Those Three Little Words

Booze.

I need more booze.

All of the booze.

Pretend my mouth is the base of a waterfall and just tip all of the liquor right down the gullet because, oh my GOD, Eli Hornsby is causing me to turn all different shades of red.

Not to mention sweat. He is making me sweat down my freaking back.

Yeah, I know, sweating isn’t the least bit attractive and no one wants to hear about it. But I’m more than glistening at this point, and it’s all because the extremely gorgeous man sitting next to me decided to nip my earlobe.

Have you ever felt a tsunami of arousal take over your body in one giant, consuming wave?

Well, I have, and it was the moment Eli decided to pull my earlobe between his teeth. My freaking earlobe, ladies. I don’t think earlobes are the least bit sexy. They’re dangling skin bits attached to your head. It’s a good thing someone thought to pierce them because they need a little something to make them not so freaky. But yes, here I am, panting and sweating like a freaking hockey player after three periods on the ice from one little nip.

A brief nibble.

It’s not like he stuck his tongue in my ear—which by the way, yuck—nor did he suck on my ear or make out with it. His teeth made a brief pass, and before I could register what was happening, he was back in place, sipping his beer.

Yet it was life-altering.

I can still feel it, his teeth on my ear. I can still sense his hand on my inner thigh, his thumb caressing my skin, dragging, teasing . . .

And that provocative voice of his, I can still hear it ringing through my ears, telling me all the dirty things he wants to do to me.

He wants to see my boobs bounce in his face? What on earth?

My . . . *gulp* pussy pulse against his length. I never in my life have heard such a sinister sentence.

That’s why I need the booze. Because I’m a bundle of nerves about to either curl into a ball of anxiety or legit pull my boob from my dress and lay it on the table as an appetizer for the voraciously hungry man sitting next to me.

Boob for the taking. Preferably to be used as a sucking device.

DO YOU SEE WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT?

I’ve completely lost it.

“Did you get this dress for tonight?” His hand that’s resting on the back of my chair slowly drags over the hot pink fabric. When his finger toys with the zipper on the back, my intake of breath nearly startles me right off my stool.

“No,” I squeak. “I had it but have never worn it. I always thought it was too slutty for work even paired with a blazer, but thought it would be cute for a date. It was an impulse purchase. It was on sale, and I like the color, and I thought it would show off my short legs, which it does because it likes to ride up my thighs while I walk. It didn’t do that in the mirror, but I wasn’t walking either. I was just standing there checking myself out. So a very misleading dress if you ask me. But to answer your question, bringing this full circle, this scrap of fabric on my body was not purchased for tonight.”

He brushes my hair off my shoulder, his fingers dragging along my skin, burning me, branding me.

Is this his way of seduction?

Is that what’s happening?

I mean, he did say he wanted me to be his present tonight, so is that what’s happening? If so, it’s working.

My body is thrumming, urging me to ask for more.

“Well, I’m glad you saved it for tonight. It looks fucking hot on you.”

I chuckle because honestly, I don’t know how else to react. This scenario right now just feels so unreal. It’s Valentine’s Day, and I’m single and sitting next to Eli Hornsby while he flirts with me.

Never in my wildest thoughts would I have ever imagined this scenario to play out.

“Why are you laughing?” he asks, closing the space between us, causing my body to heat another degree.

“Because”—I clear my throat—“this all seems so ridiculous. I mean, what are we doing?”

“Flirting,” he says. “Spending some time together. Some innocent time together.”

“This is innocent?” I ask.

“Yes, if it wasn’t innocent, trust me, you would know.”

I wave my hand in front of my face. Thank God it’s dark in here because I could only imagine the color of my beet-red cheeks at this moment.

“Well, I don’t know what to say to that other than . . . I feel like it’s time I leave.” I down the rest of my drink, and as the liquid flows down my throat, I think about how I should have left half an hour ago, but for some odd reason, I stuck around.

Not sure why.

I set my empty glass on the table and stand from my stool only for Hornsby to stand as well, blocking me from my retreat.

“You seem to be in the way,” I say, looking up at him.

“Because I don’t want you to leave.”

“Well, that’s kind of you to want me to stay, but you see, I fear that if I stick around, I’ll do something really stupid like beg you to nibble on my ear again.”

A grin falls over his lips. “That’s not stupid. That’s actually a really good idea.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s a terrible idea. Really bad.” I reach up and pat his chest, his rock-hard muscles doing nothing to tamper my libido. “I should, wow, you are really muscular.”

He chuckles and then takes my hand in his and sits me back on my stool. “Stay. I promise I won’t flirt anymore. Just don’t leave me on my birthday. I’ve had enough birthdays alone growing up. Give me this one with some company.”

