Page 97 of Rule 4: Never Get Stranded with a Sports Reporter

I kiss him harder, and I love the way he writhes beneath me, as if he’s on the verge of exploding. I love how responsive he is. And I love turning him on.

I move my fingers along his body, and he whines beneath me. I move my hands to his hair, massaging his scalp, and I’m sure I can feel his heart beat madly against his ribs.

I stop kissing and raise my torso.

Worry flits over his handsome features. Does he think there’s any possibility in the world where I would walk out of here?

Absolutely not.

“Too many clothes,” I tell him.

“Oh.” His features relax. His pink lips spread into a smile. His blue eyes sparkle. “You’re right.”

I help him up, then he stares at me, his lips slightly parted.

I smile and remove his jacket. “It probably has wrinkles now. I’m sorry.”

He blinks. “I don’t mind. I’ll, um, get it dry-cleaned.”

Right. The man is a multi-millionaire. He makes seven figures a year.

I straddle him, then remove his tie. He waits patiently, which is sort of hot.

“I like that they make you dress up after games,” I say.

“Gotta look good for whoever’s waiting at the door.”

“Do you often find people at your door?” I hate that my voice wobbles and that my smile feels like it might fall off my face.

He frowns, then unbuttons his shirt. “You’re the first person to come to my door.”

My smile wobbles.

“And the only person I want,” he adds hastily.

“You’re sweet.”

His brows shoot together, and he glares. “Have you been paying attention to me at all?”

I give a startled giggle, then everything is okay between us again.

“I have noticed the grumpiness.” I kiss his nose. “It’s adorable.”

He sneers, but his eyes totally soften.

I giggle harder. Joy bounces through me. He presses his lips together, I’m pretty sure to keep from joining. His eyes do that shimmering thing again, and I know he’s pleased.

He removes my shirt with reverence, as if he wasn’t just in a locker room with professional athletes where washboard abs are a thing.

He traces the line of hair that runs from my belly button to my groin.

“I-I know I don’t look that great,” I say.

His eyes snap open, then narrow. “Who told you that?”

“Um...?” I gesture to my body. “I’m sure hockey players aren’t supposed to be legally blind.”

“That’s not optimal,” he agrees. He grabs my wrists. “But no one says anything bad about you.”