I find myself praying to a higher power that I make the cut. Maybe not tonight, but tomorrow, next week, a year from now. I’ll take whatever I can get. That’s how badly I want her.

I add a second finger and she clamps even tighter around me. There’s hardly any room for two fingers. Two, for chrissake. While my thumb tends to her clit, I push my fingers in and out in a lazy rhythm. Brenna’s eyelids go heavy, her breathing labored. I aimlessly rub the rock in my pants against her thigh as I finger her.

“I want you to kiss me.” She yanks my head down, her fingers running through my hair as her tongue finds mine.

The kiss is urgent, sloppy. She’s practically riding my fingers, making the sexiest noises I’ve ever heard. I come up for air. “Are you going to come for me?”

Her mumbled response is unintelligible.

I chuckle. My hand keeps working her. My fingers are soaked. I push them deeper inside her, then withdraw and curl them right near her opening, stroking hard.

“Oh my God,” she squeezes out.

Her orgasm ripples around my fingers, and I feel it travel up her slender body in a wave of shivers. She releases a sigh, from her lips to mine. I swallow the breathy sound with a kiss, and ease the pressure on her clit, slow the thrust of my fingers, letting her come down from the high.

Her eyelids finally flutter open and she smiles at me.

“Good?” I murmur.

“So good,” she murmurs back. She sighs again and curls toward me, burrowing her cheek in my neck.

“Holy shit, you like to snuggle after sex,” I accuse.

“I do not.” The denial is muffled against my chest.

“You totally do.”

She nips at my throat. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Why? Afraid it’s going to ruin your reputation?”

“Yes. I’m a bad girl, Jakey. I don’t do things like snuggle.”

“Why not? Snuggling is awesome.” I thread my fingers through her silky hair. Downstairs, I’m still throbbing and it’s not something that either of us can really ignore.

Brenna lifts her head, a devilish glint in her eyes. “You and this boner, dude.”

She slips a hand between our bodies and places it directly over my package. I can’t help but thrust into her hand.

“What should we do about this…” She waits expectantly.

“Anything,” I grunt. “You can do anything you want to me.”

“Anything, huh?”

“Anything.” My voice sounds strangled to my ears. “But please, do something.”

One finger teasingly glides up and down my zipper before toying with the little metal tab. I damn near stop breathing. My heartbeat is out of control. I feel like I just played a five-minute shift. In penalty-kill mode.

As my pulse drums in my ears, my body pleads for release. I want Brenna Jensen sucking on my cock, jacking it, kissing it. I don’t care what she does. I just need her hand or her mouth or her tongue on me.

I will up some patience, but my muscles remain rigid, tense with anticipation as I wait for her to make a move.

Right when she’s about to undo my pants, a phone rings.

Brenna swears under her breath. “I should check that.”

“No,” I mumble.

She sits up. “How often do people call instead of text these days?”

I have to relent. “Not very.”

“Exactly. Phone calls usually mean it’s important.” She grabs her purse from the floor mat and rummages through it. The moment she has her phone in hand, her demeanor changes. All traces of desire are gone.

“Everything okay?” I ask gruffly.

She stares at the screen for another second before clicking the phone off. “It’s nothing.” And yet now she’s shimmying into her panties and jeans, and I know without a doubt that Little Jakey won’t be getting any attention tonight.

“It’s later than I thought,” she says awkwardly. “I should head home.”

“Okay.”

She hesitates. “You don’t mind?”

“Of course not.” Did she expect me to admonish her? Accuse her of leaving me with blue balls? Because that implies that she owes me something, which she doesn’t. I’m not entitled to a damn thing from this girl, or any girl. I want Brenna to blow me because she wants to blow me. But clearly she’s no longer in the mood. The mysterious caller ruined that for us.

“I really did have a good time,” she confesses as I walk her to the driver’s side of the Jeep.

“So did I.” I meet her eyes. “Should we do it again?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” I grasp her chin, keeping our gazes locked. I repeat the question. “Should we do it again?”

After a long beat, Brenna nods.

19

Brenna

By Wednesday, I haven’t heard so much as a peep from anyone at HockeyNet. Granted, Ed Mulder didn’t say when the internship slots would be filled. I suppose it could take weeks, but I’m impatient for news.

Even though I know I didn’t impress him, a part of me is still clinging to hope that I have a shot. And fine, maybe hope is for fools. But I guess that makes me a fool.

Dad’s still at the arena when I get home after a long day on campus. The Briar boys had weight training this morning, and ice time this afternoon, so I don’t expect my father until six or seven.

I make dinner. Nothing fancy, just spaghetti and a Caesar salad. I eat my share in front of the TV, watching highlights on HockeyNet. Which is super irritating, because whoever put this clips package together didn’t include some of the best parts of last night’s Bruins game. I could do a way better job compiling a good reel. I hope I get the chance.

There I go, being foolish again.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table, revealing a text.

JAKE: Can I call you?

Oh boy. The little spark of excitement that tickles my belly is alarming. We spoke on the phone last night, too, mostly about said Bruins game, since we were watching it at the same time.

I won’t deny that our bowling date was a lot more fun than I expected. The orgasm was equally unexpected. I didn’t plan on fooling around with Jake. I thought I had more willpower than that, but the guy is irresistible. Even now, days later, I’m still thinking about it. His fingers inside me, his hot mouth glued to mine… Connelly is very good at what he does. I’d wanted nothing more than to make him feel good, too, until that phone call from Eric.

Each time I think I’ve made myself clear, that I’ve set firm boundaries with him, Eric reveals another level of persistence. And I don’t feel right being a bitch to him, ordering him to leave me alone, because our history holds me hostage.

History is bullshit.

Jake’s words, the thoughts he’d expressed at O’Malley’s, float through my head. History is bullshit. And trust me, I would love to put the past behind me. Unfortunately, that’s easier said than done.

At least this time Eric wasn’t making demands of me—he followed the call up with a text, apologizing for asking for money. But that doesn’t matter. It killed the mood as effectively as rain snuffing out a candle.