Page 38 of Enticing the Enforcer
I look up from my salmon and rice bowl in surprise. “You watched?”
“I don’t think I’ve missed a show since the tour started.”
It hits me again. He’s a fan. Which makes it hard to know what is real and what isn’t.
Ingrid,my inner voice speaks up,that orgasm was one million percent real.
But that’s the thing about Jefferson, every encounter, every text, phone call, dance on a crowded floor; he’s genuine. Talkative. Sweet. Raw. And yeah, undeniably sexy.
So slipping into conversation with him is easy.
We talk about everything. I tell him about the show–the way it’s blocked and choreographed, how every step has to look effortless while hiding the fact that I’m counting beats in my head. I explain how I choose the songs for the set list, the push and pull of tempo, how the ballads have to be placed just right to give both me and the crowd a breather. I even let him in on the endless debates about costumes, how many backup outfits I carry in case something rips or malfunctions.
He listens like every word matters. Then, with a little prompting, he tells me about Wittmore–about how it’s important for him to get his grades based on merit, not by just being another college athlete, about the exams and final projects he has left and the way hockey bleeds into every corner of campus life. At some point, he leans away from the camera, bangs on his wall, and yells for Axel to turn down the music. The sudden flash of irritation makes me laugh.
But then the shift of his body catches me off guard. The camera tips just enough to reveal the pale slope of his shoulders, the cut of muscle across his chest. He’s shirtless, sprawled against the headboard of his bed, the glow of his lamp painting his skin in warm tones. The sight steals the air from my lungs.
Any lingering chill from my bath vanishes as heat licks through me, slow and insistent. My robe suddenly feels too heavy, too warm. I tug at the collar, my fingers brushing the hollow of my throat as I force myself to keep talking like nothing’s changed, like I’m not imagining what it would feel like to be the one lying against him instead of watching through a screen.
“When can I see you again?” he asks, after I’ve yawned for the third time. The way he says it is like he already knows the answer, but needs to hear it anyway.
I sigh. “Not for a while. I’ve got two straight weeks down south. Charlotte, then three nights in Atlanta, another four in Florida…”
He groans, shoving his hand through his hair, giving me a peek of his rounded bicep, black ink branded into the smooth skin. “Guess I’ll just have to keep calling and texting.”
“I guess I’ll keep answering,” I tease back.
He licks his bottom lip and my mouth parts. The heat between us is charged, even through the screen. Maybe because of it. I feel as if he’s standing right in front of me. And the ache blooming in my chest feels dangerous–like wanting more is the first step toward heartbreak. Staring back into those blue eyes, I have to decide if Jefferson Parks is worth the risk.
13
Jefferson
It’s Friday night,almost a week after winning the Frozen Four, and the high still hasn’t stopped buzzing in my veins. I’m not the only one riding it. The guys decided to throw a party at The Manor. It’s our last hurrah before exams, before scattering to the crush of work and graduation. Why not? Our Wittmore days are running out, and it feels like everyone’s determined to wring every last ounce of glory out of the win.
I’ve got a cold beer sweating in my hand and three puck bunnies orbiting like satellites. Usually, that would be my idea of a good night filled with easy smiles, soft hands, girls who know the game and what I’m good for. But tonight? They’ve got questions.
“Ingrid Flockton,” Chantel says, her eyes glittering with gossip. “Did you really meet her? What’s she like?”
The truth is on the tip of my tongue: smart, sexy, beautiful, fun.Fuck. Too much for words. But I lock it down, sip my beer, and give them the line. “A lot like what you see in the media.”
Alicia leans in, her eyeliner thick and angled. “How did you end up dancing with her?”
We returned from Chicago not just Frozen Four champions, but also with the buzz of having partied with Ingrid. I’ve heard the girls tell the same story over and over: they met her at the Badger Den. Became friendly. It developed from there.
That would have been enough to appease the masses, but the two of us being spotted on the dance floor escalated the gossip another few notches. Not only that, the pom-pom beanie was one of Reid’s designs for the team. After she was seen in it at the game, it, and every other piece of his merch in the team shop, sold out in an hour.
This woman is electric.
I look back down at Alicia. “The same way I end up with any woman,” I smirk, though it feels hollow. “I took a chance.”
Ruby lays her hand flat on my chest, nails sharp through my shirt. “Did you kiss her? If I kiss you, does that mean I’ve had one degree of separation between me and Ingrid Flockton?”
“Funny.” My gaze dips to her lips. Soft pink, familiar. I’ve had them wrapped around my cock before, more than once. Normally, the memory would stir me up. Tonight? I close my eyes, and it’s not Ruby’s mouth I picture. It’shers.Red lips that taste like sunshine. Lavender hair brushing my cheek. And a laugh that makes my stomach lurch like I’ve just dropped down the first hill of a roller coaster.
The beer goes flat in my mouth. I need out. I need air.
“Excuse me, ladies,” I give them my heartbreaker smile, but I’m already backing up, sliding past them before one can grab me again.
