Page 19 of The One Timer

When she pulls away before I expect it, disappointment tugs, but I smile. “We should get going.”

She nods and looks around the streets, hunching inside her jacket.

“You’re cold.”

“No, I’m fine. Or I will be once we get to your car.” She laughs at herself.

Shrugging out of my coat, I put it over her shoulders, covering hers. It reaches down to her knees.

“You didn’t have to do that. Now you’ll be cold.”

I laugh and put an arm around her as we walk. “You forget I’m a hockey player. I practically live at an ice rink.”

“There’s that, but still. How about if we run?”

I grin, and we half-run the few blocks to the garage at the Garden. There aren’t many cars left in the VIP section where players and team personnel park, so it’s easy to spot mine. Coach Spencer got passes for those of us who were driving on our own.

“Nice car,” she says as we reach it. “Of course,” she murmurs, running a hand along the front fender, frankly admiring my old Land Rover as if it were a Ferrari. I’m about to tell her it’s nothing, but then I realize she might not have a lot of money, and I wonder. In fact, I double down on my goal to find out as much as I can about her tonight.

Because even though we agreed this would be a one-timer, I’m going to make the most of it—and possibly consider a slight change of plans about that. But I’m not sure she’d be up for a no-strings fling. She doesn’t seem like the type. She’s authentic and not self-centered like so many beautiful women I’ve met. And that’s the other problem with the idea—she’s the type I need to avoid because she’s dangerously distracting. And I have a dangerous attraction to her.

When we get to my condo and go inside, she stops short. Her jacket slips to the floor.

I pick up her coat and slip out of mine. “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong?” Her head swivels as she takes everything in, then returns to the windows. “There’s not a damn thing wrong with this place. It’s flat-out flawless.”

Like you. The words pop into my head, but I have enough sense and self-preservation to keep them to myself. If I’m going to spend the night with her and do the things my dirty mind is drooling to do with her, I’d better get a lid on the stupid-Cupid spell act and behave like the man on a mission that I am—hockey mission, that is.

She drifts toward the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the harbor, and I follow her, seeing the view through her eyes like it’s the first time.

“It is pretty spectacular,” I say. Our eyes meet.

She arches one brow. “You’re not going for the cliché? You’re not going to tell me the view of the harbor is nice, too?”

I laugh and wrap my arms around her. “I love your sass—and the view right here in front of me beats the view out the window by a million times.” Her softness, honey eyes, and warmth all draw me in, and I feel the invitation to kiss her without her uttering a word.

Letting my instincts—aka, my dick—take over, I tighten my hold and meet her mouth with mine. Sparks ignite an instant inferno along my nerves as we pick up where we left off at Regina’s, devouring each other. She moans, and the sound does something to me, not just my dick—which is as rigid as a tree trunk. My chest tightens, and I can’t ever remember wanting a woman so much.

I deepen the kiss, wanting to know every part of her, plunging my tongue as if I’ll find the secrets of her soul, her essence, by reading her mouth with my tongue like it’s braille. My hand travels down her back to her ass, and she moans again, a pleased and devastating sound as I press her into my iron-hard dick.

My other hand goes to her face, and I touch her cheek as I back off, my breathing ragged. I nibble her plump lips, literally drinking her in, her soft, smooth skin pale against the contrast of her chestnut hair, her honey-gold eyes staring back at me with unhidden desire pooling.

Out of breath, she pulls away, then rests her cheek against my chest for a few beats, holding me back. She murmurs, “Can we go outside on the balcony?”

My breathing is still ragged, and my hard-on rages, so it takes me a second to catch up with her change of gears.

“Whatever you want. This is your night, birthday girl.” I mean it. If I want to make the night special, I need to pace myself and chill. The night air will do me good. I’m not sure why I have this driving need to make her night special—more special than any other night spent with a woman—especially since I’ll never see her again.

Maybe that’s the reason—because I’ll never see her again after tonight, so every minute has to count.

I’m scaring myself, so I quickly dismiss the thought.

“I have an idea. How about if I make some hot cocoa, and we bring blankets with us and share a lounge chair outside to watch the stars?”

“That sounds so romantic—I mean perfect. You don’t mind, do you?”

“It was my idea, right? Why would I mind cuddling under the stars with you?” Do you hear yourself? Are you fucking crazy?