Her fingers brushed over my cheek. “Never thought I’d have one with you.”
“All you had to do was ask. Apparently, I’m primed and loaded.”
“And that’s why I love you, Adrian.”
The words hurt, and that confused me even more. “Because I’m a walking, talking, game-winning sperm bank?”
“And no mask required to rob you. Didn’t need to wear anything, really.”
My shirt hid her curves under miles of extra material, but the hint of her shoulder and the tease of her leg was enough to strike me dumb. She leaned in, pulling herself nearly into my lap for a hug. The shirt rode up, and her heart-shape ass practically wagged as she snuggled against me.
“I’d do anything for you.” I sighed as my arm wrapped around her waist. “Could be a good idea, bad idea, or just fucking crazy. Not gonna let you go it alone.”
“Couldn’t ask for a better best friend,” she whispered.
Yeah.
But what best friend was stupid enough to brush her hair away from her face?
What best friend was reckless enough to hold her firm in his lap?
What best friend was selfish enough to brush his lips against hers in a gentle, loving, painfully platonic kiss?
I deserved her playful nibble. The soft grace of her kiss shattered my resolve and hardened the troublemaker desperate to ruin any relationship for just the glimpse of her dark skin.
Clover murmured only a soft mew of surprise as I lowered her onto the bed. Instinctively, her arms wrapped around me as I nudged her legs apart, settling near her warmth and promise. The shirt bunched at her navel, revealing the lovely temptation of her messy pussy.
Her dark petals were slick and sticky.
The combination eroded the last of my patience. My cock pulsed in my hand, and I jerked it—once, twice, then aimed for the perfection that had tormented me with pleasure all night.
But the sudden blaring of my nightside alarm shattered the lust-crazed possession clouding my judgment.
Clover already panted, arching her back with a disappointed whimper.
“Shit…” I swallowed. My arms held me over her, but every muscle suddenly screamed with a stinging pain. Adrenaline surged through me. Frustration followed. “I can’t miss workouts.”
Clover’s hands teased my straining arms. “I should…get cleaned up.”
“Right.”
I didn’t move. Neither did she. I no longer heard the shrieking alarm.
“Or…” Clover hesitated. “Do we have to get up?”
I wasn’t strong enough to answer that question. “And do what?”
“Stay here?”
“We’d get in a lot of trouble.”
Her smile undid me. “We’ve already been in trouble. What’s a little more?”
I prided myself on my discipline, but she burned through twenty-eight years of denial, conditioning, and resolve.
I shifted off her, turning before catching another glimpse of her velvet heat.
“I gotta get to practice.” I rubbed my face. It did nothing to tame the raging tension threatening to tear me apart. “And you…you’ve gotta get going.”
“Why?”
I gently nudged her from the bed, offering her my shower first. Hardest thing I ever did, and the hardest words I ever had to say.
I smirked. “Because you’re my best friend.”
Even if I wanted more.
10
Clover
Adrian hated media days.
He insisted the cameras captured him at the worst possible moments. And I supposed his driver’s license proved his point. Usually got him out of tickets though. The police took pity on him. And his passport photo wasn’t much better—his picture was good for one guaranteed strip search on our way to Europe.
But on the ice, most of his photos were rather dashing. Didn’t take much to make a sweaty athlete, flushed with competition and eager to bash some skulls, look attractive.
Then again…he had some pictures which tended to go viral.
The one catching him mid-sneeze was a bad one. He was the only man I knew who could do it with his eyes open.
And there was the one when he crashed nose-first into the boards—gave him that piggy sort of look.
And, of course…the one of him vomiting on the ice after the injury.
Still, Adrian had nothing to worry about for the official Ironfield Forge media portraits and shoots. The man was unrepentantly gorgeous, and he’d only gotten hotter in the past two weeks since I’d slept with him.
Unfortunately, my constant fantasies about that night had only complicated my life. I’d ruined two blouses with exploding soda cans while at altitude. I’d accidentally enraged an entire plane by misspeaking and welcoming them to New York instead of Charlotte. And I hadn’t made friends with the pilot whose dinner ended up in his lap.
Work had been a nightmare, but the overnight stays in the hotel between flights were even worse. I’d left my phone packed up with my luggage out of fear of calling Adrian when the lights dimmed and my body ached with absolute emptiness.
It was official.
I wanted this man too much.
But he was my best friend. If my best friend needed me on-site to ensure his portrait captured his charming smile and regal authority, who was I to protest?
If nothing else, living in the same city meant that I could finally be present for some of the fun behind-the-scenes hockey events. The media day wasn’t as elegant as the official team banquet dinner, but it was impressive. The various studios set up lights, flashing cameras, and half a dozen green screens in separate stations around the rink, each coordinated by a different network for their various promos.
Adrian was needed for the team portrait as well as some staged shots for the networks to run for commercials and during replays. This meant suiting up in all his gear, tossing him onto the ice, and expecting the worst actor and liar in the world to mime his way through a mock slapshot and celebration.
It was going poorly.
“Try it again.” The director was a middle-aged man who had already fallen twice on the ice and sent an intern into the city for a coccyx pillow. He rubbed his backside and covered his mouth with his iPad as he conferred with his producer. “If we don’t get this shot, get Beau Beckett to suit up in Alaric’s jersey and we’ll superimpose his face in post-production.”
Adrian glided to my side, towering over me in his skates and pads. The man was a giant in street clothes. On the ice? I couldn’t imagine anyone daring to confront him, not when most of his muscular body was protected by bulky pads, the helmet rode low on his brow, and his dark beard shadowed the rest of his face. Only his eyes still looked like him, that quick strike of flint and steel.
He didn’t just take my breath away. A single glance from him was like a punch to the gut, and I loved every panted gasp.
“How was that one?” He wiped the sweat from his face, but one of the crew rushed over to mist his face with a spray bottle for that hard-fought, hardened-in-battle look for the cameras. “Be honest.”
I nibbled on my fingernail. “Well, I know you get excited when you score a real goal. Maybe we can find some videos of it…and you can try to mimic it?”