Slap Shot(12)

“Shit,” I muttered, reaching desperately for my wallet, a lipstick and my sunglasses.

“Here,” Rick said, passing me a hairbrush and a packet of mints.

My fingertips brushed his palm and the heated texture of his skin infused into mine. I pulled my hand away as if I’d been burned. I didn’t want to remember how good it was to touch him.

I slammed the door and gnawed at the inside of my cheek. Ground the car through the gears and tore down the gravel driveway, relieved to see the gates swinging open when I reached them. Within minutes I was flying down the freeway leaving bad Dana and a far too tempting hockey captain behind.




I arrived home feeling exhausted and emotionally wrung out. Dropping my stuff on the kitchen table, I stripped and leaped into the shower. The water was soothing on my buzzing body and washed away the sticky heat of the day. But what it didn’t do, couldn’t do, was quell the desire I felt whenever that man was around.

How come I’d resisted so many others over the last two years without batting an eyelid, with barely an ounce of effort, yet he had me stuttering and squirming? Five seconds of his company and I was looking at his mouth and imagining sitting on his face. Whenever he was within five feet of me I was drawn toward his muscular body, wanting it hard and heavy over me all over again.

Damn!

I shampooed and conditioned my hair then filled my palm with nectarine shower gel. Soaping my flesh, my fingers ran over my thighs and through my fuzz of black pubic hair. Tipping my face to the blasting water, I remembered his thick cock penetrating me—so rigid, so wide, so damn good. My fingers slipped through my soft folds, searched out my entrance and pushed in.

“Rick,” I mumbled into the water, sampling his name once more on my tongue. “Rick.” But my fingers weren’t enough. They weren’t big enough, they weren’t him. I reached out and flattened my other palm against the tiles of the shower cubicle, then withdrew and circled my clitoris, giving in to the swollen nub, which demanded attention.

I dropped my neck down, let the water run like a veil over my head and shoulders, and brought myself to a swift, sharp climax. It left me panting and my legs like Jell-O, and I stepped from the shower clinging to the side of the cubicle.

Sitting on a chair for a moment, I twisted my hair up into a towel and tightened another around my body, tucking it securely at my cleavage, then left the steam-filled bathroom.

Heading toward the kitchen, I heard the doorbell chime.

I paused. Who could it be? It was still light outside. Perhaps it was kids selling cookies. Ignoring it, I went into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle.

The bell rang again, then a third time. I clicked my tongue in irritation and padded barefoot back into the hallway.

Not bothering to check the peephole, I pulled open the door.

My heart nearly gave out.

Standing on my porch was two hundred pounds of hot, hard hockey player wearing an expression of grim determination.

Oh my god. Seconds ago I’d been masturbating and gasping his name.

“You dropped this,” he said, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he handed me my driver’s license.

Shock clogged my throat. Oh shit, now he knew where I lived and he was standing here, on my doorstep, looking like a perfect slice of heaven all wrapped up in muscle.

He was my worst nightmare from hell!

I took the license in one hand and rested the other on my bare throat, trying to slow the pounding of my heart. “Thanks,” I managed. “But you could have just mailed it.”

“I was coming this way.”

“Oh, well…thanks.” I started to shut the door. This couldn’t be happening. Rick “Ramrod” Lewis could not be just passing my way.

Suddenly he wedged his big black sneaker between the door and frame. It halted my progress of shutting it.

“I’m not stalking you,” he said, peering through the gap.

I pulled the door open a fraction. “I know.”

“But I’m not leaving.” There was a stubborn set to his jaw and fire in his eyes.

“You’re not?” I glanced down at his foot, halfway over the threshold.

“No, not until you agree to go out on a date, damn it. Not sex, not marriage, just one lousy date. Come on, Dana, just say yes already.” His voice dropped, low and persuasive, and his gaze locked on mine. “You know you want to.”

I stared at him, he stared back. For a few moments we were like two combatants preparing for battle.

“Why is it so important?” I asked eventually.

“I dunno, I just…” He shrugged, smiled and produced those damn cute dimples. “I guess I just want to get to know what makes ‘Dana Wilcox, event organizer’ tick. And I know you gotta eat sometime, even if you are tiny.”