Page 112 of Wallflower
“Are you sure this is okay?” I ask Violet for the thousandth time. “Spending tonight here with the guys?”
She leans against me and burrows against my chest like it’s possible to get closer than she already is. “It’s perfect.”
“Hm.” I set down my beer and slide my hand under the table, coasting over Violet’s bare knee and sliding my way up her thigh, running my finger underneath the hem of her shorts.
Goosebumps ripple over her warm skin, and she fights a little whimper as I murmur against her ear. “I think our first night back was perfect, don’t you? Didn’t you like the way I fucked you on the floor of our new apartment?”
Her eyes float closed before she remembers we’re in a public place, and then they fly open as her cheeks flush with awareness—and, if I’m not mistaken—desire.
“Yes. That— That was perfect.”
“And how about the way I made you come on my tongue in that hotel penthouse in Calgary? Do you remember? I hoisted you on the dining table and devoured you for dessert. That might be a close second.”
She wilts against me with a near-silent moan. “Chord…”
“And that’s nothing compared to what I plan to do to you when we’re back at the ranch tonight. Making love in our bed, making you happy in the house I built for us before I even knew you existed.”
Violet turns her head and leans in for a kiss. I slide my tongue against hers, and when she allows the kiss to grow deeper, my boys start stomping their feet and hollering like jackasses.
“Get a room!” Hayden hoots.
Violet pulls away with a shy giggle and a pretty blush, and I pull her in tighter as I shout at my team, “Shut up!” But I smile when I say it because I’ve missed this kind of banter with my guys, and besides, nothing in the world is going to bring me down tonight.
Around the bar, a cry goes up at the replay as I score the first goal of the game. On the ice, Jake and Hayden jump me with congratulations before I coast around the glass, pausing where Violet sits in the stands.
The camera pans in on her, and the thrill of seeing her in my jersey at the game, blushing like fire but tolerating the spotlight for me, only gets greater every time I watch it.
“There’s my girl,” I murmur, turning my nose into her hair and inhaling the peachy scent.
Violet hums her agreement. “There’s your girl.”
Play starts again, colors flashing across the screen, and I smirk with mixed humor as Spencer Cook checks me hard into the boards, but then The Tipple crowd boos loud enough to drown out the cheers of Calgary fans coming through the television speakers.
“I hate that guy,” Violet mutters, glowering with a rage I didn’t think she had in her as the camera documents my once-over with our trainer. She’s adorable, like a furious kitten, and I smile wider. “I can’t wait for—”
She cuts off as someone skips the tape through the next few minutes, hitting play at the exact moment Jake takes out Cook hard enough to draw blood. Whoever has the remote control mutes the boos coming from the Calgary crowd, making The Tipple audience cheer even louder.
“You realize he’s going to have an eyebrow scar a lot like yours after that,” Violet muses. “I’m starting to wonder if that guy wants tobeyou.”
I chuckle under my breath. “Good fucking luck to him.”
At thirty seconds left in the first period, there’s a fight for the puck behind our net. Shore slides in, takes control, and with a sharp shot, sends the puck gliding past the Calgary goalie’s skate.
Hayden jumps to his feet, whooping as he throws finger guns to himself on the screen. “Fuck, yeah! And that’s why they pay me the big bucks.”
West yanks him back into his seat with a grunt. “Sit your drunk ass down before you embarrass yourself.”
Hayden waggles his eyebrows at West, then tips his head toward the women watching him and whispering at the bar. “I’m done talking myself up anyway. I think it’s already had the desired effect.”
Hayden swaggers across the room as West shakes his head and takes a long draw of his beer. Only his second, I note, and the only one beside me on this side of sober.
“More sangria?” Poppy asks as she stops at our table, a little white apron around her waist and a full jug of Mona’s liquid poison in her hand.
Daisy thrusts her empty tumbler in the air for a refill while Violet pushes her empty glass away. “I think I’ve had enough,” she declares. “But thank you.”
“Smart,” Poppy agrees before glancing around the table.
Charlie shakes her head with a polite no, Finn’s still nursing his whiskey, and at the other end of the table, my teammates raise their beers to toast Poppy with rowdy, nonsensical rambling.
