Page 14 of Full Tilt
“Tell me something, Jenna …” he repeats, casting his gaze down my body and pausing on my thighs. “Were you dropped on your head as a child?”
I balk. “Excuse me?”
He taps his temple twice, smugness oozing from every pore. “Your mental comprehension must be affected. That’s the only explanation I can reach when I try and figure out why you told Patrick Gentry that I made a pass at you the first night we met.”
My cheeks flame so red that even the dim lighting offers zero camouflage. “Ah, now it’s all starting to make sense.”
Folding my arms over my chest, I’m fully aware what I just did to my bust, and I dare him to take another look.
Annoyingly, he doesn’t.
“What’s making sense, Jenna?” His tone drips with sarcasm.
“English isn’t your first language, is it?” I smile sweetly. “Schneider is a German last name, right?”
Tommy shifts from one foot to the next, and for the first time, I see a seed of uncertainty, the faintest chink in his otherwise steely armor.
I seize the moment and dig the knife a little deeper.
“Did Daddy not explain to you that asking a girl to leave and head to another bar alone amounts to flirting on this side of the Atlantic Ocean? Or is this just a case of your ego being too bruised to accept the truth that I did, in fact, turn you down last season?”
Tommy looks off to the side, pinning his plump lip between his teeth.
“I don’t get with immature little boys.” I add, “Particularly ones who act like the world owes them something.”
He hates what I said—that much is obvious as he refuses to give me eye contact.
For a split second, I worry that I’ll become another victim of his short fuse. Images of Tommy turning aggressive flash through my head as the hit he landed on Holt for defending me back in January come roaring back. Asshole or not, Tommy is one of the biggest hockey players I’ve ever seen, and I know a lot about the sport, having grown up in a hockey madhouse.
“You’re a fucking bitch—you know that?” His eyes are almost black when he finally shows me them again.
He opens his mouth to add something more but quickly closes it, and I breathe an internal sigh of relief. I don’t know what he was about to say, but apparently, Tommy Schneider does have lines he won’t cross.
“You say that like you think it’ll hurt my feelings.”
Reaching out, I pat his shoulder mockingly, and he pulls back. I wouldn’t describe the action as a recoil, more like I electrocuted him.
It doesn’t track. Tommy has built a career steeped in animosity, and there was nothing friendly about my gesture. A condescending tap on the shoulder shouldn’t even register, let alone elicit that kind of response from him.
I push past the doubt and solidify the upper hand I’ve got.
“Did Patrick tell you that I banged him?” I smirk just like he always does at me. “He was pretty good actually. So good that I lost all my inhibitions. Anyway …” I wave away the details of that night, which was less than memorable. “One thing led to the next, and he started talking about New York and my soccer career, and then we got onto the Blades, yada yada. He agreedwith me that he thought you were a subpar player at best, andthat’swhen I pointed out that your flirting game wasn’t much better. I’m sorry that what I said upset you.”
There’s no sincerity to my empty apology, and he knows it.
The entire time I talked, Tommy’s grin only grew wider. He leans one thick forearm—white shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows—against the wall next to us. He crosses his legs over at the ankles—and, goddamn, if it isn’t hotter than hell.
“How many times did he make you come?”
If I still had my soda, I’d throw it in his face.
The audacity of this guy.
“I beg your pardon?!”
He runs his tongue across his bottom lip. “Orgasms, Jenna. How many did he pull from you? You described the sex as good enough to lose your inhibitions, so I figure that he fucked your brains out.”
My eyes narrow at him. “I lost count.”
