Twisted Wrister: A Next-Door-Neighbor Sports Romance (The Playmakers Series Hockey Romances Book 7)

by G. K. Brady

  She turned into him, molding her curves against all that smooth, heated skin stretched over hard muscle. The feel of his angled body set her belly to quivering. His arms encircled her and tightened, his embrace like a boa constrictor, pressing her abdomen to something unexpectedly hard. No, can’t be. As if he’d read her mind, his hands dropped to her ass and yanked her against his steely shaft. He began a slow grind against her.

  Whoa! She broke the kiss and stared at him. He’s ready to go again?

  His chest heaved against hers. “What’s wrong?”

  “N-nothing … I’m just surprised … I mean …” Come on, word wizard. Spit it out already! She couldn’t for some reason, so she slid her hand between them, her fingers skipping over the defined blocks of his abdomen she longed to explore, opting for the tip of his taut, satiny knob instead. “Didn’t you, you know, when we …?” Oh, for God’s sake!

  Thank God he possessed the ability to read between her stammers. “Yes, I did.” A cocky grin tugged his mouth. “But I have this theory that it wasn’t a one-off, and I want to test out that theory by duplicating what we just did.” His eyebrow dipped with concern. “You okay with that?”

  God, yes! “I think I could be persuaded.”

  He nipped at her bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth and tugging gently. “Let me get right to work on that.” He moved his soft mouth over her jaw, along her neck, and she stretched her head to the side to give him better access.

  “Ooh, right there,” she moaned shamelessly. Feels soooo good. Her goose bumps grew goose bumps. “Can I ask you a trivia question?” Now her voice was harsh and gravelly, like a woman who’d been smoking and throwing back whiskey her entire life.

  He didn’t slow down, mumbling, “Now?”

  “Mm-hmm. What’s the average recovery time for a man after sex?”

  This time he did stop, one green eye peering at her as he raised his mouth from her throat. “Refractory time?”

  “Yes, that.”

  His lips landed back on her neck, nibbling and sucking a path to her ear. “No idea. Just know mine, and that’s typically about an hour.”

  She blinked. “Really? So how do you explain …”

  He teased her earlobe with the tip of his tongue. “I’m inspired. Now be quiet and enjoy the ride, unless you’re trying to sidetrack me.”

  “Oh no, I definitely wouldn’t want to do that.” She yielded to his ministrations with an extended sigh.

  Their second round was much less frenzied, fingers and tongues exploring in languid strokes, learning what elicited goose bumps, moans, and gasps. Blake was especially intent on pleasing her, which in itself pleased her. She couldn’t recall a more unselfish lover. By the third round, her brazen side wanted to grab the reins of control and return the favor. No lie, she got a charge out of knowing she could bend this big, bad hockey player to her will. Not that he put up much of a fight, or that she didn’t enjoy herself. But still …

  When they finally flopped back in exhaustion, he pulled her against him, kissed the top of her head, and promptly drifted off. One arm cradled her, and the other was bent across his chest, his hand clamped around her forearm as if he wanted to be sure she stayed put. Every muscle in her body was spent, and she slung a noodle leg over his thick thighs, snuggling close, savoring his musky, masculine scent and the delicious soreness between her legs.

  She should have immediately tumbled after him into sleep, and while her eyelids were droopy, her mind was restless, replaying the unexpected night … the unexpected man next to her. She barely knew him, yet she felt safer, more relaxed, more herself with him than she’d ever felt with Anders in five years. How was that possible? Hadn’t she known Anders inside and out? What he liked, what he thought before he said it aloud? Looking back, it struck her that what she’d had with him merely bobbed on the surface of a fathoms-deep ocean. Only a few weeks with Blake—with no intimacy until these past few hours—and she felt a connection like a live wire tethering her to him, resonating inside her, making her thrum with a vitality so big she wanted to burst with it, let it spill out and touch everything around her with light.

  What was that?

  Maybe it was exhaustion and vodka skewing her thoughts.

