Page 46 of Enticing the Enforcer
When I hum around him, his head snaps back, a strangled sound ripping from his throat. “Angel–fuck–I’m not–” He breaks off, chest heaving, hands clutching me tighter. “I can’t hold it–”
I don’t let him. I don’t give him the space to pull back. I want this, want to feel his undoing.
And then he does.
His whole body goes rigid, breath shuddering, and he spills into my mouth, heat flooding down my throat. His groan is broken, almost pained, and it echoes in my bones. I swallow, taking all of him, holding his gaze as I do.
When it’s over, he collapses against the chair, chest heaving, sweat slicking his temples. His grip loosens in my hair, his hand sliding down to cup the back of my neck, thumb brushing against my skin like he can’t stop touching me.
I sit back on my knees, wiping the corner of my mouth, lips swollen, breath still ragged.
His gray eyes burn into me, wrecked and tender all at once. “Much more of that and I’m pretty sure you’re going to kill me,” he whispers.
And the way he says it, it sounds like he wouldn’t mind it happening.
15
Jefferson
The concert is unreal.We’re up in the box and I can’t stop grinning. Off-season means I can finally breathe–no coaches, no early mornings, no curfews. My friends are with me, along with a few well-known celebrities Ingrid must have also given tickets to. But I’ll be real. The memory of Ingrid on her knees, her pretty lips circling my cock, and the way she swallowed me down, doesn’t hurt, either.
“I think Vanessa Kirby is checking you out.”
I cut my eyes at Nadia, and not over at the brunette who is well known for striding down runways and dating professional athletes. We’d had some brief introductions when we first got in the box, and then huddled in our own groups.
“So.” I take a sip of my beer.
“So it’s been weeks since I’ve seen you with a woman, and you don’t care that a supermodel is eye fucking you from across the room? A supermodel known for her lingerie catalogue work?” Nadia tends to make it her business to be in everyone else's. “Something you need to tell us, Parks?”
She knows. Theyallknow, but I haven’t spoken the words out loud. How can I? We still haven’t defined this. Even after having my tongue in her pussy and talking to her almost every night. It’s been so long since I’ve been in a relationship, I don’t even know how to go about it. And what kind of relationship would we even be able to have?
I thrust my hand in my hair. “There’s nothing to tell, but you’ll be first on the list if there is.”
Her smirk tells me she’s enjoying every minute of my discomfort, but thankfully Axel reels her in to wrap his arms around her. The second she’s gone, Shelby is on me.
“Not you, too,” I grumble.
“You really do know every song,” Shelby teases, knocking her shoulder into mine.
“I never denied I was a fan.” But even I know this goes beyond a basic interest. I’ve started watching her concert streams nightly, noticing the little details that she puts so much time and energy into.
How she changes her set list depending on the city. The way she builds into it with costumes, staging, even the lighting–turning three hours into a story no one else could tell. I catch the secret looks she throws to her bandmates, the inside jokes with her dancers, the way she makes an arena of thousands feel like they’re crammed into the front row of a tiny club.
It’s more than music. It’s art, discipline, obsession. And the more I watch, the more I realize it’s the same kind of dedication I feel on the ice. Only she’s got the world’s spotlight, and I’m just the guy checking bodies into glass.
The resultof all of Ingrid’s hard work is the crowd. The Flock, as they call themselves, is infectious. They’re a living thing,pulsing under the lights like a single organism. The sound moves through me, low and steady, like a second heartbeat.
She finishes up the last song and vanishes under the stage. When she emerges again, the dancers are gone, and it’s just her in a floaty blue dress with tiny sequins catching every flash of light. Guitar strapped over her shoulder like she was born with it. My chest goes tight. She owns them–all of them–but it feels like she owns me most of all.
And instantly, I’m back to last night.
Her lips on me, mine on her. Her mouth warm and soft. It wasn’t just heat pulsing between us–it was raw, stupid need. And when it was over, when we were both catching our breath, I didn’t feel that usual rush to leave. I hated it, actually. Hated pulling my clothes back on. Hated the thought of closing the door behind me. For the first time ever, I wanted to stay.
That memory is still thrumming in my bones when the first chords hit. My ears snap to attention.
Past Midnight.
A deep track. Not something she’s played in years. The crowd reacts–surprise ripples like a wave. But I already know it’s not for them. It’s for me.
