Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“Too bad, Joeski.” He stubbornly shrugs and grabs my hand. “My family. My number.”
Not whimpering over his rough palm encompassing mine deserves a fucking medal.
Or at least a Christmas Pinwheel cookie.
Oh!
Maybe Bella and I will make those for the team as a fun holiday treat!
My boss stops us in the space directly between the two sinks in the bathroom and demands, “On the counter.”
“What? Why?”
“I gotta draw your number.”
“You can do it standing.”
Another arrogant grin rudely appears.
Okay.
Really?
Just everything out of my mouth is going to sound sexual?!
“You’re like a foot taller than me,” leaves my mouth at the same time my hands plop themselves defiantly onto my hips. “You can easily reach my cheek.”
“Yeah, but I want you where I want you.”
It’s my turn to present him with a mischievous expression; however, his expression remains stoic as if he intended it to sound as dirty as it came out.
Which is crazy.
Because I’m not his type.
Or…at least I don’t think I’m his type?
You know I’m not honestly sure what his type is.
I damn sure have no business finding out.
“Up,” he demands with a stern finger point.
“No.”
“Up.”
“Still no.”
“Up.”
“And now, hell no.”
“Don’t make me put you there.”
“Don’t make me laugh in your face when you fail.”
He sways his frame unexpectedly closer to mine. Too close because all I can breathe in is him and his crisp, clean cologne that I’m starting to love more than the scent of peppermint. “You think I can’t?”
“I think you won’t.” Doing my best to hold my increasingly wobbly knees steady, I force myself to mumble out, “I’m not a light woman, Ig.”
“And I’m not a weak man, Joeski.” My jaw lowers to argue when he slams his hands against the countertop on each side of my curvaceous figure cutting me off. “I can bench press you on dry land.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” I airily ask.
“That I throw around more weight in the gym.” Igor steals a long, slow lick of his lips before repeating his previous command. “On the counter, baby.”
Rather than unpack or unload any of the big red ornaments rolling around in my mind regarding the lack of spacing, the phrasing, or the new, very inappropriate term of endearment, I simply nod my compliance.
Hoist myself up onto the counter.
Hold my breath and wait for him to brand me as his.
Clearly pleased, Igor grins wide and opens the top drawer to his right. Minor clanking sounds of items being rifled around precede my boss’s small chuckles. “Still can’t believe I have makeup shit in my bathroom.”
“You have a daughter, sir.” Giggling isn’t fought. “You better get used to it.”
The jade shaded liquid eyeliner pen is revealed on an excited, “Goaaaallll!”
More snickers thoughtlessly slip free.
“They don’t call me the best stay-at-home defenseman for nothin’.” Igor removes the lid with his teeth. “Turn.”
“Manners.”
“Pozhaluysta.”
I lean my face slightly forward and offer the territory on the right side for marking.
Without hesitation, Igor gently cups my face, prompting my eyes to close while the rest of my body damn near dissolves in the palm of his hand. A small, comforting stroke is delivered by his thumb at the same time he sweetly asks, “Do you know how to say my number in Russian?”
My answer is given at a barely audible volume. “No.”
“Sorok dva.”
A puzzled hum is followed by doing my best to repeat it. “Sorig ga.”
“Net.” Igor laughs during his drawing. “It’s not a magical land you’d find in a Harry Potter Fan Fiction.” Kicking my foot forward successfully strikes him in the leg. “Careful, Joeski. You almost landed that shot between the pipes.”
Another round of giggles floats through the air.
“Try it again,” he softly encourages while continuing to doodle. “Sorok dva.”
Following his request is instant.
As are his chuckles about how awful it sounds. “Just slow it down.” The first syllables that leave me receive lively praise. “Good! Keep going.” Maintaining the speed has me mastering the first half. “Atta girl! Now, finish for me.” Ending what should be an easy pair of words to learn increases in difficulty due to my sudden breathy nature; however, success is still found because when I finally open my eyes, the set of blue I’ve become too invested in are sparkling brighter than fresh out the box tinsel. One last caress is attached to words that I can’t help but believe have an intended double meaning. “Such a fucking beauty, baby…”
Chapter 10
Igor
There are worse things than being tied in the second one to one.
But fuck, there damn sure are better ones.
Patrick Peck, the dark-haired, blue-eyed rookie, takes his faceoff position in the offensive zone, not only spreading his legs wider than his opponent, but squatting much deeper too while wiggling his mouthguard on one side of his face. The assumption most make about what’s happening is that he’s only this low for strength. That it’ll give him the advantage of having more force in his hit to win the competition.