Page 42 of Blindside Sinner

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SLOAN

My stomach hasn’t stopped quivering.

A bunch of naked hockey players dripping from their… appendages… was a lot more of a puck bunny fantasy than I ever thought I would get a peek at up close and personal. But there it was and now, here I am.

My pulse is throbbing and my hands are sweaty. My panties are damp.

Suddenly, my vow of celibacy is a pain in my ass. There is a locker room full of mostly unclothed professional athletes just a few feet away. A locker room full of sculpted muscles and rippling abs. A locker room full of very single men with a very vested interest in doing some very dirty things.

I’m playing a tense game with Beck, but the truth is, I’m a single woman. With all the urges and desires that accompany that kind of status.

That’s fine. That’s all well and good.

But there’s an issue.

And the issue is that, although there was a whole lot of man on display, I only had eyes for one.

Yeah. Not good.Houston, we have a problem.

Obviously, I’m taking that information to my grave. But right now, alone in my room, I can’t stop picturing Beck.

And not just picturing him, but picturing him in the worst possible ways. X-rated, filthy sex dreams with tangled sheets and glistening skin and orgasms delivered directly from God. Why I’m stuck on him, I can’t say. I wish I could be fantasizing about Dixon Hayes or Colin O’Leary. Hell, Wavey the Mascot would be a better choice, and he’s literally a giant block of foam in the shape of a tsunami.

But no. It’s Beckett Daniels and no one else.

I need a solution, and quick, because he’s cutting through my defenses even faster than he did to Portland’s. I need to figure out how to get around the honeyed gazes and the dark, dreamy eyes, the smolder, the smirk.

And I will—tomorrow.

Tonight, I’m going to handle what needs to be handled, and if I happen to imagine his hands on my skin, his eyes devouring mine, his cock poised and ready, then no one but me has to know it.

So when I get back to my hotel room, that’s exactly what I do.

I take my time, though. I shower and put on lotion. I dress in silk pajamas and pull up a slow jams playlist to blare on my phone. The whole time, I tell myself I’m not doing thisforBeck—I’m doing thisin spiteof him.

I’m flushing him from my system. That’s all. This is medicine. Nothing more, nothing less.

I collapse back in bed and let my eyes flutter closed. My hair is a loose cascade around my shoulders and the silk waistband of my shorts whispers against my hips.

And then I pressPlayon my mental fantasy.

His hands brush my hair to the side. I tilt my head, expose my neck, offer it up to him like a sacrifice.

His lips are wet and soft against the sensitive skin under my ear. He drags an open-mouthed kiss along my throat to my collarbone. His teeth nip and rake, quiet little crackles of delicious pain, and his hands come around my waist.

He grazes his fingertips up my torso, teasing my aching hard nipples, and pulls off the straps of my cami, until the garment puddles around my waist. I want his mouth on my breast and between my thighs so bad, but all I can do is whimper.

He knows what it means. I feel his kiss transform into a smirk. “Not so fast, angel,” he croons in my ear. “The best things are the ones that you let build, and build, and build, until you can’t take it anymore. You don’t get to come until you beg for it.”

He walks us backward and pushes me tenderly onto the bed. He’s close behind, his breath still hot as he traces his lips up my knee, my thigh, to kiss where it meets my hip.

Then he stands and retreats. I whimper again. It’s a wordless “please.”

He smirks once again. When his voice comes out, it’s a feral growl. “Touch yourself for me, Sloan.”

It isn’t the kind of thing I have to be told twice. My fingertips sneak past my waistband. My throbbing center of need is just two inches away. One inch away. I can already tell that a single stroke might be enough to push me over the edge. I’m almost there, the cool room air mingling with my feverish skin?—

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