5. Rowdy
FIVE
ROWDY
The hum of the engine is the only sound filling the cab of my SUV as we drive back to the arena. But inside my chest? Fuck, everything is roaring. My skin feels too damn tight, my muscles won’t relax for shit, and my body has been thrumming with a relentless craving for the last six hours.
I grip the leather of the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white, and right beside me in the passenger seat is the woman who’s the cause of it: Jett.
She’s leaning into the glow of her laptop, dark hair framing her face, small gold chains swaying, and every time she fidgets in her seat, my blood surges south, straight to my cock.
I’ve gone through more questions today than I have my entire hockey career, high school, college, and pro combined.
Jett drilled me on everything: my pre-game routines, my favorite meals, my childhood, my rehab progression.
Every question was calculated and aimed at peeling back another layer of the armor I’ve spent years holding up.
And every time her chocolate eyes locked on mine to gauge my reaction, my cock hardened another notch.
I’d chosen the wrong shorts to wear—the thin fabric did nothing to hide the strain beneath them.
That’s when I excused myself, went back upstairs, and changed into jeans.
Though, it didn’t help my cock any. Now I’m paying the price with the heavy denim pressing against my length.
She’s driving me completely out of my mind.
I pull into the private players’ parking lot at the Lonestars facility, bringing the engine to a low, idling purr, and pull in beside what is safe to assume her rental car.
There’s no other vehicle in the area, and she’s not even parked beneath a light.
I put my SUV in Park. Jett gathers her things, sliding her laptop into her backpack with a precision that tells me she’s done this more times than I can count.
“Thanks for the ride back to my car.” She looks up at me, unbuckles the seatbelt, and then I spur into action, doing the same thing and exiting the cool interior to help her out. I round the hood, watching as she opens her door. She has one long leg out, toe barely scrapping the asphalt.
“Not a problem. Here, let me help you,” I offer, extending my hand. She slips hers in mine, and I’m able to take her bag with my other.
“Oh, thanks. Again, I mean.” She lets my hand go to unlock her car. I keep my eyes above her shoulders, refusing to let her see how badly she has me worked up, and it’s damn hard.
“No problem.” I hand off her bag once she’s ready, and of course, that puts me in clear view of her ass when she bends inside the car to put it inside.
Heart-shaped, soft, and tapering inward before spilling into what I’m sure would fill my palms to perfection.
I can’t stop looking, and I damn sure can’t stop from thinking of all the ways I want to watch it bounce—my hand in her hair, tugging on it while my cock tunnels in and out of her while she’s on her knees, chest pressed to the bed, or Jett sucking my cock, a mirror behind us, so I get to watch every curve of her body while she swallows my length.
Christ, the possibilities are endless, and now I know what I’m going to have to do once I’m home. Alone.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” She steps back, nearly colliding with my hard cock, and I move just in time. “Therapy is at seven?”
“Yep.” My eyes drop.
“See you then. Don’t be late,” she teases, pulling her bottom lip into her sexy-as-fuck mouth.
“I’m never late, sunshine.” The palms of my hands itch to pull her closer. “Sweet dreams.” A sudden, unmistakable shiver skates through her body, her breath catches, and her cool and calm composure cracks for a split second. Christ, it’s a thing of beauty.
“I don’t dream, Rowdy. I sleep soundly,” she counters, attempting to regain her footing.
“That’s a shame. Because if you were in my bed, Jett, you wouldn’t be getting any sleep at all,” I rasp, my lips curling into a smirk.
Hers part slightly. She doesn’t have a comeback for my response.
Without another word, she settles in her car, closes the door, starts the engine, and leaves me standing alone in the warm Texas night.
I stay where I am, watching as she navigates the parking lot and heads out onto the main road. Only when her taillights disappear do I walk back to my own car and head home.
--
Iwalk through the door of my place less than fifteen minutes later, tossing my keys to the island as I kick off my shoes, then pull my shirt off.
My main goal is to get upstairs. Fast. My body is vibrating with a deep, restless ache, my cock is done holding back, and I need a second shower desperately, a cold one, ideally, except as I round the corner from the second-floor landing into the master bedroom, I know water isn’t going to fix what Jett started.
