Page 4 of Caught from Behind

My lungs are heaving. My head is spinning. My body is so close to toppling into orgasm that I feel like I’m teetering on the edge a cliff. And all from just a kiss.

Okay, fine.

Not just anything.

The best, hottest, most perfect kiss of my life.

I reach for him again.

“No,” he says.

“Riggs,” I beg, knowing I’m whining but unable to stop it.

He pushes me back into my seat again—still firmly but gently—but his voice, when he says, “No” again, is rough.

Cold. Sharp.

Just no.

It slices right through the pulsing need in my belly, the need that’s been poking at me from the moment I first laid eyes on this gorgeous, bearded man of few words.

No.

He doesn’t want this.

Doesn’t want me.

A bucket of icy water over my head, dousing need and confidence at once.

Of course he didn’t?—

Of course he couldn’t?—

Of course he wouldn’t?—

I’m an idiot.

A big, giant idiot.

Thank God he’s turning away, reaching for the steering wheel.

Because it means he can’t see my face.

And thank God he drops me in my driveway, not walking me up to the door—not tonight.

Because it means I don’t have those cold brown eyes judging me when I go to the kitchen and snag the bottle of vodka from the freezer.

The fucking sharp edges of life have sliced deep tonight.

CHAPTER TWO

Riggs

“That’s not good enough,” my dad says, pacing across my hotel room. “You play like one of those morons who joins a team for fun.”

Spoken like having fun while playing hockey is the cardinal sin itself.

And it is exactly that—at least according to my dad.

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