Page 8 of Wrong Number, Right Player (Wrong Number, Right Guy #10)

McKenna

I didn’t change my mind. Getting fired isn’t part of my five-year plan, but this is just for tonight. He said it himself. Though there’s a strong possibility once will not be enough. Not even close.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask as the front door clicks shut behind us.

Apparently, my manners kick in even when there’s a six-foot-three wall of muscle standing in my living room, looking as if he wants to devour me.

“I have water, green tea, or…” I swallow hard, gesturing weakly at my kitchen, “more water.”

“McKenna.” His voice is gentle but firm, and it’s nothing like the commanding tone he uses during team meetings. This is softer. More intimate. “Come here.”

Even in casual clothes, there’s no hiding the powerful build that makes this man such a force on the ice. But here in my living room, he seems impossibly large, filling the entire space so much even the air itself feels charged with his presence.

I step closer, and his calloused hands settle on my waist, spanning nearly my entire torso. The bedframe in my room will protest his weight, I think absurdly, before his thumb traces along my ribcage and all rational thought evaporates.

I tilt my head back to meet his eyes and am struck by how careful he’s being, all that brute strength held in perfect check. This isn’t the captain everyone else sees, the one who can intimidate opposing players with a single look.

“This is a one-time thing,” I whisper, telling myself as much as him.

His hands tighten on my waist, a muscle in his jaw working. But he doesn’t respond.

I open my mouth to say something—to analyze the statistical probability of career termination or cite specific sections of the employee handbook—but rather than let me spiral, his mouth captures mine.

The kiss is slow and thorough, as if he’s savoring every second, and my heartrate spikes through the roof, probably 180 BPM, if not more.

His stubble grazes my skin as he deepens the kiss, his hands tightening their grip as he pulls me flat against him. So close I can feel the controlled power in every muscle.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs against my lips when we break apart. “What do you need?”

The question gives me pause, although it shouldn’t. Emmitt’s always checking, always making sure his team is okay. Except at the moment, I’m not his nutritionist. I’m the woman in his arms, and he’s asking what I need, as if my answer is the most important thing in the world.

“You,” I breathe. “Just you.”

“Bedroom?”

“This way.” I take his hand, marveling at how it dwarfs mine, and lead him down the hallway. He has to duck slightly under my ceiling fan, and when he sinks onto the edge of my bed, the mattress dips dramatically under his weight and the frame creaks ominously.

I slip off my crossbody bag and lay it on my dresser, suddenly hyperaware of every sound, every breath.

In the mirror, I catch sight of him sitting there—his enormous frame in that black T-shirt a stark contrast against my delicate floral comforter.

He looks like he could break everything in this room without even trying.

But when I move to stand in front of him, his touch is infinitely gentle as he tugs me into the notch between his legs. I have to look down now that I’m standing and he’s sitting, my hands finding his shoulders for balance.

“You’re so fierce in meetings,” he says, his voice rough. “Watching you shut down Derek with one look, the way you command respect from guys twice your size…” His hands skim up my sides. “But this side of you…”

Heat floods my cheeks. I try to maintain some semblance of control, straightening my spine. “I’m still the same person.”

“I know.” His smile is soft, understanding. “But you don’t have to be strong right now. You don’t need to have all the answers. Let me take care of you.”

The offer breaks something loose in my chest. I’m used to knowing what’s coming, used to my ex’s style, which never seemed to prioritize me. It seems I’ve forgotten what it feels like to let someone else take the lead.

He leans forward, capturing my lips in a kiss that’s deeper, more urgent than before. The careful exploration gives way to something hungrier, and I feel my carefully maintained control slipping. His hands, large and warm, slip under the hem of my sweater, skimming the sensitive skin of my waist.

My breath hitches, but then his thumbs brush against my ribs and all thought dissolves.

“Okay?” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to search my face.

I nod, lifting my arms in invitation. “More than okay.”

Emmitt takes the hem of my sweater, raising it slowly, his knuckles grazing my skin and igniting sparks of sensation. As the fabric whispers over my head, I shiver—not from cold but from the raw intensity of the moment.

His eyes sweep over me with a reverence that makes me feel beautiful instead of exposed.

“Perfect,” he breathes, and the conviction in his voice undoes me completely.

My hands find the hem of his shirt, tugging it off in one smooth motion. The sight of him, all carved muscle and gorgeous man, makes my mouth go dry. This body has dominated the ice for years, but right now? It’s mine to touch. Anywhere and everywhere I want.

He reaches around to unclasp my bra, his fingers deft and sure.

I slip it off my shoulders as his warm hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over sensitive peaks.

I arch into his touch with a soft moan. And any last hope of control evaporates like my professional boundaries did the second his calloused fingers traced that scar on my chin the other night.

He trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down my throat, lingering on the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. When he shifts lower and captures one taut nipple in his mouth, I gasp, my back arching as pleasure shoots straight to my core.

“Emmitt,” I breathe, his name sounding different now. Not professional. Not careful. Like a plea.

His hands roam over my back, tracing the curve of my spine, before moving to the button of my jeans. He pauses, giving me a chance to change my mind. But I couldn’t for the life of me now. I cover his hands with mine, guiding him, showing him I’m all in.

The weight of that choice settles between us as he slides down my jeans. I step out of the denim, standing before him in nothing but my panties, and feel the exact moment we officially cross from colleagues to something else entirely.

He grasps my hips and lifts me easily. I wrap my legs around his waist as he turns and lowers me onto the bed. The frame protests loudly under our combined weight, but I don’t care.

His lips find mine in a searing kiss before he moves down my body, licking and sucking along my collarbone, down the valley between my breasts. I squirm beneath him, completely surrendered to the sensations he’s creating.

When his fingers hook into the waistband of my underwear, I lift my hips and he slides the fabric away, exposing me completely. His breath hitches as he takes me in.

“McKenna,” he breathes, “you’re…perfect.”

He lowers his head, kissing the inside of my thigh, and I tremble with anticipation. His stubble brushes against my sensitive skin as he trails kisses higher, building tension until I’m writhing beneath him.

He seems in no rush at all, and when he finally reaches my clit, I cry out, my hands fisting the comforter. His tongue is patient and skilled, and he reads my body like he studies game film, instantly picking up on every response, every preference until he zones in.

“Don’t stop,” I manage. “Please don’t stop.”

He hums against me, the vibrations adding to the already overwhelming sensations until I’m teetering on the edge. The pleasure builds to an almost unbearable level, and when he sucks on me, his face buried between my legs, I finally fall, crying out his name over and over again.

He stays with me, gentle and soothing as I come down, pressing soft wet kisses to my skin. When I open my eyes, he’s there, his icy blue eyes filled with barely controlled desire.

I scramble up and reach for him, tugging at his belt with shaking hands.

“Your turn,” I whisper.

He helps me, swiftly shedding his remaining clothes, and I push him gently onto his back, climbing aboard to straddle him. The sight of him laid out beneath me is intoxicating.

“Do I need a condom?” he asks, looking up at me.

“No, I’m on the pill. And I’m good.”

“I’m clean, too,” he replies then adds, “but you probably already knew that.”

I did, but the fact that he wanted to assure me is sweet. Not that I can focus on that at the moment. Not when his generous cock is pressed against my slick opening.

The sheer size of him is intimidating, but I’m so wet and ready I can’t wait any longer. Holding each of his hands, with our fingers threaded together, I lower myself onto him, inch by inch, letting my body adjust.

Once he’s buried deep inside me, he releases my hands to grip my hips, his eyes locked onto mine. He’s completely still, giving me control, letting me set the pace. His jaw is clenched tight, teeth gritted as he fights for restraint. I can see he’s barely holding on by a thread.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough.

“Perfect,” I breathe, beginning to move, sliding up and down over his length.

As I find my rhythm, he joins me, his hips rising to meet mine. The bed creaks loudly under us, the thrusting rhythm alerting anyone within earshot to the fact I’m getting some at the moment. Hard and fast. He glances up with concern. “McKenna, the neighbors—”

I lean down, pressing my lips to his. “If you even think about stopping right now, Emmitt Buckley, I’ll—”

“Wouldn’t think of it, honey.” His eyes flash with something primal, and his grip tightens as he meets my movements with more force. The pounding intensity builds between us, our breaths coming in ragged gasps, our bodies slick with sweat.

I feel the wave building again, threatening to consume me. His eyes are locked onto mine, his body tensing beneath me as he fights for control.

“Emmitt,” I gasp as another orgasm rips through me, more intense than before. He groans, his body bucking as he finds his own release, filling me completely.

I collapse onto his chest, my body spent, my mind blissfully quiet for once. His arms wrap around me, holding me close, his heart pounding beneath my ear.

Somehow, my bedroom feels different now, as if it belongs to the version of myself from before I slept with Emmitt and everything changed.

I should be freaking out, brainstorming how I’ll survive this mess, but right now, in the quiet aftermath, with Emmitt’s arms around me, I don’t.

I let myself have this moment. Let myself be completely, utterly present.

“What happens now?” I ask quietly.

His arms tighten around me, one large hand stroking up and down my spine. “Now, you fall asleep in my arms, and I enjoy how perfect you feel.”

I’m struck by how safe I am nestled against him. Cherished. Protected. Despite everything. “And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, we figure it out.”