Page 48 of Hot for the Hockey Player (The Single Moms of San Camanez: The Vino Vixens #2)

Rolling my eyes, I gave him a shove, then mimicked his position.

“No. No women. I’ve been with Cyrus, Ballard, and …

you. Ballard was … he was …” I sighed, searching for the right analogy.

“When we do tastings, we always offer a palate cleanser in between the different wines. Sometimes water is enough for people. Others prefer something with a bit more substance, like plain crackers or bread. And some people like a little bite of pear or apple. That was Ballard. After my husband, who was just a horrific, never-ending waterboarding of the worst vintage in the world, Ballard was like a delicious bite of perfectly ripe pear. He cleansed my palate, and then he was also my first sip of something wonderful. Of the most cool, crisp, and sweet rosé. A healing sip on the back patio in the early evening of summer as the dragonflies and bees zip past, after a long, grueling day picking grapes in the merciless sun.”

Blinking at me, with another one of his amused, sexy half-smiles, Maverick reached forward and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “And what am I?”

“What are you …?”

“What kind of wine am I? If your husband was a waterboarding of the worst vintage in the world, and Ballard was a refreshing rosé, what kind of wine am I?”

I loved his hair. It was so soft and had a life of its own with all the wild cowlicks. Running my fingers through it, and delighting in the way he closed his eyes and sort of tilted his head to give me better access, I brought my lips across his and whispered, “You’re a pinot noir.”

His eyes opened. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because you’re versatile. You pair well with all kinds of things.

All kinds of people. Everyone loves you.

Nobody ever says, ‘Oh, I don’t drink pinot.

’ Pinot is always welcomed. Pinot is always appreciated.

Pinot is consistent and reliable. It’s never not pinot season.

It enhances the flavors of the foods its paired with, but also shines on its own.

It’s …” I smiled. “It’s the golden retriever of wines. It just makes everyone happy.”

“So, I’m the golden retriever of wines?” His light-blue eyes, flecked with gold, sparkled with amusement and …

something else. When he looked at me like that it was like he was seeing all of me.

Seeing through me, and all the things I tried to hide.

But there was no fear or reluctance there. Just … curiosity.

My head bobbed. “You’re the golden retriever of wines.”

“Could be worse. I could be one of those ugly-ass, hairless Chinese crested dogs of wine.”

My mouth twitched. “You’re definitely not one of those.”

Leaning forward, he cupped my jaw and kissed me. “Does Ballard know about your past?”

“He does. He’s one of the few people—besides you and my cousins, obviously—that knows the full truth.”

All he did was nod.

For some reason, I felt compelled to explain my situation with Ballard to Maverick, not that I had to.

But I did. I normally kept everything to myself, only telling things to my cousins, and even then, they often got the abridged version of things.

But something about the way Maverick completely set me at ease, like I wasn’t being judged at all, made me want to tell him all my deepest, darkest secrets.

“He was the first man to ever make me orgasm. The first man to ever give me oral sex, or finger me. He was the first man to make me enjoy sex. Because before him, it was Cyrus, and my pleasure meant nothing to him. But Ballard cared about my pleasure. He was patient and gentle, and never pushed me beyond my comfort zone. Like I said, he was a palate cleanser. I wasn’t a virgin, but in a lot of ways, I kind of was.

I’m grateful to him, for his friendship, and for our time together. ”

“Did the kids ever meet him?”

“No.” Huffing a laugh of mild discomfort, I rolled onto my back.

“Ballard was a notary, so we actually drafted up a document outlining the nature of our arrangement . That there would be no sleepovers, no meeting each other’s kids, and no sleeping with other people.

We could date other people, but if we chose to become intimate with them, we had to notify the other person. ”

“Seriously?”

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, totally serious. “Of course. He notarized it and everything. It was an official document.”

“An official fuck-buddy contract.”

“We didn’t call it that. We called it an intimacy arrangement, but yes.”

His low, gritty chuckle had me squeezing my thighs together and squirming. And when he moved his hand below the covers, past my navel, and between my legs, all I could do was part them for him.

“Neither of us ever invalidated the contract,” I went on, my breath coming out shaky as he pushed one finger between my pussy lips.

“H-he didn’t have time to date, and neither did I.

We got together a couple of times a week for sex and studying over the course of four years, and that was it.

No gifts were ever exchanged. No pet names, and we never told the other person we loved them, because we didn’t.

We were compatible in bed, and compatible as friends and study partners, but I never saw him as anything else. ”

“This sounds so … business like.”

“He did get a degree in business while I got mine in criminology. We just had very clear plans for our future, and getting tangled up with matters of the heart was in neither of our scopes. His breakup with his son’s mother was rough, and I was healing from the damage of Cyrus.

We knew we needed to work on ourselves and would ultimately be terrible partners. ”

“How … mature of you?”

I snickered at the way he formed it as a question. “I like to think so.”

“So do we need an ‘intimacy arrangement’ document? Do you think Ballard would notarize it for us?” His middle finger began slow, erotic circles around my clit.

“You tell me. Do you plan to date or sleep with other people?”

“No.”

“What about sleepovers?”

“I’d love to have a slumber party with you. We could stay up late, hide under the covers with a flashlight telling ghost stories, have a pillow fight, crank call our teachers.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’ve already met my kids.” My breath hitched a little when he dipped that finger a bit lower and swirled it around my center.

“I have, and they’re great. You haven’t met mine yet though.”

My body went ice cold. “Do you—”

“I’m kidding.” His finger made its way back to my clit and began its circles again. “Jeez, give me some credit. I wouldn’t abandon a child to come live on the island for months and not tell anyone about it.”

Right. He was decent like that.

“I don’t think we need a formal agreement,” he said.

It was getting harder and harder to concentrate on anything besides his finger.

He dropped his mouth to my nipple, tugging down the covers. “Unless you want one.” He glanced up at me, his finger still moving, lips still sucking.

Now I was having a really hard time focusing. “Uh … sorry, what?”

That made him grin. “Hard time concentrating?”

“Little bit.”

“I like that I can do that to you.” He moved over to the other breast while using his free hand to gently tug and tease the hard nipple he’d just had in his mouth.

“Do … you …” in between each word he pulled my nipple up a little and released it with a hard, wet pop, before capturing it again, “think … we … need … a … relationship … agreement?” he asked again.

I shuddered as he picked up speed with his finger and twirled his talented tongue around my now hard, achy nipple.

“No,” I breathed. “Just … just don’t break my kids’ hearts.”

His gaze fixed on mine, the gold whorls hypnotizing me like an oscillating pocket watch. “I’ll do my best.”

And please don’t break mine .

I didn’t have the cajones to say that second bit, because I knew it was going to happen, I just had to accept it. Maverick Roy was the perfect glass of pinot noir on a blustery autumn day while curled up by a cozy fire with a warm blanket and a book.

And everyone who knew me knew I’d rather die than give up my pinot.