“And steal kisses along the way,” she accuses.
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“See?” She shakes her head. “Incorrigible.”
I lean close, my lips very near her ear. “And see?” I flick out my tongue to taste her, unable to stifle the bolt of arrogant pride that slides through me when she jumps, her hands settling on my shoulders, nails biting into my flesh. Drawing me closer instead of pushing me away. “You like it.”
She shudders. “Colt.”
“I have it on good authority that you may be able to turn lunch into dinner too.”
Her nails dig in harder.
My dick protests the confines of the cup and there’s nothing more than I want to do right now than drag her to the nearest dark corner and show her exactly how much I like the feel of her nails on me.
But…slow and patient.
And sneaky.
I kiss the delicate, adorable earlobe of hers then straighten. “So, Teach…lunch when I get home?”
A long pause, her eyes going from unfocused to sharp. They hold mine. Search mine. Then she nods. “Fine.”
“So gracious,” I tease.
She sighs, shakes her head as she shoves me in the direction of the locker room. “Get dressed. It’s almost time for puck drop.”
“Will you be watching?”
“Will you…” Her eyes flick down. “…make it worth my while?”
I wince, try to adjust myself unobtrusively.
But that’s nearly impossible.
Especially when her smile grows and she lifts on tiptoe, lips at my ear. “If you do…you might even be able to talk me into breakfast.”
Red hazes the edges of my vision.
My dick threatens to break in half.
And then she flicks her tongue out to taste my earlobe.
My hands drop onto her waist, drawing her against me before I realize what I’m doing, before I can measure her body language, her expression, her eyes for any sign of fear.
But even as I try to force my hands to open, to let her go, she drags her lips along my jaw, brushes her mouth over mine.
“Honey?” she murmurs.
“Y-yeah?” I manage to rasp out.
“Make it good enough and maybe we’ll revisit that boyfriend talk.”
Then she’s slipping out of my arms and I’m watching her saunter down the hallway…
Having the distinct notion that I’ve been out-sneaked.
Nineteen
