Page 62 of Hockey Player Seeking Fan

"Oh my gosh, just kiss me," I say with a pout.

He bursts out laughing. Finally, his lips are on mine, and he presses them close. I reach my arms around his neck and stroke the nape where his silky hair meets his collar. He holds me close to him, pressing my body against his so I can feel that hard, muscular frame. We kiss for what feels like hours, but I know it isn’t. He tastes like popcorn, and I never knew I loved popcorn as much—just that buttery goodness. He is warm and sweet and salty, and I don’t want the night to end.

"Want to go somewhere?" he asks.

"But we haven’t painted."

"I think that’s okay," he says with a small smile, grabbing my hand.

"Let’s—but where? I can’t go to my place, and... well, I don’t know that I’m ready to go to yours."

I don’t know why, but maybe it would be too intimate to be in his space—too much, like this is an actual relationship. And I don’t want to start thinking of him in those terms. I don’t want to start thinking of him as potential anything. This is just for the moment. This is just for the passion. This is just for my bloodstream, which is racing hot and furious.

"There’s a hotel a couple of blocks away," he says.

"Get a room or a whole suite?" I tease him.

We start running, and it feels exhilarating. I can feel the wind through my hair. I feel like I’m in the Olympics and have already won. When we reach the hotel, he stops. We are both breathing hard, and he pushes me back against the wall and kisses me. He runs his fingers down the side of my body and then pulls away.

"We can stop right here, right now," he says.

My eyes widen.

"We can paint. We can get donuts. We can even go to Coney Island. We can do whatever you want. We don’t have to go in here if you don’t want to."

"I want to," I say slowly, loving the fact that we are here and I so very obviously want to go inside, but he is still giving me an out.

"At any time you change your mind, we can?—"

"Tyler," I say, pressing my finger against his lips. "Less talking."

He grins at me, the most boyish grin that I've seen on his face, and for a few moments, he just seems younger, more carefree, more lovable, more adorable. And my heart races—not just because I want to be with him, but because I am with him. Because this moment is special, and it means so much, and I just feel so free and happy.

We walk inside, and it seems like we get the keys to the room within minutes. "I got us the penthouse," he says as we wait by the elevator.

"You shouldn’t have spent so much money." I shake my head.

"That’s nothing," he says. "We deserve this."

The elevator doors open, and we step inside, standing side by side, grinning at each other guiltily, as if we’re doing something wrong—but we’re not. We’re both innocent. We’re free. We’re disengaged. And we both want this. I really want this.

We exit into the penthouse, and my jaw drops. The view is amazing. The lights outside sparkle, and in one corner of the room, there’s a huge king-sized bed that looks like it belongs in a dream. I’m here. This is real.

I turn to him, my heart racing. "We don’t have to do this," I say.

"Do you not want to do this?" he asks.

"I do," I whisper.

"But why?—"

"Fuck, Erica. What a stupid question," he mutters. “Why do you think?” I watch as he pulls off his shirt and throws it to the ground, then his shoes, then undoes his belt and slides his jeans down. Now he’s standing there in a pair of black briefs. His bulge tells me everything I need to know. My lips part slightly. I need to touch him. I need to feel his skin against mine.

"Take off your clothes." His voice is low and rough.

I do as he says—not because I’m being ordered around, but because in this moment, I want to please. I want him. I peel off my dress slowly until I’m standing there in my bra and panties. He watches me, eyes dark and intense.

I feel powerful. He is emotional. He is turned on just by looking at me. I have power over this man—the most successful hockey player in the league today. He wants me.