His massive, muscular frame blocked my only way out. I screamed, as seemed appropriate, considering the superhot guy I’d never seen before in my life-apart from on TV during hockey games, but this was out of context so I didn’t recognize him-who was standing in the bathroom doorway.
The hand down his pants was attached to an arm with a full tattooed sleeve. He sported a somewhat ungroomed beard, but it was lush, and it worked for him. His dark hair was pulled back in one of those stubby little man-bun things, and his eyes were the color of honey. Instead I stared at a man-a broad, well-built, superhot man-with his hand in his shorts. I fully expected Sunny, or maybe dickhead Benji, to be the one busting in on me. Not that he gave me the opportunity to do so very often.Īnyway, as I was about to tackle the hairy muppet living on my cooch, the door to the bathroom flew open. He had grown a horrible, patchy, ugly beard, so I’d done the same between my legs to see how much he liked it when I rubbed it all over his damn face. I was also angry with Benji, so I let my bush grow in to spite him. She was expensive, and I needed the money to buy groceries for the trip. I also needed to tackle the mess that was my fur burger.īefore the trip I’d canceled my appointment with my waxer. After seven days with no running water, I’d been desperate to disappear the forest on my legs and bask in the wonders of a hot shower at Sunny’s brother’s cottage in Muskoka. The experience had not been all that pleasant. I’d been camping in the northern Canadian wilderness with Benji, my jerkwad boyfriend Sunny, my best friend and Kale, Benji’s best friend and Sunny’s ex. Okay, that’s not even remotely true, but I recall, with startling clarity, my introduction to NHL superstar Randy “Balls” Ballistic, the newest addition to Chicago’s team. I roll over onto my back, close my eyes, and let the images come.
If I stop fighting the fantasies, maybe I’ll be able to manage seeing him tonight. I cram my head under the pillow, as if it’ll act as a barrier between my brain and the memories. Between two and three I managed not to stare at the ceiling or my clock, but I woke up with my hand in my damn underpants. I’ve been trying to sleep for the past five hours. I drag my palm over my face and check the clock. Along with Randy’s promises: “I can take your mind off your problems if you want.” And “I bet a few orgasms’ll make you forget all about that dickface ex of yours. These are the words that keep repeating in my head, over and over. “And I have a black belt in kick your fucking ass.”
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