“Didyoubrag about me?” she asks. It’s a ballsy question and I don’t expect it.
“No.” It’s my automatic response and her face falls—literally, her chin drops—and she looks away.
“Stupid question—don’t mind me. Of course you wouldn’t be bragging about me—you’re a top NHL draft pick and I’m—was—a backup volleyball player for a no-medals Olympic team.”
“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound like that.” I pause, looking for words that aren’t going to hurt her feelings, but I have to be honest. “It’s just that my kid sister’s friend doesn’t come up in conversation much with the guys. Maggie bragged plenty though. Just mention to anyone that you’re her friend who went to the Olympics and they’ll know who you are.”
She nods, then lets loose a smile that knocks me back, makes every muscle tense.
“You ever think of modeling?” I say out of nowhere.Fuck.
She laughs and blushes. “Not ever. Maggie says the same thing—oh, she must have mentioned it to you.”
“Not really,” I admit, enjoying her blush that deepens now, realizing how sweet she is, smart too. And a rare find—a woman who doesn’t realize how fucking gorgeous she is. A refreshing break from the all the women who know exactly how attractive they are. The ones who’ve been throwing themselves at me all year. I’ve never had a problem with women, they’ve always seemed to gravitate to me. Probably because I like them. More than like them, in fact. I can’t seem to get enough of them.
When I was first called the Romeo of the BC Eagles hockey team, I thought it was cool. It’s still cool, but having a reputation and being a chick magnet has its drawbacks. Tiffany being the perfect example of drawback number one. Unwanted attention. There aren’t too many women I’m not into, but I have lines I won’t cross. And another guy’s girl is off-limits.
And so is the girl next door.
The too young, too naive tomboy, Chelsea Wilde.The Wilde child, the neighborhood used to call her because she would do anything on a bet and had beat up a couple of the younger boys in the neighborhood, including one of my younger brothers. I used to babysit for her back when I was in junior high because her family couldn’t afford a sitter and my mother insisted.
It wasn’t such a chore. She was fun. We’d shoot pucks at a net out front under the streetlights until the neighbors yelled at us to get inside.
When she reaches out and takes a drink from a tray being passed around by some dude I’m only vaguely familiar with, I snatch it from her hand.
“Not so fast. I know you’re not drinking age.”
She gives me a look and I’m not sure if it’s disbelief or appreciation. “What are you, my father?”
“Big brother,” I say, feeling like it. “Same difference.”
She shakes her head violently. “Don’t give me that big brother crap. Not here. Not now.” She waves a hand around and I wonder if she’s already had something to drink. “Here, we’re peers, fellow BC students.”
“Except I’ve graduated and you haven’t started yet.”
“Just technicalities.”
Why am I hanging onto those technicalities so hard right now? My cock is excited to hear she’s not really my kid sister. My cock will never again be convinced that Chelsea Wilde bears any resemblance to kid-sister material.
But the rest of me knows exactly where the line is, and that she’s squarely on the other side of it.
“I need something to drink,” she says.
“Come with me.” I take her hand and lead her into the kitchen. There’s bound to be soda or bottled water somewhere. Even a keg of beer out back would be better than letting her drink a mysterious cocktail.
“Of course,” she says. “I’d follow you anywhere.”
Jerking my head around to see if she’s serious or teasing, my damn chest thudding hard, we enter the kitchen and I back her up against a wall.
“How many drinks have you had, Chelsea?” This room is just as loud and crowded as the living room and dining rooms, so I lean in close to hear her answer. My dick applauds, growing and straining against my pants. But believe it or not, my brain is still in control and my conscience is in good working order, so I make sure my dick stays away from her, even when someone presses into me as they walk by.
“Why do you ask?” She smiles and, if I didn’t know better, I’d say it was a flirtatious smile.
“Because you’re not acting yourself.” I grit my teeth as the zipper of my jeans digs into my cock.
“How would you know? We barely know each other anymore, do we? I mean not really. You know the little-girl me, not the grown-up me.”
“You’re still not a grown-up as far as I’m concerned.” I’m doing a piss-poor job of convincing my cock of this as it twitches and her delicious scent assaults me. I’m wondering how that wild passion has translated from tomboy ways into grown-up woman ways. Fully aware that I’m scowling, I don’t care. She needs to be discouraged. I can’t have her drinking and flirting with the pack of wolves at this party. Who knows what trouble she could get into?I should know.