Page 8 of Home for the Hockey-Days (Cedar Rapids Raccoons)

CHAPTER 8

Rowan

N o amount of scrubbing my titties in the bathroom made them feel less sticky. That asshole August got me good. I’m back in my hotel room. My very expensive and brand new party dress is draped over the seat in the corner, with what looks like jizz all over the bust.

So much for returning it tomorrow to get some quick cash as a payment for Athena. Ugh.

Fucking August. I’m so pissed at him I think I might send him the bill for the fucking dry cleaning.

And I’ll collect, too. How dare he think he can put his hands on me without asking first?

Jerk.

What the hell was I thinking? Shoving a pie in his face?

I grunt. It was a waste of perfectly good pie, sure, yes, this is true, but I also wanted to lick his entire face clean.

My face heats as shame sticks to my skin like the meringue topping still stubbornly clinging to my body.

I need to put him out of my mind. There are too many things in the ‘don’t you fucking dare’ column.

He’s a student, I’m his tutor .

He clearly hates me because I crashed into his car.

And from what Athena told me as she raced out of the ballroom behind me, August Kade is my ex boyfriend’s life-long fucking rival.

Could I have chosen someone more complicated to crush on? I don’t think so.

Shit.

Nooooooo.

I can’t crush on him. I can’t. I can’t have a crush on the burly, surly, gorgeous-in-a-tuxedo hockey player with dreamy, bottomless golden-brown eyes who just motorboated my boobies in front of all of our friends.

Shit.

To distract myself from that unpleasant realization I have a quick rinse in a scalding hot shower, hotel shower cap pinned firmly in place. It’s after midnight, and I washed my hair yesterday. There’s no way in hell I’m washing my curls on back to back days. Nope. Ain’t gonna happen. Not even for sticky boobs.

I pat myself dry with the hotel towel. I always think these places will start doing luxury towels, and every single time it feels like I’m drying my nips with sandpaper. Without fail.

Ouch.

I apply some lotion, pausing to give special attention to my knees and elbows—winter in the Midwest isn’t fun when it comes to dry skin—and rub a little extra on my towel-sanded, standing to attention nipples.

By the time I starfish between the sheets in my king size bed, I’m silky smooth all over and smell of limes and coconuts.

I still can’t figure out what the hell August’s problem really is. The look of damn near disgust on his face when he saw me at the party hurt more than it made me angry. And for what? A busted, piece of crap car ?

I thought we connected at Bitches Brew. I thought we were making progress. I thought we could be friends.

I guess he had other issues. That or he’s a fat-phobic, judgmental asshole who took issue with a chubby girl wearing a revealing dress. Or maybe his relationship with my ex means I’m guilty by association? Either way, we most definitely are not friends.

That’s not fair. I saw the lust in his eyes, everyone did. I don’t think he even tried to hide it. Then what? What stopped him from being a decent human being when he spied me at the party?

I heave out a sigh, tossing and turning on the smooth, cool hotel sheets.

Maybe he really liked his car.

Shit. My tummy aches. Maybe it’s more than that, maybe he really needed his piece of crap car, and I took that from him. Damnit. Okay, fine, he has plenty of reason to be pissy at me if it’s about the car. But if it’s about my ex and the fact he and Johnny loathe each other...

What are we? Super villains?

We’re grown fucking adults, busting our asses to graduate college, we don’t have time for petty squabbles and arch nemeses.

Or at least we shouldn’t. I sure as shit don’t. This isn’t a goddamn Marvel movie.

Who the hell has time to keep up grudges with someone they went to high school with? Not me, that’s for sure. Isn’t August trying to be some big shot hockey player? Do all hockey players play dumbass games with people from high school?

Damnit, I’m a nice fucking person. People generally like me... most of the time at least. But I clearly somehow flipped August’s shit list switch. And it’s bothering me more than I’d like.

Ugh. Why am I so perturbed? Does he think I’m still with Johnny? Is that why he’s so pissed at me? He’s afraid I’m using him in some master plan Johnny has to get back at him for something? To trap him into cheating with me so Johnny could mess his pretty face up at their next game?

Johnny can barely tie his own shoe laces without adult supervision, never mind mastering a revenge prank on someone. That would mean he’d have to think about someone other than his goddamn self for a hot minute.

