“Drink some water, McKinnon.” I nod good night to Streicher and he lifts a hand as a goodbye.
In the elevator, I pull in deep breaths, letting them out slow. Fuck, I hate that guy, but what I said about Hazel being mine?
It was the truth.
I scroll through our texts, all the fucking incredible photos she’s sent me over the past week. Hartley’s body is a dream, with smooth curves, swells of cleavage, the gentle dip of her hips—even her collarbones are gorgeous. She has a freckle right over her left breast that I think about licking every time I get a photo where it’s visible.
That she feels hot and desired while taking these photos is what makes me hard, though. Thoughts of McKinnon and my dad fade away as I send her another one.
Her response comes immediately.
It’s a picture of her on her front, hair falling forward and breasts against the duvet. The soft curve of her ass is visible, and need flows through me, making my balls tighten.
Is that all you’ve got, Miller? yawn Even with all your pretty muscles, I’m getting bored.
My smile curls higher. I don’t know whether it’s the two beers I had or the possessive feelings from tonight, but the urge to ramp things up with Hartley courses through me.
She may not know it yet, but Hazel Hartley is mine, and tonight? I’m going to show her.
CHAPTER 42
HAZEL
The photos have escalated and I’ve completely lost control of the situation. I’ve become addicted to the pictures Rory sends, and his responses to the photos I send in return.
I thought about that photo all day, Hartley.
God, you’re so fucking hot.
I came in the shower thinking about this one, he said about a photo of me wearing a plum-colored bra, my cleavage on full display, before he sent back a photo of himself shirtless, grinning as his erection strained the fabric of his boxers.
Lying on the hotel bed beside Pippa, I scroll past the photo of him just out of the shower, water droplets on his skin, towel low on his waist and the outline of his thick arousal clearly visible, and the photo I sent back of me lying in bed, stretched out on the sheets wearing a delicate cream lace set.
My phone buzzes as another picture arrives. He’s naked, holding a towel in front of him, all the muscles down his hips and thighs on full display. Water droplets cling to his chiseled chest, and I twinge between my legs. My response is a picture of me lying on my front. No face, just cleavage and my ass in a midnight-blue thong the color of his eyes.
Excitement jitters through me as I pause on that picture and press my lips together to hold back the grin. I’m floating with warm, liquid feelings.
This is fun, I realize. It’s exciting and playful, and I’ve never experienced this in regard to sex.
Pippa flips to postgame press from the Storm game.
Be a good boy and drop the towel, I text before scrolling back to the picture of him fresh out of the shower.
And now I’m baiting him for more. Unbelievable.
“You’ve been seeing Hazel Hartley, a physiotherapist with the Storm,” a reporter says to Rory.
His hair is damp from his shower, the tops of his cheeks are still flushed from the game, and his mouth tips up in an effortless smile.
“Jamie Streicher will be her brother-in-law soon. Could there be another wedding in the family’s future?”
Pippa clasps my hand, and I’m frozen as the corner of his lip slides a half inch higher. “Yeah. There could.”
My heart is in my throat. He’s telling the press what he needs to so he can look like a solid captain. It’s not real. And if it were real, well, no one would actually say that about a girl he’s been seeing for a couple months.
Rory would, an annoying voice says in my head. He’s intense and impulsive and goes after what he wants. He thinks with his heart on his sleeve.
It’s not real, but I’m smiling as I send him another picture.
“Did you bring a charger?” Pippa holds her phone up. “I forgot mine and my battery’s almost dead.”
“In my bag.”
She slides off the bed, and I scroll up through our text chat. We talk every day, sometimes sending each other photos—his from the road and mine from work or hanging out with Pippa or in my apartment.
The guys’ flight gets in late Monday night, so I won’t see him until Tuesday, and liquid heat pools inside me at the idea of finally seeing him in person after two weeks of torturing each other.
“Hazel.”
Pippa stands over my bag with an accusing look, smiling ear to ear. She reaches in and pulls out a fistful of lingerie.
My mouth flattens, and I give her a guilty wince.
“Hazel.”
I start laughing. “Get out of there.”
Her mouth falls open but her eyes are still lit up, bright and sparkly with amusement. “Why do you have an entire bag of lingerie for a weekend with me?”
“No reason.” I scratch my neck, looking away.
She starts looking through the garments. “This is nice stuff, too.” Her brow goes up.
I jump up and snatch everything from her, tucking it back in my bag as she flops back down on the bed, still smiling. “Rory bought it, didn’t he?”
My face is burning hot. I shrug at her. “Yes. Okay?”
“Hmm.” She narrows her eyes, smiling.
“What.”
“Hmmmm.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. I’m still blushing. “Pippa.”
“Interesting. Very, very interesting.”
I fold my arms over my chest. I think I’m smiling, too. “Say what you want to say.”
“You said it was fake.”
My heart squeezes up into my throat as I blink about thirty times. “It is.”
“So why is he buying you expensive lingerie that no one can see?”
The silence stretches for too long for there to be a reasonable explanation.
“Hazel!” she bursts out. “Are you two messing around?”
“I don’t know,” I burst back. “Sort of. Not really. He sleeps over. We fooled around once but he wouldn’t let me touch him and we”—I wince—“send pictures back and forth?”
It doesn’t sound great out loud.
She looks like I told her unicorns were real. “What kind of pictures?”
“Sexy ones,” I admit, sounding strangled.
Her head tips back, laughing. “I knew it. You like him.”
“I don’t know.” My heartbeat feels erratic and I force myself to shrug.
“You do. Admit it.”
“Fine.” I shrug again, eyes darting around the room. “I like him.”
Fuck. I said it. My throat knots. I really need to get a hold of this thing. It has an expiration date.
“I like him,” I repeat, worrying my bottom lip.
Her expression softens. “Why do you say it like it’s a bad thing?”
There are a million things I can’t say out loud. Because he can have anyone, so why would he choose me? Because I’m just waiting for the thrill of this to be over for him.
Because I’m ordinary, and guys like Rory Miller are extraordinary.