“You won’t be satisfied with just one.”
The arrogant gleam in his eyes is such a turn-on for me. I like guys like this. Direct, assertive, and self-assured. Alpha, but not the kind of alpha that orders you around and gets too overbearing.
Jake possesses an easy confidence, a surety about who he is and what he wants. I guess that’s why I was so quick to forgive him for his behavior at the dinner party. Not only do I have a slight (okay, fine, more than slight) fondness for cocky asses, but I appreciate a man who goes after what he wants. That’s the difference between Jake and someone like Mike Hollis. Hollis is confident, but at the end of the day he’s not the guy who’d slide into my side of the booth and tell me he’s going to kiss me. Hollis would wait for me to kiss him.
And why am I thinking about Hollis right now?
I trail my fingers up Jake’s thigh and inch them toward his chest. His muscles are so defined I can feel the tantalizing ridges even with him wearing a shirt. I stroke him over his dark-blue button-down, a quick tease that brings heat to his eyes. When my fingers reach his collarbone, his Adam’s apple twitches as he gulps.
I smile faintly. “Everything all right?”
“Good. I’m good.” He clears his throat.
My hand reaches its destination—his insanely beautiful face. I rub his bottom lip with the pad of my thumb. His gaze grows impossibly hotter. Before I can blink, long fingers tangle in my hair and there’s a big hand cupping the back of my neck.
Jake brings my head forward and slants his lips over mine, and it’s the kind of kiss that’s been missing from my life for so long. One that starts off as a slow burn, a soft meeting of lips and the feather-light flick of the tongue. It’s like he’s laying the groundwork for something fierce. He’s building a fire, each teasing kiss serving as the kindling, until finally he unleashes a groan, drives the kiss deeper, and the fire engulfs us. His mouth is hot and hungry, but he doesn’t try to lick my face off or swallow me whole. It’s a controlled kiss, firm but greedy, thick with passion and the perfect amount of tongue.
I moan. I can’t help it. He chuckles against my lips before pulling back. “You’re a good kisser,” he rasps.
“Not so bad yourself.” And then we’re devouring each other’s mouths again, making out hardcore in this booth, and I don’t even flinch when I register the sound of catcalls over the music. Let everyone around us watch. Give them popcorn for all I care.
That girl in the bathroom last week, the one who praised Jake’s tongue, was right on the money. His tongue is incredible. Feels like heaven in my mouth. And his big, warm hand is now squeezing my thigh. I want to climb into his lap and maul him, but we’re at a bar, and we’re fully clothed. The fact that we’re in public is the only thing saving me from making a really stupid decision.
I pull away, breathing heavily. Jake’s gorgeous eyes peer back at me. A deep, dark green, like the jungle after a heavy rainfall. I can see why women go a little nutty for him.
I gulp down a hasty swig of cognac, then jerk when he takes the tumbler from my hand. Callused fingertips rub over my knuckles. I shiver.
“That was mine,” I accuse as he finishes my drink.
“We’ll order another round.”
“Probably not a good idea.” My voice sounds gravelly, so I clear my throat. Twice. “I should go.”
Jake nods. “Okay. Let me grab the check.”
I gesture to our empty glasses. “By the way, this counts as our date.”
He lets out a low, sexy laugh. “Dream on. This ain’t the date. This is still me being your fake boyfriend.”
“Oh really? Was that a fake make-out?”
“This isn’t the real date,” he says sternly. “But we should probably schedule that. When are you free?”
“Never.”
“How about tomorrow?”
Back-to-back nights? Is he nuts? I don’t even do that with the people I date for real. “Wow. You’re dying to see me again, huh?”
“Yes,” he admits, and my heart betrays me by skipping a beat. “So. Tomorrow?”
I cave like a house of cards. “Fine. But I’m not coming back to Boston. In one week I’ve spent enough time in this city to last me a lifetime.”
“I’ll pick somewhere closer to Hastings,” he assures me. “I’ll have Brooks’s car—should I come get you?”
“Absolutely not.” There’s no way I’m letting Jake show up on my father’s doorstep to pick me up for a date. “Unless you’re in the mood to get murdered.”