  Tilting her head back, she peeped up at his strong profile and smiled. No, she really shouldn’t be having these thoughts about him, her logical mind trumpeted. But here, in the dark, while he slept, she could safely let her mind wander along a path of what-ifs. He was a mix of sharp edges and tenderness, with just enough hesitancy to make her want to trust him and enough swagger to make her want to follow him. He hit all the notes that made her insides sing. A diamond in the rough, but buff his facets and you uncovered one magical layer after another. It was about how he made her laugh, how exceptional he made her feel, and what was between his ears. And there was so much more to discover beneath his strata.

  She ran a lusty gaze over his very fine bod, appreciating the physical side of the equation too. He knew how to use that very fine bod to coax and wheedle passions living deep inside her. The benefits of having a younger, anaerobically fine-tuned athlete for a bed partner were undeniable. Tonight he’d been a determined Jacques Cousteau exploring her depths.

  Oh God, I’m waxing sexually poetic now—and it’s all his fault. He’s doing this to me. No one had ever stirred this fervor in her before, and it occurred to her—vaguely—that no one might ever again.

  Maybe it was time to pitch the dating apps.

  Blake awoke in a fog. Piercing that fog, though, was an acute awareness of silken curls and a sweet feminine fragrance tickling his nose. Nestled against him were plush forever curves that had about driven him out of his fucking mind last night, curves he’d needed all his willpower to resist when he’d left her at her door, and curves he probably shouldn’t have touched when he’d returned to apologize—or whatever the hell had been rattling around his agitated brain.

  But touched them he had—and then some—and the harsh daylight leaking through shaded windows reminded him he had the piper to pay. Blake covered his eyes with his free hand while his drowsy mind began a sluggish inventory, wandering through the events of last night. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

  He lay on his back, his arm slung around M, his shoulder numb from her using it as a pillow. He raised his head … and winced. His brain thudded against his skull, and his mouth was sour with last night’s brown liquid overkill. Shit. This was why he shouldn’t drink … or why he should drink all the time so his body knew what to do with the stuff. The in-between shit didn’t work.

  Drinking to excess brought other consequences, like stripping away the inhibitions that had been holding desire in check for weeks. Fuck! What had he done?

  He’d been mad as a swatted hornet when he’d walked in on Ferguson fucking Tracy in his living room, on his couch. Jesus! Ferguson wasn’t even supposed to be home, but there he’d been, treating Blake to a scene he wasn’t sure he could scour from his brain. That was the ugly.

  And then Blake had taken it to the next level of stupid by hauling his pissed-off ass to M’s, where he’d taken it out on her … by fucking her all night. We used all the condoms. Yay, me. That was the bad … but it was also the good. The so-good-he-ached-for-more. The best.

  A memory streaked through his mind, paralyzing his ability to reason as it played out. His mother, in a drunken rage for reasons his ten-year-old self couldn’t fathom, running at him with a pair of heavy-duty tongs one day when he’d come home from school to pick up his gear. The memory unfurled, and he could hear her shrieking in his head, hear every name she called him, names he shouldn’t have known but did because he’d heard them so many times before. Ferguson had been with him, had been waiting for him by the front door, and had sprinted, arms flailing, yelling “No!” as he hurled himself between Blake and his mom, taking the crack of the tongs on the forearm shielding his head. Horror had passed through Mom’s eyes as what she’d done seemed to register in her stewed br
ain. Blake had been rooted to the floor in shock, and Ferguson had grabbed his hand and wrenched him away. The memory dimmed after that, but from that day forward, Blake had kept his gear at Ferguson’s—hell, he’d kept himself there too—not daring to go home until dinnertime when he knew his dad would be there. The dynamic between his folks had been a whole different sort of fun as his mom took out her wrath on his dad, letting Blake slink off and out of harm’s way.

  Coward. Why had he never stuck up for his dad like Fergs had stuck up for him? He’d been in awe of Fergs after that. Ferguson had always been full of bluster, but that day he’d backed it up, and Blake had been trying to make it up to him ever since.

  Until lately.

  Blake’s cheeks heated with guilt as he recalled how much his friend had roughened up his nerves lately. Was Blake only now taking off his rose-colored glasses and really looking at his friend? Was he envious of Ferguson? Or did it have something to do with the woman he held in his arms? Was it possible he’d used M to get back at Ferguson?

