Page 126 of Rookie Recovery

God, he was so fucking cute. I needed to kiss him. And a whole lot more. I wanted to tear that fitted jacket and shirt off his shoulders—someone had at least taken him to get sized—lick down his chest and the light trail of hair between the lines of that delicious V-cut—

Fuck. I was going to make myself hard, in the middle of a packed arena, while I was working. Thoughts like those would have to wait until after the game.

“Kitty,“ he whined, tugging at my tie. Like he knew I was trying to not think inappropriate things.

I let him pull me close. Tilted my forehead against his. “God, I love you.”

“I’d love you even more if you kissed me again.” He tried to angle his mouth to mine, but I set my free hand against his lips.

That was a mistake. Which I realized an instant later, when his warm wet tongue slid against my fingers. I yelped, leapt back from him. “Why are you the way that you are?”

“I don’t know.” He leaned against my shoulder. “But you love it. Literally! You said it.”

I had, hadn’t I? I tilted my head to rest my cheek against his hair. “Shit, I did. That was stupid.”

“No take-backs.”

I laughed, ruffling the golden locks under my nose. Pressed a soft kiss to his temple, leaned my cheek back into his hair. And I told him all the things I should’ve said earlier, the moment they’d been true. Before I’d even realized them. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long fucking time. Maybe ever.”

“Damn, Kitty.”

“I’m serious.” I pinched at his shoulder. “You think it’s fun to live in a big, giant empty apartment? Wear pressed button-downs and worry about everything all the time and never go on dates—”

“Or have sex.” He tilted a green eye up at me. That eye was laughing.

“Or have sex,” I sighed, then pulled him closer. “I’m trying to be nice.”

“I know. It’s adorable.” Bowie tipped his head up to purr against my throat. “I’ll make sure you have loadsa non-right-hand orgasms.”

“Oh, my God!” But I was laughing. Hard. Honestly, what had I done without him? My life had been hollow, and I’d had no idea. It’d taken a snarky, shit-talking, cocky, horny-as-hell British superstar for me to see it. Had taken him leaving for me to know how alone and empty I’d been before.

“I love you,” I murmured against his hair again, and for once, he didn’t respond with snark.

He nestled down onto my shoulder. “I love you, too.”

“Will you come home with me tonight?” I dropped my mouth to his ear. “So I can show you how much I love you.”

He popped up off my shoulder like a prairie dog. Wide eyes, expectant expression, and everything. “Please, tell me more.”

“Nope.” I bit back my grin. “I would rather wait until I’m not at work.”

I saw the counter offer before it left his lips. “Or—hear me out—you could show me how much you love your fabulous little Bowie right here.”

“What! Here—”

“I know the perfect place.”

Ah, yes I should have known. “We are not fucking on any medical tables.”

“But that’s where you’re wrong.” His devious, filthy, beautiful grin cracked his face in two.

“Nope.”

“Oh, come on!” He tipped his head onto the back of his chair. “Do you know how many fantasies I’ve had about your table?”

“It wouldn’t even be my table!“ I protested. “We’re at a different rink. I don’t have an office here.”

“I have a very good imagination.”

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