Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 117201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Flesh.
Don’t think of his flesh.
It was too late.
And the truth was, she wanted to give in to the demanding attraction. Just once, to stem the restlessness. It was the middle of the night. No one would know. Burgess had made it abundantly clear that he’d like to take her to bed. While that would not be happening, because it wouldn’t come without the price of commitment . . . maybe she could get just a taste? It had been approximately nine thousand years since Tallulah found herself hungering for a specific man, and this hunger far surpassed any that she’d experienced before. The rush, the proof she could still trust enough to feel the pull of need, was a relief. An intoxicating, exciting relief . . . and she desperately wanted to explore it.
The entire way to the locked door, she told herself to turn back.
But her body wasn’t listening.
Chapter Nineteen
Burgess sat on the end of his bed, his hands clasped between his knees.
He stared at the door, begging it to open.
It wouldn’t, but a man could damn well hope, right?
His dick was heavy and hard in his jeans, like it always was the night after a victory. But he’d do what he always did and jerk off in the shower. This time, however, he’d be thinking of Tallulah in his sweatshirt on the sidelines. How he’d caught her in between the second and third period taking a long whiff of the collar. Did she like how he smelled?
Did she . . . like the game? What had she thought about his performance out there?
Did she notice that he’d lost a step, like everyone else in the hockey world?
His throat burned with the possibility.
Could this one woman see him as capable of anything? Ten years ago, he could have been her fucking superhero. Who could he be for her now?
Would she even want him to be someone to her?
Burgess pushed to his feet, his eyes watering over the pull of tendons in his back. He’d kept his end of the bargain with Tallulah and spoken to the team trainer, who’d given him some more powerful painkillers, but they’d worn off slowly throughout the game.
Just a strain. Just a strain. He repeated those reassuring words to himself on the way into the en suite bathroom where he undressed, removing the clothes he’d only donned an hour and a half ago, prior to the press conference, leaving them in a heap on the ground. He looked at himself in the mirror over the sink, shaking his head at the sight of his swollen cock and trying to see himself through Tallulah’s eyes. Those silver hairs creeping into his sideburns, beard, and chest hair . . . were they a warning flag to her?
Stay away from this guy. He’s past his prime.
He’s none of the things you want. Spontaneous. Fun. Adventurous. Young.
Or was she curious about what his experience brought to the table?
Burgess’s eyes closed, his fist closing around his cock and beginning to stroke.
Yeah.
He liked that scenario better.
Tallulah was standing in front of him now, imaginary, of course.
Not a fucking stitch of clothing.
Show me what you know, she whispered, guiding his hand between her thighs.
“Mhhhh,” he grunted, already panting, his pulse loud in his ears. He wasn’t even going to make it to the shower. He’d bust right there in the sink—
He heard the very distinct creak of his bedroom door opening.
His hand froze, the fantasy bursting like a bubble.
“Burgess?”
Son of a bitch, that was Tallulah’s voice. She was in his bedroom? Why?
“Yeah?” he said, trying to make his voice sound natural and failing. Hard. He sounded like a buzz saw trying to break through metal. “Everything okay?”
Silence.
Three seconds. Four.
“Don’t you want your massage?”
Burgess bit down on his balled fist to stop himself from groaning. Or ejaculating.
Or both.
She was just following through on her promise.
He wouldn’t hope for more. Not until he knew for sure.
His movements were almost lethargic with lust as he whipped a towel off the rack and wrapped it around his waist, knotting it in a way that hid his affliction. Taking a deep breath, he opened the bathroom door, keeping his erection hidden behind the jamb as a backup plan.
When his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the bedroom, his flesh started to throb all the harder, so intense he almost couldn’t bear it. There she was, in his room.
In nothing but his sweatshirt.
“Tallulah, tell me exactly what you want,” he said thickly. “What are you here for?”
“Can we please just call it a massage and see what happens?” she whispered.
This was the difference between them. She could come to him without a game plan, carried by a whim or a momentary break from good decision-making. He wasn’t like that. He wanted to have their relationship spelled out. Wanted everything neatly defined, so he could sleep at night, secure in the fact that he had her all to himself.