platter just for one more of those.
I just might.
His tongue plunders my mouth, swallowing every whimper I emit, groaning at the taste of it.
I can feel his hard length pressing into my hot core.
I chant his name like a holy prayer right from the Bible as he bucks his hips into my covered sex, providing me with the friction I so desperately need. “Ezra, fuck, yes. Ezra.”
The deep tenor of his voice as he grunts travels the length of my spine like an electric current, setting my nerve endings on fire, as my eyes squeeze shut of their own accord, unable to bear the overwhelming sensation but wanting more of it at the same time.
We are both lost in each other when the pin of someone’s voice pricks the bubble, dissipating the illusion, clearing our senses of the animal need to own the other, body and soul.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Ezra mutters as his head falls on my shoulder. He takes his sweet time before he acknowledges the person responsible. I don’t know if I hate the stranger or am grateful to him for interrupting us before we did something incredibly stupid.
Something incredibly hot, but something incredibly stupid nonetheless.
Ezra turns on his heels, his body covering me from the intruder’s view, and seethes, “What are you doing here, Cillian?”
My eyebrows shoot up at the name, and I hurriedly make myself presentable, smoothing my dress, before coming out from behind Ezra. My brows crease in confusion as I look between the two men, glaring daggers at each other.
The animosity radiating off them is so palpable that it threatens to suffocate me. At Ezra’s question, Cillian’s gaze slides to me, the evil glint making my heart race, not with fear but protectiveness. And that emotion in itself is absurd, because why would I be worried about Ezra?
“I see you’re having fun,” Cillian snarks, ignoring Ezra’s question. I glare at Cillian right back, not intimidated by him in the least. But Ezra still shifts in front of me, bringing me closer to his back, breaking Cillian’s line of sight.
Surprised at his action, I look at the back of his head. That’s when I notice how tense and rigid his muscles are, as if he’s preparing for battle.
What’s the matter with these two?
“Keep your eyes on me.” The deep and rough tenor of Ezra’s voice sends a shudder down my spine like zapping electricity, and I chide myself for being turned on by his roughness at a time like this.
Cillian lets out a harsh chuckle, audibly hollow, shaking his head as he looks at his feet in the shroud of the night at the back of the bar.
He looks back up. “How much delusion do you have to live in to seriously believe that I’d want your sloppy seconds, though I do agree some might prefer them?
” Acid drips from his menacing voice, intended to burn, melt, and hurt.
My eyes widen at Cillian’s audacity to comment on things that are none of his concern.
This is why I hate hockey players. They think they’re God’s gift on earth and have the pass to say and do anything, no matter the hurt it might cause to other people.
And what does he mean? Some might prefer Ezra’s sloppy seconds?
Ezra’s hands ball into fists at his corrosive words as he lunges forward at Cillian.
And even though I’d like nothing more than to see Ezra break the bone of his snobby nose, I grip the crook of his elbow, holding him back from doing something that would become the headlines of every media outlet tomorrow. “Ezra, don’t. He’s not worth it.”
The last thing I want is to be associated with either of them. I don’t want the media and the world poking and prodding around my life, trying to determine who I am. And though there are no skeletons to be found, my connection to Roman cannot be aired.
Neither do I want to lose my job by being involved in a PR scandal involving two rival hockey players. All they’ll have to lose is a few bucks for the penalty, but I’d lose all my hard work, job, and credibility because I’m a woman, and the staff.
Ezra’s still seething but restrains from attacking him.
“Get the fuck out of here before I do something that’ll send you to an ER,” Ezra warns him, gritting his teeth so hard that I’m surprised they haven’t turned to powder yet.
“And don’t you ever disrespect her, or my hockey stick and your limbs would have an up-close and personal introduction. ”
Cillian leaves with a ‘fuck you’ floating in the air behind him, while all I can focus on is Ezra’s sharp and rugged features as he so easily defends me and threatens to beat someone up for me.
I should not find such violence romantic or even remotely arousing, but my thighs clench, and the already wet and sticky panties become even more so.
However, the hot feeling is soon doused by the cold attitude of Ezra as he strides back into the bar without even a backward glance, leaving me alone in the cold night. My mouth falls open in astonishment at his inconsiderate action. It wasn’t like I initiated the kiss.
