Page 261 of Branded
She was a hundred times worse than any of them.
She’d taken crossing boundaries and turned it into an art form.
“Fuck,” I muttered, rubbing my forehead as I moved into the bathroom, cranking on the shower, knowing that she’d get the hint soon. Christ, she’d have to. I didn’t know how to make it any clearer.
Hell, I was convinced that she didn’t really even like me.
It was more the idea that I’d ended things.
No doubt, she was beautiful and smart. But there’d been a sharp edge to her that had always rubbed me the wrong way, a need for control that had made it clear she wanted me to make her a priority but that the courtesy wouldn’t necessarily go the other way.
Fuck, maybe I did have a bad picker, as the guys always liked to accuse me of.
Still, it was better that I’d found Chelsea wasn’t right for me sooner rather than later—though I’d been dumb for long enough for me to take her to CeCe’s, for her to be a bitch to Jules (and yeah, maybe that had been the final straw for me, the fact that Chelsea had gone claws out on Jules within two minutes of meeting her). But as the guys liked to point out in the time since she’d been unhappy with me ending things and started showing up at the rink and my house and the practice facility, I was an idiot for bringing her to one of our places. One of the spots the team liked to congregate because the staff were cool, and the patrons left us to our beers.
And another place I had to dodge her on the regular.
Soon.
She had to lose interest in me soon. Right? Right?
And yeah, that was a slightly hysterical edge to my internal voice. Chelsea didn’t want to let go. Jules didn’t show any interest.
Though, tonight had been…
It was the first time I’d seen a glimpse that perhaps she’d wanted me—or at least part of her had responded to me, my body, my touch—and she hadn’t turned down my sweatshirt, hadn’t refused the gesture or offered it back.
Maybe she’d keep it.
Maybe she would wear it to bed…with nothing underneath.
The idea of her sleeping in my sweatshirt, of the warm cotton touching her naked skin, had my cock going hard.
But that wasn’t new.
I’d jerked off to the image of Jules more times than she could probably ever guess. My fantasies were never ending.
Slipping into her tight, wet pussy, feeling her clench around me. Licking the tightened buds of her nipples, tasting her skin. Her fingers in my hair, her legs around my waist, heels digging into my ass. What she would sound like when she came.
And all the various places I could make her come.
My bed. Her bed. The shelves in my closet. The shower. The couch. Hell, my stairs were carpeted. I could set her right on the top step, stroke into her from behind. Or halfway up, her body sprawled over several risers, thighs spread, pussy glistening.
“Fuck,” I muttered again, giving into the urge and wrapping my fingers around my cock.
She’d taste sweet. I just knew it.
And maybe she’d be a little shy, need some coaxing to spread her legs, need me to get her wild with need before she’d follow all my orders, her cheeks flushed pink. What I wouldn’t give to be the one to turn her to the dark side.
Or maybe she’d take charge.
God knew that she could handle a table of rowdy hockey players without breaking a sweat.
Maybe she’d be the one giving the orders, telling me to fuck her harder or deeper or at a different angle, at a different speed. Maybe she would push me back and climb on top, no hesitation in her actions as she ground down on me, taking me deep into all the tight, wet heat of her, fucking me until we both came hard enough that we couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
I didn’t give a fuck which way she chose.
One or the other or both or something different.
