Page 90 of The Wildest One
Jolie
“Beck … I can’t tell if you’re about to strangle someone or …”
Angry, worked up, and feral. That was the only way I could describe Beck as he burst into my office, huffing and puffing by the door.
Something had irritated that man.
Or someone.
Or maybe I was reading him all wrong, and it wasn’t anger on his face. The emotion I was seeing could be the result of our brief run-in in the elevator and the man was on the verge of stripping off my clothes. Just in case I was right, I moved my chair out from under my desk and wheeled toward the wall a bit. I knew that wasn’t creating any real distance between us, but I also knew that, within a few steps, he’d be able to reach me … “or tear these clothes off my body.”
When his expression changed to pure, unfiltered lust, his lips stretching in the most seductive smile, I knew my first assumption had been correct.
“If I told you it was the latter … would you stop me?”
“Yes.” I pointed at one of the chairs on the other side of my desk. “Now sit.”
“Giving me orders,” he groaned, but he still took a seat.
When he did, his scent drifted over to me. I’d think it would be salty from the glaze of practice that was slick on his skin. And there was a tad bit of that—a saltiness that came from overworked, strained muscles, like during the hours we’d had sex, a scent that was so utterly sexy. But then there was the spiciness of his signature smell, and that was far more dominant than anything else.
I slid my chair back to its original position. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?”
“About what’s got you so hot and bothered?”
“Hot—I just got out of practice, and I desperately need a shower.” He glanced down and pulled the T-shirt away from his chest, the sweat seeping through the thin fabric. The best part about grays was that the material was clingy, and even without the sweat, it stuck to his chest, showing the outline of his muscles and the broadness of his shoulders. “Bothered—I don’t like to be denied.”
“You were bothered before I denied you. Try again.”
“Fuck, when did you go from fun girl to this professional withallthe confidence?”
“When? Come on, Beck. We both know I’m no longer that girl you took back to your hotel room in Boston. She had to grow up at some point.”
He released his shirt and put his hand on the edge of my desk. “You know what I don’t like? You won’t let me touch this version of you.”
“By the way you look right now, I highly doubt that would change your mood.”
“Believe me, it would change everything.” He gave me that achingly beautiful smile. “Let me touch it, Jolie.”
“Touch what?”
“Your pussy.”
“Beck!” I slapped my hand on my armrest, and as soon as I did, I jolted from the feeling—not the stinging of the slap, but the wetness between my legs. “I told you! Professionalism! Don’t make me kick you out of my office.”
He held the side of his face, and as he looked at me, it appeared like he was taking all of me in. “All right. What do you want to talk to me about,boss?”
“Our opening home game.” I placed a sheet of paper in front of him. “This is your pregame schedule. I need you prompt”—I positioned my finger next to the top line—“for this”—I moved it down to the second line—“and for this. As the captain, the media is going to be focused on you.” I pulled my hand back. “How good are you at being on time?”
“Have you seen me late for practice?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
He laughed. “You wouldn’t know? You’ve been watching the first twenty minutes of our practice every day.”
“I’m not looking for you on the ice. I’m?—”