  A shout of No! ricocheted inside his head. Still, Fergs might see it that way. Fuck, he’d ramped up the complications—all because he hadn’t been able to keep his hands and lips off of her.

  Waking up beside someone—with dawn chasing away the dark—wasn’t something he normally did. Not just spending the night, but wanting to stay right where he was instead of craning for the closest exit. Falling asleep with M had seemed so natural he hadn’t given it a passing thought last night. Pretty sure that wasn’t just the alcohol talking. And right now he didn’t want to move because it meant surrendering the soft, warm weight he held. But he needed to let her go … at least until he could figure out what the hell to do.

  Letting out an errant grunt, he gingerly disentangled himself and sat up, rubbing the circulation back into his shoulder while reluctantly putting space between himself and the heat radiating from her. For a woman, and such a small one at that, she threw off some mighty big BTUs. Take her camping in the winter and you’ll never get cold.

  Furnace Girl let out a few mewling sighs and burrowed into the mattress, wiggling that luscious ass of hers. It might have been hidden under the covers and out of his sight, but it sure as hell was front and center in his mind, where it would occupy space for a long while. The image made his dick harden to full mast. He whacked the damn thing in a futile attempt to get it to calm the fuck down, but it bobbed to the side, as if seeking her welcoming body, where it wanted to bury itself one more time.

  Fuck! He needed to get out of here, tell Ferguson he was out of the picture, and neutralize any awkwardness for M. And he needed to do it now before his baser side could outmuscle his less-baser side. As he retrieved his clothes, his mind zoomed back to lurching in here fully dressed, with her naked body wrapped around him. God, that had felt good. The memory didn’t do a thing to soften his dick.

  His meandering thoughts took a detour to leaving her a note so she didn’t wake up to nothing. Hey, sleeping with you last night was mind-blowing, the highlight of my life, the best sex I’ve ever had. Bar none. Can we do it again tonight? Too eager, he told himself. And what if it hadn’t been mind-blowing for her? He’d felt like a fucking god in her bed, but what if he was the only one who thought so? Shit. Was this temporary? Would she still want to keep the dating apps alive? Was she still planning to have coffee with Scott? Double shit.

  Doubt clawed its way into his chest.

  As he pulled on his shirt and began buttoning it, his gaze ran over the riot of curls surrounding her head like a lion’s mane, then traced the tattoo from her wrist up her arm, finally landing on her smooth, pale back that flared and dipped below the blankets. He’d had his fingers and tongue all over that tattoo, and the memory of how she’d tasted had him swelling even more. When had he ever pulled a marathon like the one he’d pulled with her last night? Never. Had never had the desire the way he had with her. And even now he wanted—needed—more.

  He paused his buttoning to stare for long, awestruck moments, committing every curve and valley to memory. She was perfect. Better than perfect, and something warm and sticky bloomed inside him only to congeal with the thought of anyone else laying his eyes on her the way Blake was right now. Red bursts exploded in his head, and his gut twisted into knots. His swollen dick deflated, so there was that.

  He finished dressing, and with one last longing look, he closed the door silently, feeling like he was leaving a piece of himself behind. In the kitchen, he found pen and paper, and his brain froze. Can I take you to breakfast? was the first thing that popped into his head, followed unhelpfully by Can I spend the day with you? Take you to dinner? Curl up with you tonight? Just be with you?

  God, he was pathetic.

  With a sigh, he forced himself to scrawl, “Sorry, had to leave—team stuff to take care of. Had a great time. Hope your head doesn’t hurt too much.” Like his head did … like his heart did.

  Letting himself out of her condo, he stood in front of his own door and fought down the tangle of emotions colliding inside of him. He was pissed at Ferguson but guilty over the friendship he was about to detonate. And if M didn’t want to see Blake again, had he just sacrificed that friendship for nothing? It hadn’t been nothing, though. He missed her already, though she was mere feet away. At the center of his jumbled thoughts pulsed desire and need and want for her.

