Mister Hockey (Hellions Angels #1)(10)

And the feeling was mutual, more than mutual if the sudden snugness in his boxer briefs was any indication.

He tried and failed not to gawk at her ass as she walked ahead of him down a narrow hallway. It had been a long time since he’d held a soft woman.

When Breezy turned, they stood almost chest to chest, and her eyes. Fucking fuck. Those eyes were something else.

“Um.” She cleared her throat. “Here we are.”

Her bedroom.

He hoped his gaze stayed neutral, vaguely helpful, rather than reveal the dirty fantasies that swirled through his brain like an X-rated kaleidoscope.

Christ. His boxers were fitting snugger still, if he kept going like this he’d be tenting his sweats. He flexed his legs and wildly tried to focus on something—anything—that wasn’t Breezy on her knees, working that lush mouth over his cock, or having those two perfect-ten tits bouncing in his hands as she rode him reverse cowgirl.

Look, he wasn’t a pervert, but fuck it, he was a man . . . and a creative lover in the right moment.

Which this sure as hell wasn’t.

Paper cut to the eyeball. No, wait paper cuts to the dick. Yeah, a legal document right on the tip.

That ball-shrinking thought worked its necessary magic.

Without another word, she opened the door and the trouble was immediately obvious. A wet ring of plaster formed in the ceiling as a steady drizzle drip, drip, dripped into a metal mixing bowl placed in the center of an antique brass bed.

“Total disaster, right?” Worry etched her words. “I closed on this place two weeks ago, and all my savings are sunk into the down payment. The home inspector made it sound like the roof had another five years of life. If it needs replacing then I can’t even afford tears.”

He pushed up his sweatshirt sleeves. Fantasies would have to wait. The damage wasn’t good, but there was no way of knowing what the problem’s extent was until he examined the source of the leak. “I’m going to need to access the attic. Where’s your crawl space?”

“There’s a trap door to the ceiling in the closet.” Small lines bracketed her pressed mouth. “I haven’t braved exploring up there yet, on account of spiders and—”

“Don’t worry. I’m on it.” He dropped his coat onto the foot of the bed and strode toward her bedroom’s closet.

“No! Stop.” She dive-bombed in front of the door, splaying out her arms as if to ward him off. “Not there. In the hallway!”

He froze, studying her face for a long second. Rain drummed hard on the roof, the noise growing in intensity. What was she hiding? Piles of dirty laundry? Her bras and underwear?

Her body jolted as if she was trying to suppress a shiver. The notion bored into his stomach, hot and hungry. Was she feeling it too, the same tightening in the chest as if robbed of air, this attraction, like a tether, pulling them together?

He glanced down, fighting to get a grip. After all, what culled the boys from the men was self-control. “I need a bucket, a flashlight, caulking and a tarp.”

She toyed with one of her earrings, absorbing his request. The wind picked up, branches from the cherry tree outside her window scratching at the glass. “My stepdad set up a utility area in the garage. A little ambitious of him when I can’t tell apart a Phillips and flathead screwdriver . . .” She broke off, as the water dripping from the ceiling gushed into an indoor waterfall.

She groaned, as chunks of plaster fell onto her bed. “I’m so freaking screwed.”

Her wide gaze was panicked, shit, those might even be tears. “No.” Before he could weigh the consequences of his action, he took hold of her upper arms, holding tight. “You’re going to be okay, understand?” It wasn’t until he spoke that he realized how fucking intense he sounded, like this was the finale in a war movie, and he was asking her to do battle by his side.

But she didn’t laugh. Hell, she didn’t even crack a smile as he released her, taking two steps back. Just gave a dazed nod, idly massaging the spot near her shoulder where his palm had touched.

“Back in a second,” he muttered, heading to her garage to rummage for the necessary tools. As he poked around the workbench, he caught himself whistling under his breath. Whistling “Eye of the Tiger” to be exact.

He gaped at the wood pegboard in front of him. Since walking into Breezy’s library, there’d been no sign of the unsettled question that had been nagging him with a near-constant tenacity since the playoffs, the one that twisted his gut in the middle of the night, woke him from a dead sleep, chest sheened in sweat, hands flung in front of his face as if bracing for impact.

Who would he be without hockey? If he quit the game.

For now, an afternoon, he seemed to be granted a reprieve. Instead, he could pretend to be an ordinary guy who helped a pretty woman fix her leaky roof, a nice, simple—ordinary—distraction from his greater problems.

He returned to the hallway and the pretty lady in question waited by the open closet door. He gave her a reassuring smile, ducked inside and lowered the attic ladder.

“Careful,” she called anxiously. “Don’t drown up there.”

“One question.” He climbed up a few rungs and paused, glancing back over one shoulder. “In case anything should happen.”

Her eyes widened. “Okay?”

“I’m dying to know.” He pointed at the front of her shirt and arched a brow. “What’s a 398.2?”