Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 22733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
The image behind my closed eyelids is of Jett in the facility’s weight room. In my head, the gym is dead silent and empty from the rest of the team, and we’re the only ones there. I’m standing at the dip station, my chest bare, my muscles burning as I grind out reps on the bar. Jett is standing right in front of me, leaning against the rack with her camera lowered, her eyes ablaze with uncontained hunger.
There are no professional boundaries.
There are no PR scripts.
There’s nothing except her watching me work out.
“You like what you see, Jett?” I ask in my mind. My hips twitch in the shower as my grip tightens and my hand moves faster, pump after pump. In my fantasy, she doesn’t answer with words. Instead, she walks right up to the station, stepping into my space until the scent of cinnamon and vanilla invades my senses.
I lock my arms, hanging suspended on the parallel bars, my legs hooked at the ankles behind me, and my chest is heaving for air. She looks up at me, tracking every trickle of sweat rolling down my stomach, straight to the waistbands of my shorts.
Then she takes matters into her own hands.
She reaches out, the tips of her fingers sliding along the elastics band. I grunt out loud in the empty shower as I imagine the cool touch of her hands, the slight scrape of her nails as she drags the fabric down, pulling my shorts past my hips until my aching, fully erect dick springs free, resting heavily against my lower abdomen. She continues pulling the material until it’s down beneath my balls, trapping my legs and exposing me completely to her gaze.
She doesn’t hesitate, not in my head at least. She sinks to her knees right there on the rubber mat. Her short dark hair falls forward over her cheeks as she grips the back of my thighs with her small, warm hands and brings her mouth to my head.
“Fucking Christ.” My lungs expand when she blows a soft breath of air over my slick tip, making my entire body shudder. My feet drop, but my arms stay locked on the bar, for now, and when she opens her mouth, taking me all the way to the back of her throat, I nearly explode.
The image hits hard and fast: her lips stretched wide, wet, warm mouth bobbing up and down, her tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge before she sucks me down again. Jett’s eyes stay open, looking up through her lashes while she continues to wreck me, taking every inch while I keep my hands to myself. I’d have much rather bury my hands in her hair, holding her still while I piston my hips and fuck her face, but that will have to wait for another time.
“Jett… fuck,” I rasp into the steam, my grip on my dick turning tight and desperate. My spine tingles, my head tips back, and a growl is torn from my chest as the stroke of my palm turns fast and frantic. The memory of her blush in the parking lot, the ways she carries herself, and the image I’ve created behind my eyes—it takes me under all at once.
My muscles lock up, and my stomach ripples as the need to let go is ripped through me. I come hard, my seed pumping over my knuckles and splashing against the wet shower tile as a roar is ripped from me, echoing off the walls. I stay where I am for a long-as-hell time, chest heaving, forehead pressed against the wall while the shower washes the evidence down the drain. That’s another thing that would be different if I had Jett in front of me: she’d either swallow every last drop, or I’d enjoy painting her face and chest with my cum.
I’m supposed to be working on my image.
I’m supposed to be focused on getting back on the ice.
What I’m not supposed to be doing is thinking about a dark-eyed, dark-haired woman while I fist my cock.
One thing is for certain: tomorrow, at seven o’clock in the morning, when I walk into physical therapy and Jett is there, I’ll be fighting for my life to keep my hands, and dick for that matter, to myself.
SIX
JETT
I’m dragging ass today. Absolutely, unequivocally running on fumes. My alarm on my phone didn’t wake me, it released me from a six-hour sentence of pure torture. I spent most if not the entire night tossing and turning in my hotel bed, tangled in the sheets, trying to purge one specific male from my brain.
Nothing worked.
I tried everything, including logging onto my laptop at two in the morning to organize content calendars. It didn’t work. I took a scalding-hot shower at four to wash away the phantom memory of his scent and his touch. That also didn’t work. Then, in a moment of sheer desperation, I gave in. I couldn’t help it. I slid my hands between my legs, closed my eyes, and tried to chase a release that would finally let me sleep. Too bad the second my fingers touched my slick center, his voice echoed in my mind: If you were in my head tonight, Jett… you wouldn’t be getting any sleep at all.