Mister Hockey (Hellions Angels #1)(20)

Chapter Seven




Jed went home and didn’t think about Breezy. He didn’t think about her while he tossed and turned in his California king-size bed, or got up to grab a glass of water. Not even when he watched some crappy late-night. Certainly not while playing The Legend of Zelda on his classic Nintendo NES and dying twice in the same fucking dungeon. Not even when he decided to soak in a piping-hot bath with a single-malt scotch.

It wasn’t until his hand migrated down to the erection straining against his abs that he had to own the fact.

Vixen hadn’t been out of his head since the second he left.

Instead of taking hold of his shaft, he took his time, pressing his cock down flat, rubbing his head—lightly at first—with one hand while his other squeezed and roughly pinched his nipples. It didn’t take long for his raspy groans to echo from the tiled wall. More burned in his belly than the whiskey.

God, Breezy had such a gorgeous mouth and knew how to use it. Not even two tumblers of expensive alcohol could drown out the memory of her sweetness. Her smooth satin skin, the way it flushed under his stubble. He could guess how she’d taste between her legs. The flavor. Nectar. Spring water. Citrus. Salt. Natural.

Addictive.

He’d felt close to her. Then she started talking about disappointing her mother. Living in the shadow of an older sibling.

And that had been . . . too close. Too close for comfort.

He kept up the rhythm, but his body resisted. The lust coiled inside him wasn’t a lazy, indulgent need to be wacked out on his back in slow, leisurely strokes. It was sharper. Acute. A type that set his teeth on edge. Made him want to bite down into leather. He pushed all troubled thoughts away and focused on this simple, pure desire.

His tongue had been inside her, deep kissing. Imagine what it would be like to fuck her with his mouth. The vision made him groan out loud. At first her slick inner lips would graze his like the softest of kisses. But it wouldn’t take long to turn hot and wet as she ground her hips on his face. He sensed that she was the kind of woman who could let go. Be utterly sexual. Sensual. It was all there coiled and uninhibited. Waiting for someone to flip her lid.

“Ah, shit.” He climbed up on the side of the bath, craving the release, the ceramic cool under his bare ass. Water sloshed on the floor as he hunched over, pumping his shaft, the tip of his cock gleaming and not just from the bathwater. With the other hand he rubbed his tight sac. The friction was loud, but not as loud as the grunt he made as his release hit him like a slug in the gut.

After, he sank back into the tub, vaguely unsatisfied. He’d taken the edge off, but the fucking pressure was still there, the desire unspent still pressing inside him, like some wild beast railing against a cage.

“Two days,” he muttered, rising from the tub and grabbing a gray Egyptian cotton towel and slinging it around his waist, wincing as it brushed his still sensitive cock. “Give it two days.”

His shoulders instantly relaxed. A game plan. Good. Yes. That’s what he needed. He’d wait forty-eight hours for the effects of this evening’s drug to wear off. If he still felt the same way then he’d call Breezy. But likely this attraction would dissipate and he’d return to normally scheduled summer programming.

And anyway, would she even want to talk to him, when he’d bolted like the king of assholes?

His own dad was a piece of work too. A rigid, intimidating guy who had expected great things from both sons, demanded nothing less than the best in school, in sport, in life. He pitted them against each other, the comparisons constant.

When Jed got moved into remedial English in junior high, he’d lost ground in the ongoing parent approval competition. That’s when he made it his life’s mission to surpass his big brother in the rink until finally Travis gravitated to football, hating the fact his younger brother skated harder, faster, left his goddamn guts on the ice. After Travis took off his skates, he never looked back. Got the big scholarship to UCLA. Star receiver as a freshman. Cutting angles to the end zone. Ready to live the dream.

Dad was so fucking proud.

Then came the game sophomore year where Travis slammed his head, his brain smashing the inside of his skull. It rocked his world right into the shitter. He had a full-blown seizure on the field, bled from the mouth. Turned out he’d gotten a concussion in an earlier game a week before. The second impact is what did it. Turned out there was a name for the injury—nothing fancy—second impact syndrome.

They’d chopped open Travis’s skull, removed a clot. And that was it. Game over. The brother he had known was gone. In his place remained an angry, erratic man who grasped enough to know that so much had been lost.

But that didn’t have to be Jed’s story.

His jaw muscles tightened. But why? Why did he deserve to keep winning when his brother, his own flesh and blood, had lost so much? Maybe this was karmic balance finally being restored.

Or a wake-up call.

He didn’t have to stick around. If he wanted out, this was the time, having led his team to not one but two championships. He had nothing to prove to anyone anymore. Not to Dad. Not to critics.

But what about himself?

He’d hidden behind hockey for so long now, who would he be if he walked away?

And that was the problem. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.



“Boss?” Daisy used the expression without irony, but the deferential expression still made Breezy smile. “You have a call on line three.”