Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Love him.
Have loved him for years.
Will love him for many more.
But the chicks he fucks?
Not so much.
Primarily because their age matches their IQ level.
“The Blind Side,” Killian Kittle, a red-headed center from our most minor team calls out from somewhere closer to the hot tub area. “And not just ‘cause I wanna bang Sandy B.”
“Pretty sure it’s only ‘cause you wanna bang Sandy B, bud,” Trenton Johnson, a d-man also from the same team chuckles out between gulps of his beverage.
“Remember the Titans has my vote,” Blanc contributes after picking up and tossing his youngest back into the water for the millionth round of “cannon dad”.
“Is no one really gonna say Goon?” Page scoffs, summoning me away from my goat over to where they’re congregating.
“Thank fuck someone else finally said it!” We engage in a small fist bump. “Goon is one of the best sports movies of all time, and not because I used to bone a chick last season who looks like the lead actress—you know like Page did-”
“Amanda didn’t look anything like her!”
“Bro, she could’ve been her fucking stunt double.”
He laughs a bit louder and shakes his head. “No.”
“Pretty sure they might’ve been the same person.”
“No.”
“Like a Lindsey Lohan Parent Trap situation.”
“Oh me nerves,” Page laughs, headshaking increasing exponentially. “Amanda was hotter than that broadskie. Not as hot as you,” his cup tips my direction, “but definitely hotter than that tram wreck.”
I shoot him a wink of gratitude over the compliment prior to proceeding with my explanation, “Not only is Goon based on a true story, which is worth a stick tap in itself, but it also doesn’t waste time trying to hold your hand like it’s your first fucking day of Mini. It expects you to know your shit. It expects you to understand the shit happening. It basically said we are making this movie for fucking hockey people, and if you’re not a fucking hockey person then this shit isn’t for you, so fuck off.”
“Yes b’y.” Page promptly agrees, extending his fist once more.
Our second bumping is attached to a small set of snickers that are unexpectedly interrupted by the father of my children, “Baby, will you come over and taste this, please?”
Due to the fact I’m starving—evidently I’ve crossed over into that phase of preggers—I instantly abandon the first real bonding moment I’ve had with Page to possibly please the growing life inside of me.
My arrival occurs in a handful of steps and as soon as I’m within ass touching distance it’s exactly what I get. Brendan curls his arm around my black swimsuit cover up guarded waist yet casually lowers his hand to rest comfortably on the curve of my ass.
Yup.
Total territory marking move.
And I don’t hate it.
Hell, I fucking love the shit so much I wanna let him fuck me against the outdoor countertop.
Probably will once everyone goes home.
That shit is peaking, too.
However, I’m not sure if the wanting to fuck around the clock is from the preggers hormones or the fact that the man, I’m becoming more and more comfortable saying I’m married to beats up my pussy like a defenseman fresh out of the box with a vendetta to settle against a league rival.
I’ve never come this much in my entire life.
Hundy P.
He’s racking up record breaking ginos in that department.
And really…isn’t that worth staying married for all on its own?
Using the hand not wordlessly telling all other men in our presence—married and not alike—to fuck off, he lifts a burger up to my mouth to bite. A moan worthy number of flavors explode across my pallet, buckling my entire body, and giving into the foodgasm—which according to the cooking competition shows we watch is a real thing—gets him arrogantly grinning. “Good?”
“Amazing,” I whimper prior to sinking my teeth into it a second time, “but-”
“Does it physically hurt you to compliment me?”
“It does.”
My playful brush off is rewarded with loud chuckles.
“Needs cheese,” is mumbled around the pieces in my mouth at the same time he lowers the object back to the paper plate.
“It has cheese.”
“Does it, though?”
“Yeah.”
Licking away the grease from my lips, I poke once more. “Does it really?”
Brendan’s brown gaze suddenly becomes coated in mirth. “You want me to double that shit, don’t you?”
“Like we’re back in Vegas, babe.”
This time we both snicker which has me barely hearing Margot calling out my name, “Hennington!”
I cut a glance the direction she’s storming over from but swiftly have my attention summoned back to the man whose grip I’m wrapped up in. “You know we didn’t actually gamble that night?”
“We so did.” My left hand lifts to flash him the ring I’ve stopped taking off. “And we bet fucking big.”
“Hennington!” is repeated in the background by my assistant, a little louder.
A little more urgent.
“Then I guess we hit the motherfucking jackpot,” Brendan flirts, fingers flexing, digging possessively into my flesh. “And I plan to keep hitting that jackpot morning, noon, and twice at night because it helps you sleep better.” He reaches for his nearby beer on an arrogant chortle. “Between that shit and that shit,” my husband just barely tips the bottom of the bottle towards the rounding stomach I’m hiding, “the job shit and house shit, I think it’s safe to say at least one of us is on a hot streak.”