  He pushed a series of breaths through his lungs, then opened his door and walked in, braced for a sight that, thank fuck, wasn’t there. His couch was empty now, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to sit on it again without first scrubbing it with a gallon of bleach. Renewed anger at Ferguson’s faithlessness bristled inside him—except Ferguson wasn’t with M to have betrayed her in the first place. Blake was. Maybe. Hopefully.

  How would he tell his friend he’d gotten there first?

  Filling a glass of water and chugging it down in one pass, he pondered his next move. If Tracy was still there, the brewing shit-show would have to wait. In the meantime, Blake could escape to his safe haven: the rink.

  In his bedroom, he swapped his nice clothes for jeans, a T-shirt, and a hoodie. M’s fresh scent wreathed him as he hung up his suit. Or maybe her smell was on his skin, which meant it would be gone with his next shower. Not showering until I can rub her all over me again.

  He strode to the laundry room, where he kept his gear stowed in a closet. As he hoisted the bag over his shoulder, it struck him that he didn’t have his car. Heaving a frustrated sigh, he pulled out his phone and pulled up the Lyft app. Wait. It was only 7:00 a.m. Did they run that early? Before he could give it much thought, a familiar voice sidetracked him.

  “No sleeping in for you this morning, Bear? Where you off to anyway?” Ferguson stood in a pair of gym shorts—nothing else—yawning so wide all he needed was a black hood and his imitation of the Scream mask would be complete.

  “Gonna go work on my wrist shot,” Blake grunted.

  Fergs chuffed derisively. “What? Perfect isn’t good enough for you?”

  And just like that, anger elbowed guilt out of the way, tearing through Blake like a wildfire through dry grass, though he managed to keep his voice even. “I can’t tell if you’re complimenting me on my shot or if you’re just being your usual dick self.”

  Ferguson’s mouth snapped open. “What the hell crawled up your ass this morning?” Some kind of realization dawned in his eyes, and he tossed his head back, laughing, and gave Blake a knowing smile. “I got it. It’s because you walked in on Tracy and me, and you’re jealous.”

  “Jealous?” Blake gawked at him. Is he serious?

  “You’re jealous of the fact I’m dipping my wick on the regular and you’re not.” Ferguson’s lips curled, adding an extra dose of smug to his already intolerable self-satisfaction. “By the way, I saw Sherry the other night, and she asked about you. Maybe you should hit that again. I’ll bet she could help you work some of those kinks out of your attitude.” His eyebrows bounced, and Blake choked back a re
tort.

  The thought of ever being with Sherry, especially after what he’d shared with M, made his insides recoil. Worse, M seeing him with Sherry … it hadn’t bothered him when he hadn’t known M, but now guilt washed over him. And she’d seen Tracy stumble out that morning, but he’d never explained because he’d been protecting Fergs. Well, shit! Why hadn’t she told him to fuck off? She still might. And he wouldn’t blame her.

  A muscle in his jaw jumped. “About last night,” he said instead, “I thought you were spending the night at your mom’s.”

  “Yeah, well, Tracy needed the high hard one, and I couldn’t leave the poor girl hanging. She’s addicted to the Fergs. I’m the drug she needs, know what I’m saying?” He chortled.

  Do you even hear yourself? Blake corralled his disgust by muttering a curse under his breath. He looked at Ferguson expectantly, but Ferguson didn’t mention word one about Michaela or Blake’s stand-in date with her last night. Had he even given her a passing thought? One thing was certain: Fergs sure as hell didn’t deserve her. He’d transformed into a complete and utter dick, and Blake had blinded himself to it. Now was the time to yank those blinders off.

  “Well, next time you’re giving Tracy the high hard one, do us all a favor and keep it on your own damn sheets instead of messing up my couch, huh?”

  Fergs shrugged. “Sure. As long as she doesn’t do what she did last night and rip off my clothes before I can get her into the bedroom. I tell ya, Bear, this girl can’t wait to get her lips around my—”

  Blake threw up a hand. “Spare me the visual. My stomach can’t take it.”

  “What, you don’t want the blow-by-blow? At the rate you’re going, having me describe it is the closest you’re gonna get to having your dick in a chick’s mouth.”

  Blake asked the question whirring in his head. “Have you always been this big of a prick?”