Page 50 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
He grabs the second sandwich from the counter then takes a huge bite. “Better mad than sad as far as I’m concerned.” And as I’m still reeling from that, he adds, “And my game day meal is the perfect blend of nutrition—PB&J and chicken and veg. Protein. Carbs. Fiber. It’s the right mix to succeed on the ice.”
“This meal did not come up in my research for my hockey series.”
I take a bite of the cookie—sweet and delicious and more than a little sinful…
Just like Gray.
Especially when he glances over his shoulder at me, beautiful lips turned up into a smile. “What exactly did you research, Red?”
Seventeen
Gray
The befuddlement on her face is fucking adorable.
And I want to kiss her again.
But I’ve already jumped the gun on that, giving in to the urge to taste her when I should be feeding her, should be taking care of her.
So, I temper the urge to keep pushing, to taste her again.
Instead, I relax, knowing I’m on this ride, that I’ve waited in line, boarded the roller coaster, and secured the restraints.
The teenager behind the controls is getting ready to push the button to send us off.
And I’m ready.
For better or worse, I’m gonna take this ride.
“Eat your cookie, Red,” I order just to see the adorable scowl that forms on her face in response.
She really doesn’t like orders.
I wonder if that’s everywhere…or if she wouldn’t mind them in bed.
If maybe she wouldn’t like them there. I’d make them good for her.
I promise.
Heat arrows toward my cock at the thought of giving her sensual orders, at seeing how she’d respond, phantom fingers wrapping around the length of my erection, pumping once, twice, three?—
“I researched lots of things,” she says pertly.
A tone that doesn’t help the whole phantom fingers thing.
Especially when I want to taste that pert on my tongue. In fact, I actually take a step toward her, intending to do just that.
Christ.
Too much, too fast—she doesn’t need that shit right now.
Food. Rest. Hockey.
Willing my cock to behave, I flick a gaze over my shoulder, see that she’s almost finished the cookie and something in me relaxes.
“Like what?” I ask instead of kissing her…or telling her to get going on the sandwich.
Her eyes come to mine and hold, and I love that there’s not a hint of shy, that her pretty brown eyes don’t drift away and aren’t filled with shadows and hurt. Instead, there’s excitement and intelligence…and suspicion.
