“Hi! Nice to meet you! I think I saw you at the gym opening, didn’t I?” he questions.
I nod and take a big gulp of my mojito before turning to Jessie. “I think I should go.”
“What? Why?” She’s more confused than ever now.
“I totally spaced. Forgot I have no clean yoga gear for tomorrow. I have to go home and do laundry,” I babble, and it’s the stupidest lie I’ve ever told. I take another big gulp of mojito and leave it half finished on the table. “Nice meeting you guys. Have a good night.”
Before anyone can protest, I am pushing my way through the crowd. I glance over at Audrey, who is frowning at me over the crowd in front of her. I ignore her and don’t stop until I’m on the street. The damp, cool air is refreshing, and I take a deep breath.
I’m really bummed Jessie is with Jordan. I don’t want to hang out with someone wrapped up in the hockey world because I don’t want to be wrapped up in it. I’ve spent enough unhappy years involved with it thanks to my father and brother and Dustin. It’s confusing because she honestly doesn’t fit the mold. I mean, sure, she’s pretty—gorgeous, really—but she’s smart and she seems independent. The goal of most hockey girlfriends is to land that engagement ring, which is why they’re called puck bunnies. They’re just hopping from player to player looking for the ring. As soon as they do—sometimes even before, if they’re ballsy—they quit their jobs and cruise on his bank account. Jessie is still working. Sure, it’s part time, but it’s working. And she never mentioned Jordan’s profession until she had to. I’ve been around puck bunnies—a lot of them—like the ones that followed my brother around college and the ones that married my father’s teammates. And the ones that tried to destroy my parents’ marriage. All of them drop their “famous” boyfriend/husband/fiancé’s profession like it’s their own personal achievement. Like it earns them respect. Jessie didn’t do that. Maybe she’s different, but I would have to stick around here to find out and, with Sebastian here, that’s too much to handle right now. I’ll try and get to know her better at work or something.
I sigh as it starts to drizzle, pull the hood up on my jacket and search for the Uber app on my phone.
“You can’t even finish your drink?”
I fight the urge to groan, and I turn around. He’s standing under the black-and-white-striped awning that covers the door to the bar. He’s still without his suit jacket and he’s rolled up the sleeves to his white dress shirt. His tie still hangs loosely around his neck. His glasses still sit perfectly on his chiseled face, ice blue eyes peering out inquisitively from behind them.
“You need to stop wearing those glasses,” I tell him flatly. “They make you look like an accountant in a porn movie.”
He blinks and then lets out a heavy chuff at that. “If your porn has accounting in it, you’re doing it wrong,ma belle.”
“Stop with the French too,” I say, folding my arms over my chest to show my irritation. “Your mother tongue won’t work on me.”
He looks even more amused than he did by the porn comment. This man is drop-dead sexy when he’s amused. I’m getting damp and it’s not from the weather. As a couple slips past him into the bar, he takes a step toward me but is still cloaked by the awning. He smirks, crossing his arms over his muscular chest, the white fabric on his biceps pulling snugly. “That’s odd, because you enjoyed my tongue last night.”
White-hot desire swirls low in my belly and rushes through my veins. Images of him naked and pushing into me, licking and sucking at my skin as he does, spin through my head like I’m scrolling through pictures on my phone. Oh God. Why did it have to be so good?
I try pushing the images of our sexcapades out of my head and try to conjure up different ones. Bitter ones from my past. The reason I have to deny myself the only man I’ve ever craved. The only man who has yet to satisfy me. I level my gaze at him. “Nothing you do works on me now.”
He doesn’t respond. He just stares. His gaze is hard. Intense. Confident. I imagine it’s the look he gave whoever caused that slice through his eyebrow. He takes another step toward me; this time it brings him out from under the protective cover of the awning. Still, he says nothing. The water starts to dapple his shirt and little droplets coat the lenses in his glasses, but he still says nothing. He takes another step closer.
We’re a foot, maybe, apart. Those crystal blue eyes are unwavering, unblinking, narrowed right on mine, and I can’t look away. I also can’t breathe. He uncrosses his arms. The misty rain is making his shirt see-through. His skin looks so inviting through it. My fingers flex with the need to touch him, so I press my folded arms down tighter on top of them. He can’t see out of his glasses now, so he reaches up and pulls them off. My eyes shift to the angry slice on his forehead and the dark sutures holding it together.
“You’re not supposed to get stitches wet,” I scold and reach up to wipe droplets from his forehead before they reach his cut.
As my fingers brush the skin above his cut, he moves. It’s quick and unexpected, so I don’t have time to react as he grabs me by the wrist and uses it to yank me closer. As my mouth opens in a surprised gasp, he covers it with his own. I want to protest—Ihaveto—but as soon as his tongue sweeps over mine, a switch flips somewhere inside me. My reasoning, my rational thought is turned off, and desire and lust is turned on, filling my body with want. Forhim. And I can’t help but kiss him back.
He pushes me back two steps until I’m pressed up against a light post. His hand, still holding my wrist, slides into the narrow space between our bodies, and he presses my hand against the long, thick, hard outline pushing against his suit pants. He breaks this kiss, pulling his lips just enough to speak.
“You still do this to me,” he growls and rubs himself into my palm. My hand, controlled by want and not reason, just like the rest of me, wraps my fingers around him. “And I know if I slip my fingers into your jeans right now, they’d come out wet.”
I kiss him again. To shut him up. To gain some modicum of control. To keep myself from moaning “yes” and God knows what else. “Come home with me,” he whispers into the kiss.
“No,” I whimper and manage to find the strength, and common sense, to pull my hand back. I reach behind me and grip the cold, slick metal lamppost to help hold me up, since my legs are shaking. Kissing Seb makes me feel drunker than champagne. “I told you. I had fun. You’re good at sex because you’re a hockey player and that’s what you do, but I’m not into that. I’m not…I didn’t mean to be one of your playthings, Frenchie. So no.”
I move away from the light post and away from him. “I’m going home. Alone. Good night.”
He moves to follow me, and I know that I won’t say a damn word to stop him. Oh, God help me…Then three guys bustle by me on the sidewalk chattering away, oblivious to the scene beside them until one of them glances up and sees Sebastian. His eyes widen in recognition. “Holly crap! Sebastian Deveau! Man, that game tonight…that was tough.”
Sebastian blinks, and his gaze switches instantly from the feral look he was giving me to an amicable, gregarious smile. “Yeah. Don’t worry. Won’t happen again.”
“I never do this, but any chance we could get a pic with you?”
It’s the last thing I hear as I quickly march down the street and away from him. As I hail a cab a block away I can’t stop myself from looking back. He’s under the awning again, smiling next to one of the guys while another one takes a picture of them on his phone. He did exactly what my dad used to do. Flipped a mental switch and dropped everything that he was supposed to care about for the love and fleeting admiration of strangers. Yeah, I need to stay as far away from this guy as possible. No matter what.
Chapter 18
Sebastian
