“I’m going to let the ‘stupid’ comment slide ’cause I like you.”
“How many women have had to get naked, Savage?”
“Just you.” He grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled her close. “You’re special.”
She slid her fingers up his arms to his shoulders and the diamonds on her wedding ring sparkled in the light. “What time is it?”
He wished she’d take the damn thing off. It sort of made him feel like he was doing a married woman. “Around three.”
“I better go. You have a practice and a hockey game to win tonight.”
“The practice isn’t for twelve hours.” He dropped his hands to her hips and he pulled the shirt up. “I have plenty of time to sleep and only about an hour left to have sex.” He patted her bare behind. “You
need to get busy.”
She shook her head as she ran her fingers through the sides of his hair. “I don’t want to deplete all your strength. You’re going to need it against Detroit’s blue line.”
“I have untapped reserves. I’m like Superman. Just when I think I’m spent, I tap into it and kick ass and take names.”
She laughed like he was joking. “Well, I don’t want to jinx you. I know all you hockey players are superstitious.”
Ty wasn’t as superstitious as some of the guys. He just didn’t need any distractions. Detroit was going to bring their A-game, and he had to be ready. Physically and mentally. “Once I get my head in the game, I’m hard to knock off the puck,” he said as he pulled her against the front of his jeans.
She lifted a brow. “You’re hard again.”
“Watching you play golf turned me on.”
“Was it my brilliant backswing?”
“Your swing sucks.” He shook his head and lowered his face to hers. “It was your brilliant back side,” he said against the corner of her pouty mouth.
“When does your father usually get home?”
“He’s here by six. We have time.”
She ran her hand down his side, over his tattoo. “Did this hurt?”
He sucked in a breath as her palm slid to his belly. “Not as bad as a broken ankle.”
“You broke your ankle?” she asked as she placed little kisses along his jaw. “When?”
“2001. Third round, Game Two against the Devils.”
“What happened here?” She kissed his chin and slipped her hand down the front of his pants.
“I got hard watching you play golf.”
She laughed and wrapped her palm around the head of his dick. “I know that. I’m asking about your scar.”
That had happened so long ago, he never thought about it these days. “High stick. Claude Lemieux. 1998. Post-season game against Colorado. Twenty stitches.”
“Ouch.” She slid her mouth to the side of his throat as her free hand unbuttoned his pants. “I’ve never broken a bone or had stitches.” His pants slid from his hips and pooled about his bare feet. “Just have the one tattoo,” she said.
He’d noticed the Playboy bunny in the small of her back. “And it’s sexy as hell,” he managed as she sucked his neck.
“Virgil hated it.” She kissed her way across his shoulder and down his chest. “He didn’t want anyone to know about it. He said classy girls don’t get tattoos.”
“Virgil was old and didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.”