He’s spent birthdays alone? What does he mean by that? That’s so sad.

I realize at this moment that I don’t really know much about Hornsby other than the obvious—what’s put out in the world for fans. But behind those devilish eyes and sparkling grin, I don’t know where he grew up, anything about how he became the hockey star that he is, or pretty much any vital information that made him who he is today.

“Please . . . Penny?”

God, how could I possibly say no to that face?

I can’t.

It’s why I haven’t left yet, and it’s why I find myself asking him to order me another drink and some pretzel bites with cheese sauce.

After a quick trip to the bathroom—with a promise that I wouldn’t ditch him—I settle back on my stool, pleased to see food and new drinks on the table.

“Told you I’d return,” I say while picking up a pretzel.

“I’d like to think it was because you wanted to spend more time with me, but my guess is it’s because of the pretzel bites.”

While chewing, I say, “Yes, well, I am a sucker for carbs.”

He chuckles and picks up a pretzel as well and then smears it in cheese sauce before sticking it in his mouth. For reasons I can’t quite pinpoint, I watch as he eats, noticing the fine muscles in his jaw work as he chews or the way his throat contracts when he swallows. It’s extremely hot and makes me think I should do a collage of the boys swallowing and chewing for TikTok. A good old-fashioned thirst trap. Then again, it might be a little too sexual, and I’m not ready to lose my job, not when I just earned it.

“So, tell me this, Penny, if Blakely was sitting here instead, what would you be talking about?”

I wash my pretzel down with a giant sip of my fourth gimlet of the night and smile when I set my glass down, starting to feel the effects of the alcohol.

“Well, you for sure. We would probably be watching your every move and then gossiping about it with each other. Possibly trying to figure out who you were hitting on, why, and what you were saying. Possibly betting on who you would take home.”

“Is that so? Who’s to say I wouldn’t have stuck around with you two?”

“Once we started talking about my bad waxing experience, trust me, you would have left.”

“Waxing, huh?” He gives me a slow once-over. “You bare down there, Penny?”

Because said alcohol has started to loosen me up, I answer him by saying, “Normally just a short landing strip, but this last go-around, everything went, and I wasn’t ready for it. It wasn’t my normal lady, so she lit me up with wax.”

He wets his lips as he looks at me as if I’m a rare wagyu beef he’s been craving for years. “Do you like it?”

I shrug and pop another pretzel in my mouth. “I mean, it doesn’t feel much different. I honestly was nervous that doing it all would strip my clit right off, but it’s still intact.”

He chuckles. “Well, that’s good to hear.” His hand falls back on my chair as he faces me, his commanding body taking up all of the space between us. “I’ve gotten my balls waxed before.”

“Really?” I ask. “You know I was about to say that’s hard to believe, but just by the way you dress, I’d guess you’re a waxer. Do you wax your chest?”

He nods. “Yeah. Chest, balls, and ass.”

Well, isn’t that . . . information.

“I see.” I clear my throat. “You, uh, you still do that?”

He nods again. “Yes, I think it makes me skate faster. I got Taters to go with me once. He shrieked like a feral cat in heat and walked around after like someone stuck a hot iron on his nads, but he got used to it and now goes regularly.”

“THAT’S . . . hmm, that’s fascinating. I should do a video of you two. Call it the story of bare balls.”

He laughs. “Pretty sure the front office would not approve.”

“Probably not.” I shift my body so I’m facing him now and our knees knock together. He spreads his legs wider, and I slip in closer while crossing one leg over the other. His hand that was holding his drink falls to my thigh, and the heat of his touch mixed with the coldness of his palm does strange things to my muscles, contracting them in all different ways.

“What else would you be talking to Blakely about?” His thumb caresses my skin, and I nearly moan from the touch.

Yup, the alcohol has really loosened me up.

“Uh, probably about my horrible sex life because that’s what friends in relationships like to talk about with their single friends. That and setting me up with someone to help out with my horrible sex life.”

“When Taters was dating Sarah before they broke up, they always tried to set me up with her friends, claiming I was perfect for every single one of them. I think it was just because they had the need to see me in a relationship.”

“Did you ever go out with any of them?”

“One,” he admits. “We fucked, and that was it.” He shrugs.

“Have you ever been in a relationship?”

“Not since high school. It’s easier not having to worry about someone else with my hectic schedule. I figured when I retire, I’ll have plenty of time to find a girl and start a family if I want.”

“Is that what you want?” I ask, curious about this man who usually wears a mask of flirtation rather than truth.

“Possibly.” He sips his beer. “Haven’t put much thought into it. Kind of focusing on the here and now.” He sets his glass down on the table and twists it with his large hand. “What about you, Penny? You looking to start a family? Looking to settle down?”

