Page 131 of Slapshot Bride

“I’d bend you over, and fuck you so good. Hear you moan my name with that sweet voice while I claim what’s mine…”

His hand slides across my stomach, and he palms it softly. A shiver wracks my body, and my knees weaken, but he’s holding me in place.

“But your brother comes first. Tell me you want that baby. Tell me I can eat your pussy when we get back…”

“Yes… Oh god, yes, you can…” I moan, and he spins me around until our lips collide in a heated kiss.

“Good girl.”

He pecks my temple and grabs my hand. “Come on, let’s not keep your brother waiting.”

He leads me out of the house.

The drive to the restaurant is faster than I expected.

I’m an excited, nervous wreck, but Easton seems cool. He drives and maneuvers through the traffic with ease, and I keep stealing glances, wondering if he’s nervous to meet Mason.

I wonder if Mason would approve of him.

It’s my biggest fear at the moment.

I’ve fallen for Easton Blake. It’s no longer a secret to hide, but I want Mason to like him. To look me in the eyes and tell me Easton is good for me.

He never liked Preston. Saw him for who he was from the onset. I’m convinced he’s a people reader and will judge this situation better than I ever will.

I was never meant to fall for Easton. Mason will tell me if I’m overreacting to the proximity of living with him. He’ll tell me the truth.

“What’s his name?” Easton asks, pulling me out of my thoughts, as he pulls into the parking lot.

I laugh.

“Eager much?” I flash my brows, and he laughs. “You’re about to meet him, love. You’ll find out in a minute or two.”

I place my hand on his thigh, smiling flirtatiously.

He growls.

“Don’t do that, baby…”

He takes my hand, raises it to his lips for a kiss. “If I walk into that place with a tent in my pants, your brother will have my head, and there’s no saving face after that. I need to convince him I’m the man for you, don’t I?”

My heart flutters, and warmth floods my stomach.

“Mmhmm…” It’s the only sound I can make, and it comes out as a whimper.

“Fucking hell…”

He leans over and seals his lips to mine right there.

“Fuck baby. You’ll be the end of me,” he whispers against my lips.

A few minutes later, we climb out and cross the parking lot, hand-in-hand, to the door.

The restaurant is a small, dark Italian place, tucked behind a bakery on a street I’m not familiar with, which is very Mason. He finds places. He always has.

He booked the corner table without me having to ask him to, because he knows what my life looks like right now, even though he doesn’t know a single detail of it.

He’s not a media person. But he’s aware of the mess Preston made with the first press release.