Page 53 of Bombshells
“Give it to me,” I whisper in the dark. “All of it. Are you going to give it to me?” I babble.
“Yes,” she pants.
“That’s my girl,” I croon. I push her down on the bed, my hand wedged between her legs. My next thrust causes her to grind against my palm.
She lets out a moan of pure excitement.
“Who’s making you come?” I whisper. “Say it.” I give her another slow thrust, and her thighs shake and quiver.
“Anton!” she sobs. “Please. Harder.”
My body flashes even hotter, and I give the lady what she wants. More of me. More of the ache I feel when I hear my name on her lips.
I’m shaking now, letting out a brutal grunt with each stroke. We’re wrapped together in a knot of skin and muscle and need. And then she lets out a deep moan of victory, and her body pulses around mine. She buries her face in the pillow and sobs.
I can’t hold back any longer. I break as if on command, following her lead, spilling the last shred of my sanity into the condom before collapsing beside her.
She rolls immediately into my embrace, her arms around me, her hair wild.
Even now I can’t stop my words of praise. Yes and sweet thing, and so beautiful. I kiss her eyelids and her mouth and her chin.
Breathless, she parks her forehead against mine, and I stare into those brown eyes. And at least for this moment I have everything I ever dreamed of.
Eighteen
Ice Ice Baby
ANTON
It’s luck, really, that my phone wakes me up at all.
But at some point, when one of us was returning to bed in the darkness, Sylvie’s bedroom door was left open a crack. And in the depths of my dreams, I hear my phone in the other room, blasting “Ice Ice Baby,” the alarm tone I use for waking up for a road trip. After a few bars of Vanilla Ice’s one-hit wonder, my eyes fly open in alarm.
I’m still not over the humiliation of missing the team jet that time last year. I sit up and quickly realize that I’m naked in Sylvie’s bed. She’s passed out cold, face down in the pillow beside me.
Whoa.
I slide quickly out of the bed, dart into the living room, and locate my tux jacket on the couch. Quick as I can, I silence Vanilla Ice.
That’s when her roommate’s door opens a crack, and Fiona’s head pokes out. Her eyes widen comically as she catches me standing there, obviously naked, even if the tux jacket is shielding the important bits.
Her face breaks into a big smile. Then she withdraws into her room and shuts the door again.
Fuck. I really don’t want to become the next gossip nugget on the women’s team. I promised Eric that I’d be the least interesting player on the Bruisers’ roster this year.
I promised myself, too.
I’ll have to worry about that later, though, because I have a plane to catch. My apartment is just across the street, but my morning routine is still going to suffer.
I tiptoe back into Sylvie’s bedroom, where she’s still sleeping like the dead. I pull on my clothes, except for my bow tie and one sock which does not want to be found. Then I perch on the edge of the bed to say goodbye to Sylvie. I run a hand down her hair.
She doesn’t move. So I lean down and kiss her shoulder. She sighs contentedly, but does not roll over.
A real man doesn’t slink out of a woman’s bedroom, so it’s time for Plan B. I glance around until my gaze lands on a pack of sticky notes on her bedside table. I grab one, but there’s no pen, so I burn a couple more minutes locating one on the coffee table in the living room.
I dash my thoughts on a note and leave it for her to find. It’s not Shakespeare, but it will have to do. I really have to go. So, after patting my pockets for my phone and keys, I get the heck out of her apartment and run down the stairs.
I probably look frightful in last night’s untucked shirt and tux, wearing one sock, no less, as I dash across Water Street and into my building.
