Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 21101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 106(@200wpm)___ 84(@250wpm)___ 70(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 106(@200wpm)___ 84(@250wpm)___ 70(@300wpm)
He releases a rush of breath, his eyes closing momentarily. “Let’s go home.”
I wrap my arms around Aiden’s neck and press my face to his shoulder, taking a quick peek back at the scene we’ve left in our wake. Denny is still in a heap on the floor with a bloody, wadded up rag pressed to his face. I start to worry that Aiden beating up Denny in the airport might hurt the reputation he’s only just repaired, but I don’t have to.
Within hours, pictures flood the Internet of Aiden carrying me out of the airport with my black eye, my attacker in a puddle behind us, and he’s hailed as a hero. That’s just fine with me, because Aiden Tulane is definitely, one hundred percent my hero—and he likes to remind me that I’m his hero, too, in so many creative ways…
For hockey, of course.
Epilogue
Aiden
Five Years Later
I’m sitting on the locker room bench, staring at the door.
Waiting for her to walk through it.
My teammates are buzzing around me, getting geared up for the game, but I can’t concentrate on anything until I get a fix of my wife. My fellow players know it, too, so they give me a wide berth. It’s common knowledge that I don’t hit the ice until Lola visits me in the locker room and the ritual has served me well. Sure, I still knock out teeth from time to time, but my happiness has taken the edge off my temper. Now, when I punch one of my opponents and they fall down on the ice, I help them back up.
I’m a new man, all because of her.
My sweet, beautiful, badass wife.
The locker room door opens and my spine snaps straight, but it’s just another trainer coming in to wrap ankles and provide painkillers. Where is she?
I know her schedule is just as crazy as mine, so I need to be patient. On game days, I’m not home, so she has to care for our son and daughter alone. That, on top of running her own successful dance school in Brooklyn, means she’s probably got a million reasons to be late, but my cock is not impressed with the delay. I’m already hard as nails in my sweatpants, just anticipating the moment I’ll sink inside of Lola and watch her blue eyes go smoky.
God, I can’t wait to retire.
This is my final year in the league and she’s been with me every step of the way for the last five years. Turned me from a goon into a respected member of the league. They’re retiring my number at the end of the season and I can’t wait to stand beside Lola and my children on the ice, receiving the honor I never would have gotten without her.
My wife. My temptation. My obsession.
Where is she?
I stand up and start to pace, ignoring the apprehensive glances from my teammates. In five years, Lola has only missed one pre-game ritual and it didn’t turn out well. Before the end of the first period of that game, I’d picked up one of the nets and thrown it against the glass, handed out a concussion and trashed the penalty box.
She probably hit traffic or had a class run late at the dance school. As worked up as I am right now, I’m so proud of what she’s built there. With my help, she’s started a scholarship fund for kids who can’t afford dance classes and I’ve never seen her happier than when she can award someone the free lessons. My wife has a heart like a lioness—and I really wish she was here so I could revel in her.
As if I willed Lola to appear, she bursts into the locker room, her gaze seeking me out. Simultaneously, my heart starts to rap against my rib cage and my dick swells in my sweats. I forget my own name. One might think I’ve grown accustomed to my wife after five years, but every time I see her, it’s like the first morning we met. I’m desperate, horny and now, the abundance of love I have in my heart for her amplifies every single feeling.
I love you, baby. I need you.
My teammates all keep their heads down, knowing better than to look at my wife—and it’s a good thing, because ah, Christ. She’s in one of those floaty, little dance skirts, a tank top tied up in a knot under her tits, telling me she came straight from the studio.
“Sorry I’m late,” she murmurs when she reaches me. “Traffic.”
I grunt because I can’t form words with my heart in my mouth. My hands run over her hips, shoulders and face, in awe of her smoothness. Did she get more beautiful since I saw her this morning? I don’t know, but I need her. Now. No more waiting.