A Secret for a Secret (All In #3)(75)

“I held my own.” She smooths her hands over my chest. “I left tearstains and snot trails all over your polo.”

That’s not the answer I’m looking for, and it’s clear she’s trying to distract me, but I don’t push because I know it’s been difficult for her.

“I always have an extra one in my car, so nothing to worry about.”

“Of course you do.” She laughs and then gives me a small, slightly sad and rueful smile. “You’re officially dating a divorcée.”

I tip her chin up. “I like it. Makes me feel like a rebel.”

This time her smile is genuine. She chuckles and shakes her head. “Only you, King.”

“I missed you.” I skim her throat, and her pulse hammers under my fingertips.

“Me too. I mean, I missed you, not myself.” She links her hands behind my neck, bringing her body flush with mine again. “I was worried this week.”

“About?”

“All the time you had to think while we were apart. I wasn’t sure if you’d come to your senses or not.” She huffs a laugh and looks away, so I can’t see her vulnerability. She doesn’t give me a chance to ask what she means. Instead she tugs on the back of my neck and brings my mouth to hers.

The kiss is soft for a few strokes of tongue before need takes hold. Her nails dig into my nape, and she moans into my mouth. I pick her up and deposit her on the counter. She lands on the box of chocolates, crushing the corner. I shove them out of the way and step between her legs.

“Thank you for the flowers and the chocolate.”

“You’re welcome,” I groan when she bites the edge of my jaw.

“And the . . . unicorn balloon? Does that say ‘Congratulations’?”

“They don’t have ‘Happy Divorce’ ones, interestingly enough.” I tug her blouse over her head. It’s pale green and pretty, as is the green lace bra underneath. I cup her breasts in my palms, then glance around the bungalow. The curtains are gauzy and not the best at keeping prying eyes from seeing things they shouldn’t. “Is Jake at the arena?”

“Yeah, he dropped me off and headed there right away. How long do you have before you have pregame skate?” She tugs my polo free of my khakis and goes to work on my belt.

I check the clock on the stove. “About an hour and a half, but you have an appointment in an hour, so this’ll have to be a quickie.” I find the zipper on her skirt and pause. “Is that okay? I promise I’ll take better care of you later.”

“Your version of a quickie is not the same as everyone else’s, King. And yes, it’s okay. And you take amazing care of me, always.” She flicks the button open on my pants. “Wait, I don’t have an appointment.”

“I set up a pampering session for you and Stevie before the game tonight. I thought you might need some extra TLC, and since I can’t provide it in the form of excessive orgasms, this was the next best thing.”

“You are the most amazing boyfriend.” She slips her hand in my pants. “Now please get inside me so I can have at least one of those orgasms you keep taunting me with.”

Thirty-seven minutes and two orgasms for Queenie later, we’re dressed again and in my SUV, on the way to the spa.

Except when we arrive, there are all sorts of media vans parked in front of it. “What the heck is going on?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they got wind that there’s a celebrity around or something?” I say as we pass the spa. It’s an exclusive one, and very expensive.

The last time I sent Queenie there, she told me the lead singer of a local band was getting a facial. They’re usually really good about keeping celebrity clients under the radar, but occasionally someone posts something and forgets to shut off their locator, and the media jumps all over it.

“Maybe.” I park around the corner. “I’ll walk you in to make sure it’s nothing we need to worry about.”

“Okay. Sure. That would be good.” Queenie nibbles on the end of her fingernail.

I hop out of the SUV and meet Queenie on the sidewalk. I thread our fingers together and give her hand a squeeze. “I’m sure everything is fine.”

Except as we round the corner, the throng of media vipers suddenly turns and moves toward us in a wave. I look over my shoulder, expecting to see someone notable, but then famous people often wear hats and big shades to hide who they are. And then I realize what’s happening, because the reporters start yelling. At us.

“Ryan Kingston! Are the rumors true? Did you get the general manager’s daughter pregnant?”

“Are you being blackmailed?”

“Did you really take all of Corey Slater’s money in the divorce?”

“Are you dating the GM’s daughter as a PR stunt?”

“Did you know that Queenie Masterson was married when you two started dating?”

“Is she going after all your money too?”

“Oh my God.” Queenie tucks herself into my side, trying to hide from the flashes and the microphones suddenly pointed in our direction. Stevie’s aqua hair appears as she shoves her way through the crowd, Bishop’s mammoth frame hulking behind her.

He spins around and holds out his arms. “What? No questions for me? Me and my wife aren’t exciting enough for you?”