Page 111 of Branded
But I was up to being fucked.
Really ready for it.
The worst part of having a professional hockey player boyfriend was having him not be home when I was horny.
So, getting fucked then passing out in his arms sounded real good.
“I take it that you agree,” he said, reaching for the hem of my sweatshirt and tugging it over my head. My T-shirt was gone a second after that. His lips hit mine just as he reached around behind me and began unclasping my bra when there was a pounding at the door.
The response in Smitty was instantaneous.
He went ramrod stiff, tore his mouth from mine. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck.”
“What is it?”
His hand came to my face, and he cupped my cheek. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
For a second, my heart squeezed. Had I interrupted something—someone—coming over? Was there a woman outside that door and he’d been?—
No.
Not Smitty.
And anyway, the pounding sounded familiar.
Instead of squeezing, my heart sank.
“Baby?” I asked.
His eyes slid closed and then opened back up, regret in their depths. “I forgot,” he said. “I was supposed to go back down, and then you were here, and…” His voice dropped. “I forgot.”
My body trembled. “My father.”
Not a question.
Only a sigh.
Then a nod. “I’m so sorry, little bird. I?—”
Something inside me snapped.
Just…snapped.
I pushed Smitty off me, grabbed my shirt from where it had landed on the carpet, then tugged it over my head and marched to the door.
I’d had enough.
More than fucking enough of this man barreling his way into my life and?—
Fuck. Him.
Fuck the cold, inconsiderate bastard right up the…the…nose.
Yup.
Right.
Up.
