Destiny on Ice (Boys of Winter #1)(28)

What? No! I can’t escape the damn man. “What did you just say?”

He pointed to somewhere out in the desert. “Ah, Area 51 is—”

“No, no, not that part.” I shook my head vigorously. “What were you saying about Brent Oliver?”

“Oh, he’s the star player for our hockey team, the Wolves.”

“No, no. Not that, either.” I swished my hand in the air, like maybe I could erase this whole discussion. “What were you saying about the number fifty-one?”

“Oh, that. Fifty-one is Brent Oliver’s number. And you can’t see it with the packaging in the way, but the toy has a fifty-one imprinted on it.”

“Oh, great.”

Not only had I purchased an alien dick, but the thing shared a number with Brent. Had I subconsciously grabbed this one on purpose? If so, I didn’t want to even consider what grabbing the Double Penetrator Mega Blaster might mean.

As I shuddered, another disturbing aspect of the whole mindless grabbing of the toys began to bother me. It seemed I couldn’t deny that Area 51 was a close approximation of the length and girth of Brent’s cock. Or at least what I had discerned of it beneath the comforter that fateful morning when we’d met.

The clerk, misreading my intense staring at Area 51, jerked his chin to the package. “Another great feature of that one is that it has pulsating vibrating action and a temperature sensor.”

I wanted to drive away, just get the hell out of there as fast as I could, but curiosity got the best of me. “Temperature sensor?” My inquiring mind wanted to know one thing: “What exactly does that mean?”

“It means the device glows brighter with body heat. You know, from your—”

I got the hell out of there then, leaving the clerk in a plume of dust. You bet your ass I had my passengers with me though—DPMB and Area 51.

So yeah, I haven’t tried either of them yet—and I have a feeling DPMB might never get the chance, seeing as I like my lady bits and her backdoor neighbor just as they are—but at least I have the alien dick to satisfy me next time Brent Oliver gets me all worked up.

That could be sooner than expected. I hear his smooth voice behind me now, saying, “Hey, what are you doing with the Grey Goose? That’s my special collection.”

“Speak of the devil,” I murmur, smiling deviously as I unscrew the cap on the next bottle of liquor doomed for the pipes. Peering over my shoulder, I then snipe, “What does it look like I’m doing, genius?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

Turning back to the bottle and dumping its contents in the sink, I reply, “The drain is thirsty. It’s enjoying your ‘special collection.’ And better it end up here than down your throat.”

“Can you at least save back a couple? Like, for a special occasion?”

“Sorry,” I reply breezily, “but it all needs to go.”

“What if I decide to have a party?” he throws out, like that’ll work.

“No parties allowed,” I say, reciting the rules in the contract. “No alcohol, no drugs, no women—”

“Fuck that last one,” I hear Brent mumble.

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. It’s all in—”

“—the contract we signed,” he finishes for me. “Yes, I know.”

I remain facing the sink, but I can almost hear the wheels turning in his head. I sense he’s preparing to come up with something to return the slam.

Sure enough, he throws out an innuendo-laden, “Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to hold back a bottle or two?”

I stop what I’m doing and turn around. “Why would I do that?”

“Well, Aubrey, I think we both know how much you also enjoy throwing back a few from time to time?”

We haven’t discussed the night I ended up in his bed, not once. And I don’t want to bring it up now. It conjures up too many feelings—like lust, longing, and want. And there’s no point in going there. Verbally sparring with Brent is one thing—like foreplay almost—but it’s safe.

Too bad I can never actually be with him.

That’s why I bought the toys.

Frustrated at this mess I’m in, I narrow my eyes at him and say, “I’m not the one with the alcohol problem, mister.”

“Like I am?”

“Brent…” I sigh. “You may not be a raging alcoholic, but you don’t know when to stop.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that,” he shockingly concedes. “But I have a question for you.”

Casually, he leans his shoulder against the curved entranceway that separates the kitchen from the dining room, a move that makes him look delectable. When he crosses his arms—and, of course, he’s once again prancing around without a shirt—his chest muscles flex and his arms bulge enticingly.

It takes everything I have to force my gaze up to his face. Though that’s not helpful either, since that part of him is just as attractive.

“What do you want to know?” I murmur as I pin my eyes to the mosaic tile floor. That way I won’t stare…or drool.

“How’d you end up at a party in Minneapolis? Jock mentioned that you live in Chicago. Is that right?”