Cheyenne
The tension that fills the Maserati on the ride home from the game is combustible.
One of Knox’s hands is loosely wrapped around the wheel while the other rests on my thigh. The heat of his palm sinks through the denim and straight into my bloodstream. It’s all I can focus on as the city lights blur past the windows in streaks of gold and white.
The game continues to hum beneath my skin. The noise of the arena. The energy of the fans. The way the crowd exploded when Knox dropped his gloves and lunged at the other player.
I’ve never witnessed anything like it before.
I knew hockey was a brutal sport, but seeing it in person is a completely different experience. The speed. The violence. The way everything can shift from intense game play to full-blown mayhem in the blink of an eye is surreal.
And Knox…
I can still see the moment he lost control. He looked ready to tear the other guy apart limb by limb. A shiver works its way through my system, and not entirely because the memory is unsettling.
That’s the part I don’t quite understand.
I didn’t like the brawl itself. I hate fighting.
There were a couple times when production tried to engineer screaming matches or push cast members into physical confrontations because they thought it’d make good television and up the ratings.
Even when Mom encouraged me to do it, I refused.
Manufactured drama is exhausting enough.
Real violence is so much worse.
And yet…
I can’t deny seeing Knox like that affected me, making me feel hot and bothered. It’s definitely not something I’m proud of.
His thumb strokes over my thigh, dragging me from the confusing tangle of my thoughts. I turn in my seat and stare at his profile, taking in the hard line of his jaw and the focused set of his lips.
“Are you going to tell me what the fight was about?”
His gaze stays trained on the road. “Nah. It wasn’t important.”
I raise a brow. “So you guys just throw punches for nothing?”
“Yeah, sometimes.”
When his fingers slide higher, squeezing my leg before continuing their slow climb, my breath catches. It doesn’t take long before he’s too close to the vee between my thighs, and I shift against the leather, not about to let him derail my line of questioning.
My tongue darts out to moisten my lips. “Did he say something that set you off?”
Instead of responding, his pinkie brushes the seam of my jeans, and it’s enough to send electricity shooting through me.
I glance down at his hand before looking back at him. “Are you trying to distract me, McNichols?”
A smirk pulls at the corners of his mouth as he cuts me a quick look. “Aren’t I allowed to touch my girlfriend anytime I want?”
When his fingers press firmly against my center, I can’t hold back a moan.
“Knox.”
He chuckles. “Any other burning questions you’d like me to answer?”
I do my best to glare at him, but it’s difficult when he’s touching me like this and my body is betraying me at every turn.
“Is it… um…” I squirm as arousal pools in my core. “Normal for brawls to just break out like that?”
“It can be.” He glances at me. “In case you didn’t notice, the fans enjoy it.”
His fingers stroke over me again, and I exhale shakily as my head falls back against the seat and my eyes feather closed.
“Maybe hockey and reality TV have more in common than I first suspected.”
That earns a low laugh from him, the sound warm and rough in the quiet of the car. “You think so?”
“Possibly,” I murmur, trying unsuccessfully to gather my scattered thoughts. “Both involve questionable decision-making in front of an audience.”
His hand tightens slightly where it rests against me, the subtle pressure stealing the rest of my breath.
Humor simmers in his voice. “You calling that a bad decision?”
My lips part, but it takes me a second to find words through the haze he’s creating. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“Is that so?”
My fingers curl against the seat, my pulse kicking harder, as his hand shifts just enough to make it impossible to focus on anything other than his touch. “I—”
There’s a beat of silence, broken only by the growl of the engine.
“Maybe I need to do something to sway your decision.”
A quiet sound slips out of me, and my head presses harder against the cushion as I lose the fight to stay composed.
“You’re not even trying to be subtle, McNichols,” I manage, though it comes out breathy and weak.
“In case you haven’t noticed, subtle isn’t really my style,” he replies, completely unapologetic.
And the worst part?
It’s working.
His hand slides higher, and this time there’s no pretending he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. My thighs part the barest bit, and the city disappears around us. All I feel is the press of his hand and the heat racing through me.
“I’m serious,” I say, even though my voice has become breathy, undercutting the effect. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
“Pretty sure you’re not actually focused on that right now.”
“I am.” Sort of.
“You sure about that?” When his thumb grazes me through the denim, my hips jerk in response. “Seems like you’ve got something else on your mind, Hollywood.”
