Page 98 of Pucking One Night Stand

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his lips parted, his eyes burning.

“What’s the rush, buddy?” I breathe.

“You’re a drug and I need a fix.”

I grab his hand again. “Come on, Captain.”

We run, nearly sliding on the stupid industrial tile. We skid toward the elevator like a pair of hormonal teenagers in a bad teen movie.

He jabs the button. Nothing. We wait. Still nothing.

A groan leaves him.

I death-glare the elevator. “Stairs it is.”

I yank him with me, and we hurl ourselves through the stairwell door, clanging down two flights like we’re in a high-speed chase.

By the time we reach the event level, we’re breathless. Laughing. Wild.

The corridor stretches ahead, quiet except for the sound of equipment being packed up, distant and irrelevant.

Past Media and Comms, to our right, the locker room door waits.

Blake slows and exhales, his grip loosening just slightly as he pushes open the door and flicks on the lights.

It smells like sweat, testosterone, and quite a turn-on.

The place is empty. The benches, stalls, taped-up nameplates, and the ACES logo on the floor all seem to be watching us.

Blake doesn’t even give me time to take it in. He yanks me into his arms again, pressing me up against the nearest locker like the door might vanish behind us.

“You promised to rip my clothes off,” I whisper against his mouth.

His hands are already under my top.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “And I keep my promises, but I think I should lock the door first.”

Before I can shoot off some smartass reply about how I don’t care who walks in, he breaks away. He takes one step back, turns, and flicks the lock up with a snap.

Click. That sound shouldn’t be sexy. But somehow, right now, it absolutely is.

Then he’s back. Fast. His hands are on me before I can blink, yanking me forward, his mouth crashing into mine again. I taste adrenaline and beer and him, and I want more. Way more.

He pulls my blouse, no, wait, yanks it, over my head so fast I nearly elbow him in the face. “Whoa, careful there, Mitchell, this top was expensive.”

“And?” He spins me toward one of the benches, dragging me back with him, his lips still locked on mine, his fingers already behind my back, unclasping my bra with one hand.

It hits the floor. He barely even looks before his mouth is on my neck and collarbone, dragging hot, hungry kisses across skin I’m suddenly way too aware of.

It doesn't take me long before my fingers are at the hem of his shirt.

I tug hard. He grunts.

“You sure you want to do this here?” he mutters into my skin.

“Blake. Shut up.”

The shirt comes off over his head. He tosses it somewhere, it lands on the stick rack, I think. Honestly, not my problem. My hands are on his chest, hard and warm. I'll never be able to get too much of his damn body.