Page 61 of Hard to Handle

“Is old man Watson still not home?” she asks as she looks around the empty backyard before pulling my hand up and pressing it against her breast.

“No.” I gulp. I try not to move, because if my jeans rub too hard or she grinds again against me, I swear to God, I’m going to come in my pants.

Gretzky. Crosby. Lemieux. Roy. Howe. Orr.

I try to recite the hockey greats. Anything to get my focus off what her nipple feels like beneath the thin fabric. Hard and soft and her breast the perfect weight as if I know what that is.

“He—he’s still out of town.”

“Should we do this now? Like you and me? So my hair doesn’t get messed up later and my parents don’t wonder?”

Jesus.

I’m not Jonah.

Oh my God, he’s going to kill me.

She runs a hand over the outside of my pants and my eyes all but roll back in my head. If a cool breeze on any other day is enough to make me stand at attention, her hand is doing so much more than that.

“I—sure—I—”

“I mean, we can do what we did before—with me sucking you and you licking me . . . but, I brought a condom.” She holds a foil packet up and my eyes bug out of my head, causing her to giggle as my breath all but stops.

“Yes. Please. Um—”

“You’re acting funny,” she says as she pushes me toward the patio furniture and grabs my shirt, pulling me toward her to meet my tongue again.

My pulse pounds in my ears. My breathing is shallow as I try to process what’s happening. As I realize the next closest house is half a mile away and Terry Fischer is here and wants to do it with me.

I guess the rumors were right.

I guess Jonah wasn’t lying.

Don’t think about Jonah. Don’t think about—

“C’mon, J. Feel my panties. Feel what you do to me.”

She guides my hand between the flimsy cotton shorts to where it’s warm and moist and—

Gretzky. Crosby. Lemieux. Roy. Howe. Orr.

“Ohhhh.” My own moan is all I can hear as her hands slide inside my jeans and circle around me.

Gretzky. Crosby. Lemieux. Roy. Howe. Orr.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

DEKKER

THE SAXOPHONE FLOATS THROUGH THE air above the steady drone of chatter. Sculler’s Jazz Club is crowded for a Thursday night and by the looks of my company—Finch and his wife, Maysen, and Callum—the few drinks have settled and the exhaustion from the game tonight is setting in.

Finch with his uniquely good looks—longer hair with almost clear blue eyes—has his arm hooked around his wife’s shoulder. For the life of me, I can’t remember her name and am too embarrassed to ask, so I’ve spent the better part of the conversation making sure to avoid saying anything where I need to use it.

For a businesswoman who prides herself on remembering names, I just don’t have it in me tonight.

Regardless, Callum was right. This place that the guys usually meet up at after wherever their adventures take them in the city, is just what I needed. Relaxed and sufficiently off the beaten track that it offers privacy away from fans. The guys can enjoy a drink or two without interruptions for autographs or fear that pictures will be posted online of them when they’ve had a little too much.

The lounge is dim, and the furniture is dark, save for the stage across from us with its red velvet backdrop and lights angled at the lone man sitting there playing the sax. His tune is melodic and seductive and begs you to relax . . . or make love. I’m angling for the former. We’re in the top of the three tiers of seats, and the bar is behind us with its clinks and clanks of glass as it buzzes with business.