My jeans come off, along with my boxer briefs and socks. I walk into the bathroom completely naked. My shoulder that tugged at me early after the intense session no longer bothers me, probably because all of my blood is drained further south.
Once I’m in the master bathroom, I flip the light switch and step into the shower, not bothering to let the water get hot since I need something to calm down the inferno building inside me.
The cold water sends a shock through my system.
I welcome it, resting my palms flat against the marble tile, letting the water pour over my head, down my back, and across my shoulders.
I close my eyes, and the second darkness hits, she’s there.
My hand moves on instinct, reaching down, my palm wrapping around my rock-hard dick.
I swallow a low, rough groan as my thumb slides over the thick tip.
My stroke tightens, working up and down my length with slowness, wanting to prolong this for as long as possible.
Though, the way I’m feeling right now after having blue balls for the past several hours, I doubt I’ll last long.
The image behind my closed eyelids is of Jett in the facility’s weight room.
In my head, the gym is dead silent and empty from the rest of the team, and we’re the only ones there.
I’m standing at the dip station, my chest bare, my muscles burning as I grind out reps on the bar.
Jett is standing right in front of me, leaning against the rack with her camera lowered, her eyes ablaze with uncontained hunger.
There are no professional boundaries.
There are no PR scripts.
There’s nothing except her watching me work out.
“You like what you see, Jett?” I ask in my mind.
My hips twitch in the shower as my grip tightens and my hand moves faster, pump after pump.
In my fantasy, she doesn’t answer with words.
Instead, she walks right up to the station, stepping into my space until the scent of cinnamon and vanilla invades my senses.
I lock my arms, hanging suspended on the parallel bars, my legs hooked at the ankles behind me, and my chest is heaving for air. She looks up at me, tracking every trickle of sweat rolling down my stomach, straight to the waistbands of my shorts.
Then she takes matters into her own hands.
She reaches out, the tips of her fingers sliding along the elastics band.
I grunt out loud in the empty shower as I imagine the cool touch of her hands, the slight scrape of her nails as she drags the fabric down, pulling my shorts past my hips until my aching, fully erect dick springs free, resting heavily against my lower abdomen.
She continues pulling the material until it’s down beneath my balls, trapping my legs and exposing me completely to her gaze.
She doesn’t hesitate, not in my head at least. She sinks to her knees right there on the rubber mat. Her short dark hair falls forward over her cheeks as she grips the back of my thighs with her small, warm hands and brings her mouth to my head.
“Fucking Christ.” My lungs expand when she blows a soft breath of air over my slick tip, making my entire body shudder. My feet drop, but my arms stay locked on the bar, for now, and when she opens her mouth, taking me all the way to the back of her throat, I nearly explode.
The image hits hard and fast: her lips stretched wide, wet, warm mouth bobbing up and down, her tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge before she sucks me down again.
Jett’s eyes stay open, looking up through her lashes while she continues to wreck me, taking every inch while I keep my hands to myself.
I’d have much rather bury my hands in her hair, holding her still while I piston my hips and fuck her face, but that will have to wait for another time.
“Jett… fuck,” I rasp into the steam, my grip on my dick turning tight and desperate.
My spine tingles, my head tips back, and a growl is torn from my chest as the stroke of my palm turns fast and frantic.
The memory of her blush in the parking lot, the ways she carries herself, and the image I’ve created behind my eyes—it takes me under all at once.
My muscles lock up, and my stomach ripples as the need to let go is ripped through me.
I come hard, my seed pumping over my knuckles and splashing against the wet shower tile as a roar is ripped from me, echoing off the walls.
I stay where I am for a long-as-hell time, chest heaving, forehead pressed against the wall while the shower washes the evidence down the drain.
That’s another thing that would be different if I had Jett in front of me: she’d either swallow every last drop, or I’d enjoy painting her face and chest with my cum.
I’m supposed to be working on my image.
I’m supposed to be focused on getting back on the ice.
What I’m not supposed to be doing is thinking about a dark-eyed, dark-haired woman while I fist my cock.
One thing is for certain: tomorrow, at seven o’clock in the morning, when I walk into physical therapy and Jett is there, I’ll be fighting for my life to keep my hands, and dick for that matter, to myself.