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When a devastating injury threatens the career of Terence Tiles, the superstar goalie for the Seattle Kraken, the foundation of the life he meticulously built over eight years crumbles. Overwhelmed, he retreats from...
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SOME HOURS EARLIER
“No you won't.”
“What?” She asks.
“No you won't survive this trip. And I'll make sure of that.” I tell her and she looks away in embarrassment. Fuck, she looks cute.
“I said that out loud?” She grimaces.
“Yes, darling.”
“Don't call me that.” She says in a lower tone.
“Don't call you what? Darling?” I tease and she attempts to free herself from my grip.
“Terence—” she attempts a playful smack.
“You can call me Big T.” I throw at her. A wide smile spreads across her cheeks, it seems uncontrollable and I love it.
“That's corny.” She looks away, is she shy? Fuck, I'm learning so many new things about her.
“I'm trying to woo you here, Miss Martins, give a man some credit.” I nest my head on her lower abdomen.
“Never.” Her eyes take a calculated glance at my lip and back to my eyes. Fascinating.
“Never? Not even a one, or a solid zero point five?” I shoot her a smile.
“None, if I did that then you'd stop working so hard, and we can't have that can we?” Her fingers trace their way into my hair and her other hand finds its way to my beard.
“I love how you're sounding right now.” I murmur with my teeth nipping at the zipper of her jeans.
“How I'm I sounding?”
“Like you want to fuck me.”
Our eyes meet instantly, and she looks away for a second, only to look back, a flicker of something unreadable passing through her gaze. A closer look reveals her rich, brown eyes, warm and inviting, but before I can fully comprehend their beauty, my eyes fall to her lips yet again—those soft, captivating lips that have drawn my attention repeatedly since I first approached her for a chat. It's as if each glance uncovers a new layer of allure, leaving me increasingly mesmerized by her every feature.
“Now you're just getting crazy thoughts in your head.”
“Not in yours? Fuck, that's too bad.” I make an attempt to leave but she grabs me back with her hands and shoves me back in my position.
"You're supposed to be my client," she whispers, her fingers tangling in my hair as she gently circles them, sending shivers down my spine. My head is nestled against her lower abdomen, feeling the warmth of her body through the thin fabric of her dress. She sits on the couch, a picture of composed allure, while I kneel before her, utterly captivated.
