Page 294 of Faking the Goal

"I did..." I say, still laughing. "I just don't understand why I have to be lying on the ice for it."

A quiet chuckle rumbles out of him.

"I could explain it." He leans down just enough for his face to drift a little closer to mine. "But I'd rather show you."

One dark eyebrow lifts.

"It's a much better demonstration."

A sharp, involuntary gasp escapes me as Kentaro settles his weight over my hips, his powerful thighs caging mine against the cold surface.

Oh.

Oh, this motherfucker.

My cheeks ignite as he starts the stretch, slowly rolling his hips against mine in a way that I'm sure has some perfectly respectable athletic purpose, but my vagina did not receive that memo.

Because the second I feel the hard protection of his gear press between my thighs, my libido flips on like somebody just smacked the world's horniest light switch.

Fantastic.

Apparently, this is all it takes now. One stupid hip-flexor stretch and my body is already getting ideas it has absolutely no business having in the middle of a fucking ice rink.

Kentaro rolls forward again.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Warmth gathers embarrassingly fast between my thighs, and I swear my body is one more slow grind away from filing a formal request for him to forget the stretching altogether and move on to a much more interesting form of cardio.

And the bastard knows it.

There's nothing innocent about the way Kentaro is looking at me now. His eyes have gone dark and wicked, fixed on mine as another slow roll of his hips presses him against me, while the corner of his mouth curls into the kind of devastatingly sexy smirk that belongs on a man who knows damn well he's driving a woman crazy and has every intention of making it worse.

Holy fuck.

Where the hell did this version of Ken-chan come from?

Because this is not my perpetually scowling, emotionally constipated goalie. This is some dangerously seductive alternate version who apparently woke up today and decided to use "hip flexor mobilization" as a perfectly legitimate excuse to grind against me on an ice rink.

And judging by the wicked amusement flashing in his eyes every time my breath catches, he's enjoying my rapidly deteriorating self-control way too fucking much.

Every slow pass sends another rush of heat through me until I'm pretty sure I'm glowing from my collarbone to my forehead. I should look away. Preserve whatever tiny scrap of dignity I have left. But Kentaro keeps his eyes locked on mine with that familiar look that practically dares me to try.

My hands stay at my sides, although at this point I'm seriously reconsidering that decision. Half of me wants to shove him off for being such a smug bastard. The other half has several suggestions for where my hands could go instead, and not one of them is appropriate for a hockey lesson.

He rolls his hips one last time, deliberately slow, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek.

He finally stills above me, that crooked, knowing smile appearing on his face.

"Do you see the appeal now, trouble?"

I bite my lip hard to keep from begging him not to stop, to just... keep going. A pathetic whimper slips out anyway.

I press my thighs together, a feeble attempt to quell the ache building there. My face must be the exact shade of my hair—a brilliant, mortifying scarlet. The cold of the rink beneath us does nothing to douse the fire he's stoking with every grinding circle of his hips.

"Jerk..."

Kentaro's smile softens, and for a moment, I catch a flicker of something more vulnerable in his eyes.