Page 42 of Power Play

Words leave me on a marathon-worthy pant: “I have a question.”

“Okay. Go.”

“Actually, it’s not really that much of a question.” My dress is hiked up around my waist, almost exposing my lady parts to the world—or, you know, to Duke Harrison. This is just as nerve-wracking, actually. Forcing myself to ignore the distraction of Duke between my legs, I say, “I want to have sex with you.”

Cool air kisses my belly, and I realize Duke has the fabric of my dress bunched in his fists. “That’s good.”

“That’sgood?That’s all you have to say?”

Much to my surprise, he shifts his grip and presses me against his . . . Well,hellothere. “Are you happy to see me?” I ask, lifting my hips to cradle his.

His only answer is to capture my lips with his, stealing whatever thoughts I have left from my brain. My article forThe Tribuneis the very last thing on my mind. Us having sex on a rooftop in Boston’s financial district steals to the forefront of everything else.

A masculine hand lands between my legs. With a groan, he rasps, “No underwear?”

“None. You could see the panty line under the dress.”

“Thank God.”

After that, there isn’t much conversation. I don’t notice the chill in the air, especially not when Duke flicks his thumb against my clit. I don’t notice the awkward way I’m positioned against a brick wall, save for the fact that Duke has lifted my leg around his hip so that he can slide a finger inside me.

I hiss with pleasure, driving my forehead into his chest, dragging my nails down his still-clothed arms. I want more. I want to see his tattoo for myself. Hell, I wanteverything.

My hand falls to his pants, over his hard-on. It’s long and thick, and though I’ve never really had a good sexual experience, I can’t wait for this one with Duke.

Duke, who is still one of the hottest goalies in the NHL.

Duke, whose smile is shy but whose humor is dryly delivered and complete with sexual innuendos. At least, with me that’s the case.

My fingers find the zipper of his pants. “Underwear?” I ask, torturing him when I pull down on the tab but stop halfway to the end zone.

“None,” he chokes out, “you could see the boxer line under my pants.”

Laughter escapes us both, dissipating only when he curls his finger just so, hittingthatspot, and my hand lands on his cock, tugging at the rounded head.

“Jesus, Charlie,” he rasps, sliding another finger within me, hitting that spot again and again and again. “Jesus.”

“Do you want more?” I say, daring to press a kiss to the thick column of his throat.

“Fuck, yes.”

His fingers leave me, and he quickly scans the rooftop. No one is here. We might as well be the only ones at the hotel. “Are you sure about this?” he questions, his gaze landing on my face. “We don’t have to—”

“I’m one-hundred percent positive.”

Oh, am I. Charlie Denton, Ice Queen No Longer. More than that, I’m craving his touch, his kiss. The cold is already seeping back into my limbs, reminding me that it’s wintertime in Boston and that I’m wearing a silk dress.

Doesn’t matter.

I’ll stock up on Nyquil tomorrow, if needed. I’ll buy orange juice and drink it by the gallon. I’ll—

My thoughts scatter as Duke settles his tuxedo jacket around my shoulders. The scent of pine hits me like an aphrodisiac, and I want to curl into the coat. I flick my gaze up to his face. “Is this you’re way of telling me we’re done for the night?”

I wait, biting my lip, for him to tell me to gather my stuff as he sends me packing.

That’s not what he does at all.

His hands go to the zipper I’ve already halfway undone, withdrawing his erection and drawing his fist up and down in one hard stroke. Oh Lord, I can’t find my breath. Duke Harrison with his hand on his cock is the hottest visual I’ve ever seen. I have no idea what I’ve done to deserve this, but I’m not about to start complaining.

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