Page 80 of The Goalie in Room 1

“I’m thirty-nine.”

“Wow. That’s kinda ancient.”

“And you’re drunk, you fucking toddler.”

“I’m twenty-three and a bratty middle. No diapers needed. But a spanking? I’m always down to get my ass paddled.”

“Now I know you’re fucking drunk.”

“I’m pleasantly festive.” His gaze traveled slowly down my body before returning to my face. “You’re sexy drunk.”

I stared at him. God, I wanted him. Clearing my throat, I played off the hunger heating my gaze and groin by saying, “You’re going to be unpleasantly hungover.”

He snorted, his finger trailing over the muscles in my forearm. “Worth it.”

The way his mouth moved, the way the words sounded…all of it combined into yet another turn-on. How the fuck could those two words be such an aphrodisiac? Bending, I collected our empty glasses before I did something considerably stupider than getting drunk with my patient.

“Bedtime,” I said, turning toward the kitchen.

“Yes, Daddy.”

I stumbled, the glasses nearly slipping out of my hand. Cash laughed. Fucking cackled.

“Keep pushing me, Benjamin.”

He went still.

So did I.

Jesus Christ. The words hung between us, carrying about twelve meanings I absolutely hadn’t intended.

Or maybe I had. God knew his admission to loving a spanking had short-circuited my system.

Cash’s eyes darkened, and he smirked, “Good night, Doc.”

He turned before I could answer and headed down the hall, the steady rhythm of his crutches growing quieter until his bedroom door closed. I stood in the middle of the Christmas explosion he’d created and stared after him.

“Fuck.”

I cleaned up. Or tried to. Mostly, I moved shit from one place to another while replaying the last five minutes in my head.

His eyes on my mouth.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Keep pushing me.”

Brilliant fucking choice of words, Vale.

By the time I turned off everything except the tree, the whiskey had left me warm and loose everywhere except the one place I desperately needed.

I headed for my bedroom. Or the bedroom I used now that I wasn’t sleeping in the lounger in Cash’s room. No way in hell could I sleep upstairs with the kid down here.

A shower didn’t help.

Neither did brushing my teeth.

Neither did getting into bed, turning off the lights, and spending fifteen minutes staring at the ceiling while my brain helpfully supplied an endless highlight reel of Cash Benjamin in tiny green briefs and my Fighting Irish sweater. Those fucking underwear were so damn tiny. And the alcohol had stolen what modesty the boy had. Not that he had much.