Page 46 of Coach's Temptation

A jagged breath escapes me as a tingling sensation starts at my pussy and races through my veins. My fingers tighten around the metal, suddenly clumsy, as I find the exact angle, the exact pressure I need.

It's been too long.Waytoo long.

My breath quickens as I press harder, starting to move it in slow circles against my clit. My toes curl as I let my head fallback, water raining over my face, washing away the remnants of last night's dreams.

That stupid, confusing dream. Hunter’s voice flashes through my head.

Yeah, baby. Go back to sleep.

A strangled moan escapes me, and my free hand grips the slick tiles behind me, my back arching as I grind my core against the relentless stream.

The water pressure is relentless, the sensation building and building. I bite my lip, moving faster now, chasing that delicious edge.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but the images come anyway. Hunter’s rough hands gripping my hips, his mouth at my ear, those goddamn intense eyes pinning me in place.

Fuck.

I bite down on my lip, a desperate attempt to stay quiet as my orgasm slams into me, sudden and intense. My legs shake, my head dropping forward as pleasure ripples through my entire body.

A choked breath shudders past my lips as I slump back against the shower wall, my limbs loose, my skin flushed, the water streaming over me.

My orgasm is still pulsing through me, my body still trembling, when—

"NATALIE! WAKE THE FUCK UP!"

Hunter’s voice booms from the other side of the bathroom door.

I freeze.

The showerhead drops from my hand with athunk. While more banging at the door vibrates the entire fucking house, it whips around like an angry snake and sprays ice-cold water directly at my face.

I yelp, nearly slipping, scrambling to grab the damn thing while flailing like a newborn lamb.

"Natalie?" Hunter’s voice is sharper now. "What the hell is going on in there?"

"Go away! I'll be down in a minute!"

I slap the water off, press my hands to my face.

Yep, definitely a dream.

***

The Summit Café buzzes with an energy I've never felt before. Every surface gleams with Icehawks green and gray—jerseys, scarves, even face paint on the die-hard fans cramming into every available space. The line for coffee snakes out the door and onto the sidewalk.

Lucky for us, we get priority to Clara delicious house-made blend.

Which is great, because after the chaotic disaster of my morning, I need the strongest caffeine they’ve got if I've got any chance of shaking off the lingering embarrassment of nearly concussing myself in the shower while self-care-ing my way through a Hunter-induced situation.

Then there was thebanging—and not the fun kind—on the bathroom door, followed by a very loud, very irate coach threatening to leave me behind if I wasn’t ready in five minutes.

To be fair, after that kind of wake-up call, I was in the car with four and a half minutes to spare.

A new record.

I squeeze past a group of college guys debating power play statistics to reach the counter, where Clara orchestrates the morning chaos like a highly trained caffeine conductor.

"Double shot for the coach?" Clara winks at Hunter, who's radiating tension beside me in his perfectly pressed game-day suit.

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