A helpless laugh bubbles out of me. “You’re the worst.”
“No, baby.” His voice sounds like velvet over steel. “I’m just very good at redirecting your attention when needed.”
He pulls into the garage a few minutes later, and the second the engine cuts off, the silence inside the car turns charged.
For a moment, neither of us move. His hand is still on me, slowly stroking and teasing my pussy through my jeans. It’s almost shocking how quickly he can unravel me. How easily he’s able to flip that switch, leaving me gasping and strung tight.
Every subtle shift, every brush of his fingers sends another ripple of sensation through me. It continues to build until I’m teetering on the edge of something I can’t quite reach. My body reacts before my mind has a chance to fully catch up, chasing the feeling, leaning into it despite myself.
It’s overwhelming in the best, and worst, way possible because he never pushes me over.
He keeps me dangling on the edge, suspended, my breath uneven, my thoughts slipping through my fingers as heat coils low in my core.
I’m so close it’s almost unbearable. Close enough that I’m embarrassingly aware of just how little it would take for me to beg for more.
He turns in his seat, his gaze dragging over my face as desire flares in his eyes.
“Damn,” he says roughly. “You’re so sexy.”
I spread my legs wider, giving him more access. “Knox… you better not be heating me up for nothing.”
“Is that what I’m doing, baby? Getting you all worked up only to leave you frustrated?”
He presses his fingers more firmly against my core, and a helpless moan tumbles free.
“Pretty sure that little pussy was completely satisfied yesterday.”
His filthy words only make everything worse.
When I stay quiet, his fingers rub over me in a way that makes my thighs tremble.
“Well, Hollywood? I’m waiting. Did I take care of that little pussy yesterday or not?”
I’m barely able to force out a response. “You did.”
“Excellent answer.”
When the delicious pressure disappears, my lips part in protest. I’m seconds away from begging him to touch me again when his fingers shift to the button of my jeans, flicking it open and dragging down the zipper with one quick movement.
His hand slips beneath the fabric of my panties, and every thought in my head shatters as I groan. He strokes me slowly, as if we have all the time in the world and we’re not in a public place. I sink back against the leather seat, my body arching into his touch.
“You’ve really made a mess of those panties, haven’t you, baby?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks even as my body burns for more. “Yes.”
“I love how soaked you get.”
My teeth scrape over my bottom lip. “I never have before.”
His fingers slide in and out of me, and his gaze sharpens. “No?”
I shake my head. “Not like this.”
Never like this.
“Good.” His voice turns rough enough to make my pulse skip. “I love that I’m the only one who can turn you on this much.”
A whimper slips from me.
He shifts closer, leaning over me, his mouth brushing across mine before murmuring, “I’m going to teach this pussy to cry on command. All I’ll have to do is look at you and she’ll be wet and waiting for me.”
Oh.
My.
God.
A strangled laugh almost breaks loose at the same time as a moan, because who knew this man could talk so dirty?
A better question would be—who knew I’d like it so much?
It’s one revelation after another with Knox McNichols.
His fingers thrust deeper. “Now, I want you to be a good girl and come all over my hand.” There’s a pause. “Can you do that for me?”
Apparently, I can.
One more stroke is all it takes for pleasure to crest and break. The sensation rushes through me as I cry out. My body reacts instinctively, hips lifting as if chasing the last of it, holding on for as long as I can.
The orgasm hits hard enough for everything around me to disappear.
All I can do is breathe through it as I ride out the wave.
My teeth sink into my lower lip to keep the sounds trapped inside.
By the time my release fades, I’m left unsteady, my thoughts slow to catch up.
Knox is still here, his hand lingering, his touch unhurried, as if he’s in no rush to let me go.
When I force my eyes open, I find him watching me.
“Feel good?” he asks before pressing his mouth to mine.
“Amazing.”
He pulls his hand from my jeans and stares at fingers that are slick with my arousal. With his gaze locked on mine, he slips them into his mouth and sucks them clean.
My stomach swoops.
His eyelids feather closed as he savors the taste before opening them again, desire and heat swirling within his blue depths. “So damn delicious. Now,” he says, voice deeper than before, “are you ready to go upstairs and be properly fucked, or do you still have questions about the fight?”
The response is out before I can second-guess it. “I’d really like to be fucked.”