I cringe and shake my head. “No. I don’t think I’m mature enough for that. I’ve been so focused on my career that I haven’t even thought about any of that stuff. Not really interested in any of it to be honest. Just having fun.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place.” He lifts his glass and says, “Let’s finish these drinks and get out of here.”

“Oh . . . going home?” I ask, slightly stunned and possibly—just possibly—upset about him abruptly wanting to part so soon.

He smirks. “No, we are going to go get some dessert. I know of a great place.”

“Wait, you want me to go with you?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Jesus. Don’t I deserve a birthday cake?”

“I mean, yes, of course.” My mind reels. “As long as you actually mean birthday cake and not something else.”

“What could you possibly be referring to?” he asks with a sparkling glint in his eyes that’s damn near blinding.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” I down the rest of my drink. The alcohol has kicked in, and I’m feeling extraordinarily happy. There are no more nerves, no more anxiety. I feel relaxed but also coherent. Like I can make solid decisions that aren’t fogged by intoxication.

It’s why when Hornsby stands and offers his hand to me, I don’t take it right away.

“Are you not going to celebrate my birthday with me?”

“You tend to use the whole birthday thing to your advantage. You realize that, right?”

“I survived another year on this planet. I’m pretty sure that’s cause for celebration.” He wiggles his fingers. “Come on.”

“Wait one second. Before I agree to this dessert, which is actual food, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Okay.” I straighten my shoulders. “Then I need to make sure that after dessert, we part ways and say good night.”

His jaw clenches, and I can see his irritation in the tic of his cheek and the way he glances away. Will he agree? My guess is dessert was a ploy. I might be buzzed, but I’m not stupid. And as I await his answer, I inwardly smirk because I can see right through him. “Okay,” he finally says. “After dessert, we part ways.”

“Deal?” I hold my hand out.

He lets out a deep sigh. “Deal.” He takes my hand in his and pulls me down off my stool. “Follow me.”

Together, we weave through the crowd. A few guys notice him and stop him for a fist bump or a handshake. One guy took a selfie with Hornsby, and the entire time, he held my hand, never letting go. It was a whirlwind of appreciation that I wasn’t ready to be exposed to.

I get the need to have a little piece of him, though. These men are absolute gods here in Vancouver. To spot them out in the wild and have access to them is most likely overwhelming and a dream come true to any hockey fan.

When we’re finally outside, we’re whipped in the face by a chilly wind. February in Vancouver in a dress is not a smart choice, but I wasn’t expecting to be outside very long.

Hornsby lets go of my hand, and he quickly removes his suit jacket before draping it over my shoulders. The large jacket drowns me in the tailored fabric that smells just like him. Immediately, my body warms from the thought of him being wrapped around me.

“It’s a quick walk,” he says before taking my hand again and guiding me down the block.

I tug on the hem of my dress as we move quickly. “I didn’t think of winter wear when I put this dress on. Thank you for your jacket.”

“You’re welcome. And that dress . . . trust me, it’s perfect for tonight.”

“Says the guy wearing pants.”

“My ankles are exposed. I feel the chilliness.”

“Oh, heaven forbid your ankles get cold,” I joke.

“I know, fans around would be terrified they might turn blue. You know there are Instagram accounts dedicated just to my ankles.”

“I know. I’ve seen them,” I say. “The comments are absolutely ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous or true? Someone said I could easily win best ankles in Canada and America. I mean, that’s a title I’d wear proudly.”

“Maybe this week you model off your ankles for a TikTok, give your hungry fans more material to work with.”

“Give them the goods like that?” He shakes his head, and in all seriousness, he says, “Penny, you can’t just give away the milk for free. You have to make them work for it. A little flash here and a little flash there to keep them begging for more. If you just hand it to them, they’ll become disinterested. And do you really think I want my ankles to be known as has-beens?”

A loud laugh erupts out of me from how ridiculous he sounds. “The absolute horror.”

“Exactly. So, I say we plan a two-year marketing project of showing bits and pieces of my ankles until the grand reveal of a full-on thirty-minute video showing clips of just my ankles. Talk about the ultimate apex. Think of the relief these fans will feel.”

“Like a pent-up, edged-out orgasm.”

“Precisely,” he says, his voice growing deeper.

I glance up at him, and when our eyes connect, all I can see is a yearning in his. I point my finger at him. “Don’t even think about it.”

“What?” He holds his one hand up in defense. “I wasn’t thinking about anything.”

“You are such a liar.”

We’re silent for a moment, and then he mumbles, “You’re the one who said orgasm.”

“Yeah, and you were the one who alluded to it.”

“I alluded to nothing. That’s just your filthy mind at work, Penny.”