Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 125845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Andrews begins to discuss a case that’s so macabre I’m on the edge of my seat. Ten minutes in, although she still hasn’t named the killer, I grab Hunter’s arms and hiss, “She’s talking about Harold Howarth!”
“Who?”
“He was the subject of the episode Brain Surgeons Who Kill.” I remember calling my dad immediately after watching that episode. I told him he’s never, ever allowed to inject poison into a patient’s frontal lobe, and he asked me if I was high.
As I resettle in my chair, I almost rest my hand on Hunter’s knee, a habit I have when we’re sitting together on his couch. This morning I forcibly have to stop myself. PDA isn’t allowed until I know what this is. But my gaze keeps flitting toward him. I wish I could touch his leg. Or even better—slide my hand inside his pants and wrap it around his cock. I find myself wanting to touch this man all the time.
And I mean all the time. Sometimes I want him so badly I can’t even wait for him to close the bedroom door before I’m mauling him. Today is one of those times, except we’re not in a bedroom and my throbbing body is furious at this predicament.
By the time Andrews dismisses us, my core is one dull ache. I barely hear Andrews thanking us for being so attentive this semester, wishing us luck with our future. Any other day, I’d linger after class to express my own gratitude, but I think I’ll need to settle for sending a lengthy email.
I’m so aroused, I’m practically leaping out of my own skin as we exit the lecture hall. My impatient gaze darts around the wide corridor. We didn’t drive, and there’s no way I can last the long walk back to my house. So, as Pax and TJ walk on ahead of us, I grab Hunter’s hand and drag him around the corner.
33
Hunter
Demi shoves me through the nearest doorway. Luckily, it leads into an unlit room with tables and chairs arranged in a semicircle. The blinds are shut, but the room isn’t pitch black. Just shadowy, with thin stripes of sunlight peeking in from the slats.
“What are you doing?” I ask in amusement.
She hurriedly shuts the door. “I was going crazy not being able to touch you in there. You have no idea how close I was to just taking off your pants and riding your dick, right there in front of everyone.”
My groin clenches. Oh Jesus, that sounds hot. The two of us are all over each other, all the time. It’s almost become an addiction. And I’m embarrassed to say it hasn’t affected hockey whatsoever, which means my vow of celibacy was completely fucking pointless. If anything, I’m playing even better these days.
I’ve avoided talking about it with Demi, because I’m afraid she’ll tease me, tell me I’d been acting out a scene from Wizard of Oz or some shit. Like, you had the power to be a good captain and teammate all along, Hunter! It was your guilt, and your fear of being a selfish jackass like your father, that stopped you from seeing that.
I can totally see Demi using a cheesy analogy like that.
But I guess it’s a lesson I needed to learn. Last season’s fuckery had scarred me. And I started this season wanting to put my team—and not my dick—first. I wanted to be a good captain. I wanted to prove to myself that I’m not a selfish narcissistic asshole whose needs are the only ones that matter. When our season went up in flames last year, it was a wake-up call for me. The first thing I thought after we lost that game was, maybe we are two of a kind. My father and I.
The first time he’d said that to me, I blanched inside. I felt dirty. Spooked by the notion that I could actually be anything like him. A dirt bag. An egomaniac.
But sex with Demi hasn’t resulted in anything but me going to bed sated every night and killing it in practice every morning. Not to mention the playoffs—we’re dominating the other teams.
Demi loops her arms around my neck and yanks my head down for a kiss. Christ. I love kissing her. I love fucking her. I love doing everything with and to her.
We both know this thing between us is more than a rebound. More than sex. But I don’t know what that more is. And I’m enjoying it too much to rock the boat by asking.
I laugh when she pushes me against the door. She clicks the lock into place, and her hand is at my belt before I can blink. She undoes my jeans and tugs them and my boxers just low enough that she can reach inside and pull out my hot, heavy cock.