Page 69 of Goalie's Obsession

"I'm glad you like it." Connor presses a kiss to the top of my head. "Because I ain't going anywhere."

I twist a strand of hair around my finger, heart pounding. “You ever think about the auction?”

He hums. “Only every time you look at me like you want a refund.”

I laugh, but there’s heat in it. “No refunds. It was for charity… all sales are final.”

“Lucky me,” he murmurs and roll his eyes.

I bite my lip. “You know… I did spend fifty grand on you.”

His hand slides up my arm, voice rough. “Are you telling me you're about ready to collect your prize?”

I don’t answer him with words.

I just turn in his lap, straddle his thighs, and kiss him like I’m claiming what’s mine.

His hands tighten instantly—one gripping my ass, the other sliding up my back, anchoring me against him like he’s starving and I’m the only thing he wants to eat.

And God, the way he kisses me right now?

It’s feral. Possessive. Like he’s been holding back for weeks and just decided he’s done pretending.

His mouth devours mine until I’m gasping against his lips. Until I’m clawing at his shirt and grinding against the hard line of him beneath me like we’re not on a hiking trail.

When we finally pull apart, I run my fingers through his hair, smirking down at him.

“Well. That was almost worth fifty grand.”

His eyes darken. “Almost?”

I lean in, my voice a whisper. “Guess you’ll just have to prove you’re worth it.”

And then I climb off his lap, take his hand, and tug him to his feet—toward the trailhead, toward the setting sun, and toward the very obvious direction of our private suite back at the hotel.

Chapter Fifteen

Connor

AfterconvincingLucytoleave me be for a few hours, I pace the private rooftop terrace for the fourth time, adjusting a pillow for no good reason other than I need something to do with my hands.

This is fucking stupid. I face down slapshots for a living. I’ve taken hits from guys twice my size, played through sprained ankles, and stood in front of crowds screaming for blood. But this?

Planning a date for Lucy?

This is fuckingterrifying.

The LA skyline stretches out in front of me, all gold and glittering promise. But it doesn’t settle the nerves churning in my gut. Not when I know exactly what tonight is. What itmeans.

This is the date she bought. The night that was promised. The one she droppedfifty thousand dollarson. And now it’s my job to make her feel like every cent of it was worth it.

“Darling, if you touch that centerpiece one more time,” a voice drawls behind me, “I will personally throw you off this roof.”

Tino. The Hotel's in-house events god. And possibly Satan in Prada.

He appears out of nowhere—again—his silk scarf flaring in the breeze as he glides across the rooftop.

“The roses aresufferingfrom your anxiety,” he adds, gently prying my hands away from the nearest arrangement.

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