My heart jumps into my throat, and my suspicions are confirmed a few moments later when a couple of vaguely familiar, huge guys step up behind my friends.
Hot breath rushes over my ear and down my neck before a deep voice rasps, “How about we take this to the VIP area?”
Tingles skitter down my spine, and my heart begins to race.
“I-I think we’re okay here,” I say, although I doubt he can hear it over the music.
His grip on me tightens, as if he’s going to physically drag me there. I’m ready to fight, although I’m not sure I’m ready to spin around and look at him.
I close my eyes, wondering how his face looks now. Has the bruising around his eye darkened? Has the cut in his lip stopped bleeding?
I gasp as he leans in closer, letting the hard planes of his body press against my softer ones.
“Aw, there’s no need to be shy, sweetheart,” he says, moving so close that his lips brush my ear.
I fight to keep my reaction to myself, but I fear he feels the violent shiver that rips through me.
“You know you want to dance with me.”
His arrogance has fire shooting straight through my veins. Without thinking, I let the alcohol control my body and spin around in his hold. I glare up at him, desperately trying to ignore the fact that up close, he’s even better looking than he was out on the ice. His bleached hair is lighter now that it’s not soaked with sweat, and despite it looking like he’s spent hours styling it, something tells me he hasn’t. The scruff covering his jaw and cheeks is the perfect length not to scratch but also not tickle when he’s…nope. Don’t go there. Do not think about this man anywhere between your legs. And then there’s the ink that creeps from beneath his shirt and wraps around his neck. If I were to glance down, I’m pretty sure I’d find similar artwork on his forearms, too.
As my heart races, it’s impossible to ignore the way it beats between my legs.
Get a grip, Bea.
Who cares if your vagina hasn’t seen any action in…more months than we are willing to admit to.
One hot, arrogant hockey player is not going to be the one to end the drought.
Nope. Nope. Not a chance.
His words repeat in my head, and a laugh bubbles out of me.
“You really think you’re something, don’t you?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think, sweetheart. I know.”
“Wow. Just…wow.”
But despite my reaction, he doesn’t back away. In fact, it only makes him try harder.
He reaches out and tucks a lock of my messy hair behind my ear. His touch burns, and my face heats as his eyes continue to hold mine.
It might be dark in here, save for the strobe lights, but I can still see just how bright his blue eyes are.
They’re mesmerizing. They’re?—
Nope.
This man screams bad boy.
If I were to look behind him, I’d probably find a trail of broken hearts that wraps around the block and then further still.
And sadly, Sienna was right earlier when she said Everett Donnelly is my type.
I hate to admit it, and I’ve spent years trying to change it, but bad boys who break my heart areexactlymy type.
I think it comes from years of rebelling against the life I was born into, or at least that’s what I’ve convinced myself a therapist would say. My go-to is always to do what I know Mom wouldn’t approve of just to provoke a reaction. And apparently, that need hasn’t lessened as I’ve turned into an independent adult.
