Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 80035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“And kinks?” I’d pressed.
“Well…”
“Don’t be shy, now.”
He’d hesitated a beat and shrugged. “Being blindfolded can be a turn-on.”
“Ooh. Okay, we’ll do that next time.”
“What about you?”
“Everything you do turns me on,” I’d gushed. “Every position, everything you say. You’re my cowboy fantasy. And I don’t know if this is a kink or not, but…I love the feel of your cum dripping from my hole, and I love seeing mine drip from yours and—”
He’d shut me up with a passionate kiss, pushing my boxer briefs off and licking his way down my body. I surrendered control, utterly and completely. It probably should have freaked me out, but there was no way to lose here.
12
HANK
Isat on the chaise next to Denny’s, staring out at the expanse of lawn and the field of wildflowers abutting the forest and the rambling creek nearby. Puffy clouds dotted the blue sky and other than the warble of a sparrow, it was peaceful and quiet.
Melting into the cushions, I drank in the view, which was almost as compelling as the guy stretched out nearby in holey jeans, a snug white tee, and my cowboy hat pushed low over his eyes to block the sun.
“You look good in that hat, sweetheart.”
Denny laughed, a sweet, unfettered sound that had me grinning like a loon. “I’m gonna get one of these…sweetheart. That’s such a goofy thing to say. Sweetheart. Why do you call me that?”
I shrugged. “I dunno. You’re sweet…ish. Should I call you something else?”
He smiled. “You do you. It’s better than Hotshot.”
“Why do you hate that so much?”
“It’s a pressure nickname. Too much to live up to on days you don’t kick ass the way the fans and media expect you to.” Denny tipped the brim of the hat. “I love hockey, and I can handle the pressure on the ice. Bring it, I’m ready. But the media stuff is a whole other ball game. They were all over me when our season ended, asking what happened. What could I say?”
“The truth,” I suggested. “You played hard. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Maybe not, but the real truth is, we were too beat up to compete. It felt like we’d given up by that last game, and I fucking hate giving up. It’s easy to say next season will be different, but you never know what’s coming. Denver has at least three players retiring, a couple who’ll probably be traded. That means new teammates and new chemistry, and…it’s tough starting from scratch.”
“You sound like an old fart,” I chided.
He laughed. “Fuck off.”
“Seriously. You’re twenty-two. You’re supposed to have at least five more years of unabashed enthusiasm before cynicism sets in.”
“I’m not cynical. I’m realistic, and I want to win. Failure isn’t an option. I’ll do whatever it takes to improve my game, minimize mistakes, skate faster, be better. And if I have to switch teams, hire a new agent…I’ll do that too.”
I widened my eyes comically. “I had no idea you were so cutthroat.”
“Only about hockey.”
“Yikes. Do you tell the camp kids to get their asses in gear and quit fucking off like a drill sergeant?”
“No, summer hockey is chill. I don’t coach big groups. They usually give me one or two teens at a time who need to work on shooting,” he said. “Or I assist Jake…or Smitty.”
“Your old coach?”
Denny nodded. “Yeah, he’s awesome. He can be a hardass in the regular season, but he’s a goofy teddy bear at camp. Like Vinnie. They entertain the kids while I remind them to keep their eyes on the puck.”
“I bet the kids will freak the fuck out having you as a coach this year.”
“Nah, I’m not the fun one. Too serious.”
“I don’t think you’re too serious,” I argued, plucking my hat off his head. I put it on my own head and offered my sunglasses in trade. “I think you like having fun as much as anyone, but you’re a control freak. Type A to the max.”
Denny pushed the sunglasses on and nodded. “True. Are you like me, or are you a slob?”
“Oh, I’m a hot mess. You wouldn’t know it looking at me. I fake having my shit together.”
“You? No way.”
“Way. I have good ideas, but I’m not great with follow-through. I have a reputation in my family for not finishing what I start. They’re not wrong. I feel like I’m always going backward. The fact that I’m working for my dad when I swore I’d never do it again tells you something about me.”
“That you wanted to help him out so you could live in his fancy house in Elmwood with not one, but two toilets in your bathroom?”
I tipped the brim of my hat. “You caught me.”
“What’s up with this house? It’s so extra.”
“I have no idea. Some designer from Dallas probably drew up plans for the remodel and Dad signed off without a second thought. He can be kind of showy with the high-end BS—the nicest cars, best table at the finest steak house, and beautiful homes filled with rooms no one goes in. But it’s all for show. My dad grew up dirt poor. He worked on oil rigs in the Gulf and met someone who needed loggers and was willing to pay more. Ten years later, he took over that mill, and five years after that, he was selling products to home-building emporiums and lumber supply chains across the country. Not too shabby for a high school dropout.”