He chuckles knowingly. “I hoped you’d say no, but I’m a gentleman so I had to ask. I’ll pay your cab fare, though.”
“I don’t need your charity,” I mock.
“You just like being difficult, don’t ya?”
“Yup.” I rummage in my purse for my wallet.
“Want to make out some more before we go?” Jake’s tone is boyishly hopeful.
“Nope.”
His gaze turns devilish. “How about a blowjob?”
“Aw, I appreciate the offer, but I don’t have a penis.”
Jake’s laughter heats my blood. It’s deep and husky and I want to record it so I can hear it whenever I want. Which is beyond creepy and insanely unsettling. I’m starting to enjoy this guy’s company, and that worries me. A lot.
“You got in late last night.” My father’s disapproval greets me when I walk into the kitchen the next morning. “Out partying, I suppose?”
I stick my head in the fridge and roll my eyes at a tub of margarine, because I can’t do it to his face. “I got home around midnight, Dad. On a Friday night. And I had to catch an eleven o’clock train in order for me to get back here for midnight. So really, I was done ‘partying’—” I turn so he can see the air quotes. “—at eleven. On a Friday night.”
“You’re too old to be giving me sass.”
“And I’m too old to be reprimanded about my social life. We talked about this. You said you wouldn’t lecture.”
“No, you talked about it. And I didn’t say a damn thing.” He’s not afraid to openly roll his eyes. He brushes by me in his plaid pants, wool socks, and pullover sweater with the Briar hockey logo on it.
He stops at the coffee maker, the fancy one Aunt Sheryl got him for Christmas last year. I’m surprised that he’s using it. Dad doesn’t care if a product has all the bells and whistles, unless it’s state-of-the-art hockey equipment. Otherwise he doesn’t give a shit.
“Want a cup?” he offers.
“No, thanks.” I hop onto one of the stools at the kitchen counter. The legs are uneven, so it wobbles for a beat before finding its equilibrium. I open a mini yogurt and scarf it down, while Dad stands near the sink, waiting for his coffee to brew.
“You didn’t have to take the train,” he says gruffly. “You could’ve borrowed the Jeep.”
“Seriously? I’m allowed to drive the precious Jeep again? I thought I was banned after the mailbox incident.”
“You were. But that was, what? Two years ago? One would hope that you’ve smartened up since then and learned how to drive properly.”
“One would hope.” I swallow another spoonful of yogurt. “I don’t mind taking the train. It gives me time to get my course readings done and read all the game highlights. So this weekend is the charity game, right?”
Dad nods, but he doesn’t look thrilled about it. This year the Division I Hockey Committee decided that every team would participate in a charity exhibition the weekend before the conference finals, rather than immediately playing the final game after the semifinal round. The exhibitions are hosted by various cancer societies throughout the country, and all proceeds from ticket sales and concessions go to these charities. It’s obviously a great cause, but I know Dad and his players are anxious for the finals.
“And what about the finals? Are you guys ready?”
He gives another nod. Somehow he manages to cram so much confidence into one nod. “We will be.”
“The Crimson’ll be tough to beat.”
“Yes. They will be.” That’s my dad, a gifted conversationalist.
I scrape the last bit of yogurt out of the plastic container. “They’re good this year,” I remark. “They’re very, very good.”
Not just at playing hockey, either. Jake Connelly, for example, is highly skilled in other areas. Like kissing. And turning me on. And—
And I need to derail this train of thought, pronto. Because now my body is tingling, and I’m not allowed to be tingling in such close proximity to my father.
“You know, you’re allowed to say a nice thing or two about Harvard,” I tell him. “Just because you hate the coach doesn’t mean the players are terrible.”
“Some of them are good,” he acknowledges. “And some of them are good but dirty.”
“Like Brooks Weston.”
He nods again. “Kid’s a goon, and Pedersen encourages it.” There’s venom in his voice when he says Pedersen’s name.
“What kind of player was he?” I ask curiously. “Pedersen, that is.”
Dad’s features grow taut, tension rippling from his broad frame. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you played with him at Yale. You were on the same team for at least a couple seasons, right?”