Oof. Clearly I’m not all the way past my Johnny White experience just yet.

I’m wired.

I’m mad.

I’m tangled up in some teenage crush that I’d really like a one-way ticket out of, but instead, I’m hot as hell.

I can say a lot of things about August Kade, he’s a grumpy shit, rude, abrasive, hard to read, and totally overstepped the fucking line by laying hands on me without asking my permission.

But he sure does rock the ever-loving hell out of a tuxedo.

And, lack of consent aside, that was by far, the best motor boating experience of my entire life to date. I’m pretty sure he bared his teeth on my skin as he rubbed his mouth over my tits. A shiver snakes up my spine at the memory.

Hot damn.

August Kade is a dirty boy. Feral. And I liked it. Or I would have, if I wasn’t pissed at him for pretending not only that he didn’t know me, but that I was completely invisible all night, and touching me like he fucking owned me.

My fingers drift between my thighs, I can’t help myself. It’s a tried and true method of getting me to calm the hell down and go to sleep. Especially when my spank bank is overflowing from the day.

Yes, I’m a strong and independent woman. I’m one hundred percent down for consensual sex between people. But there was something about that man just... grabbing me... that blew my fucking mind as well as my titties.

I should be ashamed of myself, of being turned on by him possessing me like that, but instead, there’s a throbbing in my crotch I’m truly not proud of.

I just need to rub one out and get over it.

Get off, then pass out.

I’m fucking soaking. Jesus Christ, what is it about me liking the wrong guys? August Kade is all the way wrong for me, and yet... My squelching pussy tells an entirely different story.

Fuck.

I will not moan his name. I will not moan his name. I will not moan... his... his... oh god... my fingers glide over my clit, drawing a gasp from me.

The firm set of his jaw, the broad stretch of chest between his strong shoulders, the molten gold flecks flickering in his brown eyes, those hot as fuck forearms that somehow look even hotter with turned up dress sleeves. What even is that?

A scream bellows from me as I pant, hurtling toward my release. “August.” God damnit his name just slipped out.

“Yeah?” A man’s voice breaks the silence.

My hotel door swings but doesn’t shut.

My heart—and hand—stop dead.

I scream, jumping out of bed, smacking the light switch and reaching to the bedside cabinet to find something, anything to use as a weapon against the intruder in my room.

The lamp. The lamp will do. I played softball in high school. I’m ready to face whoever the fuck burst into my room in the middle of the night.

The stupid thing is plugged in, so it takes a couple of tugs to yank it free.

It takes a beat for my eyes to adjust, but I line up my swing, arms raised, hip popped, ready to throw down, once I figure out what the hell I’m dealing with.

Fuck.

It really is August Kade.

I thought that was some weird-ass, pre-orgasm abject terror haze.

Standing with his jacket over his arm, both hands in the air in surrender. The top two buttons of his shirt are open, and his bow tie is draped around his neck.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I might swing this fucking lamp at his face anyway, I’m sure I’d feel better for it.

His jaw hangs wide open, eyes bugging out of his head and fixed on what I now realize is my very, very naked body. “I... I... Fuck. Shit. I don’t know. My card opened the door, Rowan. I swear. I didn’t pick the lock or anything.” He’s talking at my tits, if I wasn’t hopped up on adrenaline, I might laugh.

He shuffles back toward the door, his heel catches my suitcase lying on the ground, and in what seems like slow motion, he falls on his ass with a grunt.

Dropping the lamp on the bed, I lurch toward him.

He’s already scrambling to his feet. “You’re naked!”

He’s right. I am. But I’m also not ashamed of my goodies.

Planting my fists on my hips, I go full Superman pose. Doctor Amelia Shepherd in Grey’s Anatomy says that not only does standing like this make you perform immeasurably better, but it also makes you feel more confident.

The more his eyes rake over every inch of my bare skin, the more my confidence wavers, but my anger rises.

He clears his throat. “You’re still naked.”

“And you’re still standing in my fucking hotel room, August. Only one of these things is weird right now.”

Side-stepping my suitcase, he backs up until the door clicks closed behind him, not once taking his eyes off mine.

He takes a step toward me, then licks his lips .

I’m frozen in place, torn between finishing the job I started in my pulsing lady garden, making the asshole who ruined my orgasm finish it for me, or smacking him upside the head with the fucking lamp.