Page 27 of Branded
Just a husky rasp that slid over my skin like lace, which made me want to forget the promise to just be friends that I’d made all of an hour before.
Did I want more?
Fuck yeah.
Was I going to respect her boundary? Also, fuck yeah (albeit that fuck yeah was slightly less enthusiastic).
She hit submit, rolled her shoulders, and my gaze was drawn to the slender column of her throat, the way her blouse clung to the curves of her breasts.
My cock twitched and I reached for the laptop, needing the cover.
“Wait,” she began, “you have to close it proper?—”
I shut the top, dropped it onto my lap, the heat from the computer probably frying my sperm, but what the fuck did I need that for now? The only woman my dick had shown the least amount of interest in in months was Kailey, and she wasn’t going to jump in bed with me and?—
“—ly,” she finished, and I couldn’t help it.
The juxtaposition of my thoughts—sexy body to fried sperm—was too much.
I laughed, loudly, cutting myself off when she jumped. “Sorry.”
She reached out, hesitated, then lightly patted my arm. “Don’t be.” A whisper. “Just…be you.
“So, here are some resources for your personality type,” Hazel said, handing me a stack of papers. “I know it looks like a lot.” A smile. “But there’s a page with all the big bullet points, and the rest of it is just in case you want to learn more.”
I took the pages, glanced at them long enough to see that there were five characteristics in bold, to focus and read the words.
Then I set them aside and picked up the ball I always played with during these meetings.
And insert all the balls and playing with them jokes here.
Hazel’s gaze went to my hands, to that ball, and she grinned, though if I had to guess, I’d say her thoughts were less about my testicles and more about the fact that she always liked to tease the guys about not being able to sit still during her sessions with us. That’s why she had the bucket of foam balls and the punching bag, the mini basketball hoop in the corner. “So,” she said. “I’m guessing that you’re wondering why you get a dissertation on personality traits and what the hell that has to do with hockey.”
“I mean,” I grumbled, tossing the ball and…swoosh! Nothing but net. “I mean, I get homework and Marcel got to break shit.”
Hazel got quiet, and I turned to see her looking thoughtful.
“And you think breaking shit is more in your wheelhouse than his?”
Uh-oh.
Danger lay down that path.
I shrugged, moved to shag down the ball. “I’m big and strong, and it’s fun breaking shit. That’s what I’m saying.”
Silence.
Then, “Hmm.”
Then she asked me about my family and my childhood.
That thoughtful look remained in place. “And your brother? Was he happy that you made it into the league?”
I paused, surprised by the question. “Yeah, of course. My family’s been really supportive.”
She tilted her head, studying me closely. “Your brother used to play, right?”
“I—” I frowned. “Yeah, but he hasn’t for years.” I scrubbed a hand through my beard. “Maybe since he was a teenager.”