My fingers feather over my lips, the tingling sensation bubbling under my skin, wanting more.
I regret kissing him back in the heat of the moment. What the fuck was I thinking, kissing a block of ice out in the open for anyone to see? And now if Cillian decides to run his mouth, everyone will know.
No one will point a finger at Ezra. Only me, calling me a gold-digger looking for fifteen minutes of fame and whatnot.
I stomp my foot on the ground as I scream at myself in anger. “Fuck!”
Now, I can only hope that Cillian has enough sense to keep his mouth shut and not drag me into whatever rivalry they have going on. I’m a pawn in no one’s game.
Calming my ire, I walk back into the bar a few minutes later, hoping no one could tell what went down. My eyes involuntarily search for Ezra in the bar filled with the Bandits, but come up empty.
A hollow feeling settles in the pit of my stomach as a rush of disappointment washes over me. He couldn’t even bear to stay under the same roof as me. Was I imagining or exaggerating the effect of the kiss, or was I really so bad at it?
I might be bad at it; it’s not like any guy has ever been with me for me. So, why the fuck would a famous NHL player be with me when he can have literally anyone?
I know that women with a figure like models are generally his type. And even though I’m fit, I’m nothing like those actresses and models he likes to fuck.
Not like I want him to fuck me. That’s right.
Why the hell am I getting so worked up over a man I hate? It’s not like I want him to fuck me or anything. If anything, even that kiss was a mistake I sorely regret. And it wasn’t even that good.
Sureee, if you say so.
Shut up, brain! My disappointment soon turns into outrage, both at him for kissing me and at me for reciprocating and enjoying it.
Stacy jostles me out of my angry spiral. My first thought at seeing her is that she knows, and my body tenses right up, waiting for her to fire me. “You, alright?” she asks instead, concern etched on her face.
I search her face for any hint of knowledge of the kiss, but find none. My shoulders drop as I breathe a little easier.
Remembering she asked me a question, I give her a tight smile and a little nod. “Yeah, I’m fine.” She doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go.
Glad that she won’t be interrogating me, I excuse myself and walk over to the bar and order a shot of vodka and tip it back in one go as it slides down my throat, leaving a distracting burn in its wake.
I promise myself that I’ll not think about him or the kiss. Not for a single second.
* * *
I lied.
I thought about him and the kiss—every second of every day for the last week.
I thought about those plump lips on mine as I slid my fingers inside of me. I thought about his thighs between mine as I rubbed my bundle of nerves. I thought about his hands on every inch of me as I set a pace. And I thought of his deep, rough, and gravely groans when I made myself come.
Not once.
Not twice.
Far more than that.
But you wouldn’t catch me dead admitting that out loud.
I’ve never come as quickly and intensely as I did to the mere thoughts of him. And that is troublesome.
So, whenever I come across Ezra in the arena, we pretend that nothing happened, like his lips never embraced mine as his tongue ravaged my mouth.
Like his hands never mapped the length of my body, leaving behind a ghost of his touch imprinted in my mind.
Like, I haven’t made myself unabashedly come to obscene thoughts of him.
And we’re quite good at pretending, if I do say so myself. No one has even a pinch of suspicion about us and our highly unprofessional behavior. Though I often find his eyes on me when he thinks I’m not looking.
He doesn’t realize that the touch of his gaze is like a burning sensation, bringing all of my senses to life. I’m always aware of his proximity.
My eyes find him, too, when he’s oblivious to his surroundings, focused on his training.
I’m always in awe of his skill and how he so effortlessly dances on the ice.
He’s not alone on the ice, but for me, he might as well be the only one playing.
There’s just something about him that has me enraptured.
Maybe it’s his broad shoulders or tapered waist. Maybe it’s the way he plays.
Maybe it’s the way he kissed me. Maybe it’s the way he defended me.
Or maybe…maybe it’s just him.
And the fact that he has such a strong grip over my emotions and actions doesn’t bode well with me. I need to distract myself.
So, I force myself to ignore him and his larger-than-life presence. I ignore the butterflies fluttering in my stomach at his vicinity. I most definitely avoid thinking about his lips on mine.
Now, all that’s left is to actually find me a guy to fuck so that I can get over Ezra.
He and his addictive touch are bad for my health.