Page 57 of Pucking Revenge
“I start every morning before a home game at the diner.”
Oh, hockey players and their superstitions. I didn’t grow up around hockey. Until I was hired by Langfield Corp, I’d never watched a single game. Early on, when I mentioned that to Liv, she slapped a hand over my mouth, peered over her shoulder, and told me never to repeat it.
So then I went in the opposite direction and told Brooks and the guys that I’m a rabid hockey fan. When they questioned me, I swore I knew all the ins and outs. That resulted in me having to look up every little thing he and his friends talked about.
Why I didn’t just come out with it and tell the truth—that I’m a regular, everyday girl with some knowledge but not a ton—is beyond me. It probably has something to do with how I turn into a whack job when I’m nervous. I just start talking, and sometimes I talk myself right into a corner.
“Would you want to come to breakfast with me, Pumpkin?”
The question throws me for a loop. Partly because I was in my head again, but also because I’ve never gone to breakfast with him before a game. Wouldn’t my presence interrupt his ritual? I wiggle my way to my other side so I can face him. “Are you sure that’s wise?”
Brooks clears his throat and takes a deep breath. “Sar, you’re currently naked in my arms.”
With a grin, I peek down. “Well, look at that. Spoiler alert, I don’t wear clothes to bed. Why bother? You’ve already been near my ass.”
His laugh is like a hit of serotonin, instantly relaxing me. When I woke up, I silently panicked, sure he would act weird about last night.
Maybe we can have fun while we’re faking things. I certainly wouldn’t mind returning the favor. My best friend is hot. And last night, he proved that he’s not just a pretty face. The man knows what he’s doing with those fingers. And those thighs? God, I can only imagine what they’re capable of. The power in that tight, toned body. The stamina.
Suddenly salivating, I lick my lips and eye his ripped chest. In the middle of my perusal, his dick thumps against my belly. Instantly, heat pools in my core, and I have to bite down on my lip to hold back a groan.
“Okay,” he says, his voice tight. “I’m getting out of bed.”
He releases me, but this time I’m the one clinging to him. With more strength than I knew I possessed, I push him onto his back. Then I straddle him so that he’ll have to throw me if he wants to move. His hands fall against the mattress and he fists the sheets. “Sar, you’re fucking?—”
When he doesn’t finish the sentence, I wiggle atop him. “I’d like to be fucking, but someone won’t let me.”
His focus lowers inch by inch from my face to my chest. He swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple working, then he drags his gaze back up to my face again, wide-eyed and heaving, as if he shouldn’t be looking at me. The sheet has fallen and I’m bare as the day I was born, completely on display and not ashamed in the least. What’s there to be ashamed of? I have great tits. He should stare.
“You’re fucking gorgeous, Sara.”
Butterflies take flight in my belly at the awe in his tone.
“The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He focuses on me as he confesses, his full attention locked on my face. Like he really wants me to hear his every word. He’s so damn respectful, even when he’s literally talking about how gorgeous he thinks I am while I’m naked and straddling him.
This man is a gem.
“Fine, I’ll go to breakfast with you.” I dismount quickly, throwing one leg over him, and hop off the bed. At the bathroom door, I throw a look over my shoulder and find him staring at my ass.
With a saucy wink, I give it a little shake, then continue on my way.
Twenty minutes later, dressed and with my hair pulled back in a ponytail—tight on the top but curly in the back, to change things up—I’m damn proud of how put together I am. It’s not even eight a.m. on a Saturday, and I’m ready to walk out the door. I’m patting myself on the back when Brooks walks into my apartment wearing a goddamn navy suit.
“I thought we were going to the diner.”
He holds the door open and nods for me to exit. “We are.”
“Brooks Langfield,” I chide, digging for my keys so I can lock the door. “Not once in the time I’ve known you have you acted like the cajillinoaire you are until this very moment.”
He frowns and runs his palm over his hair, smoothing the already perfect style.
I spin and take off toward the elevator. “No one wears a freaking suit to the diner.”
“I wear one every time.”He eats up the distance between us with his long legs, and in three strides, he’s walking beside me.
I don’t say anything while we wait at the elevator bank, but I keep my focus trained on him. He’ll figure it out if I give him a minute.
It doesn’t take long before he goes ramrod straight in acknowledgment, and half a second later, he drops his head forward and sags. “I wore a suit every time I went to breakfast with my uncle.”