Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Absolutely not! That’s what I should say because the very idea is preposterous. Offensive even. He can’t go around showing off his penis to people—especially me—for no good reason. Because seriously, me seeing his one-eyed monster is not the reason he played well for the opener. It’s because he’s a great goalie. His stats alone bear that out.
But I’ve been around athletes enough to know that sometimes logic and reason don’t matter. These are people who won’t wash their underwear during a winning streak, despite sweating their balls off in them for three hours per game. If he thinks it makes a difference, it will. Call it the power of the placebo effect.
Am I actually considering allowing this?
Unbelievably, I am. Maybe I’m a true-blue, loyal Moose fan. Maybe it’s really not that big of a deal after spending years in locker rooms where guys would intentionally flash me in an attempt to punish me for daring to be a female sports reporter. Maybe I wouldn’t mind another lookie-loo at perfection. That last thought I shove way down deep, not letting it fully form.
Fine. This is happening.
Act cool, Joy. No big deal. Just a penis. Juuust an example of penile perfection. Nooo big deal, at all.
I grin and lean against the couch cushions, spreading my arms out along the back. “By all means, whip it out.”
Despite being given not only permission, but an open invitation, he hesitates.
“Shy all of a sudden?” I tease. “I wouldn’t have thought the great Dalton Days would have any qualms about flashing flesh around. Just another night, right?”
He swallows thickly. “I didn’t exactly think this through, and never dreamed you’d actually agree, so thank you. But it’s weird, okay? You’re you, and I’m me, and this is . . .” He waves his hand around my apartment, but I think he means our current situation rather than my home.
“If it helps, I’ve seen dozens of them.” I shrug in indifference and then laugh when his eyes go wide in surprise. “Guys like trying to shock me when I’m in their domain, thinking I’m gonna be impressed or something. But it’s really not a big deal. Locker rooms are sometimes like the deli counter at the supermarket. Kinda boring after a bit.”
“You seemed impressed by mine. It’s pretty great, yeah?” he brags, a cocky smirk returning to his face.
I groan in revolted annoyance, but then I impulsively ask, “Is this how you flirt? How you talk to women to get them into your bed?”
His cheeks turn a shade of pink I wouldn’t have thought possible for a man like Dalton. Surprisingly, it’s adorable, which is not a word I would ever think to use for him. I usually describe him as cold, unflinching, or menacing, but that’s on the ice. In private, like this, he seems slightly less terrifying. Very slightly.
“I don’t usually have to ask. They offer,” he rumbles, sounding embarrassed by that fact despite his reputation being well known.
“And you dive right in? Or wait . . . let me guess . . . you let them hop on and do all the work? Typical.” I roll my eyes and I swear he growls. “I don’t know why you’re mad at me. You want to show me, I’m telling you that’s fine. Just do it. I’ll take one for the team.”
He sighs like the weight of the world is resting on his broad, overly muscled shoulders. “Fine.”
Dalton pulls his sweatshirt up, exposing the bumpy ridges of his abs, and tucks the gathered fabric beneath his chin. Then, with both hands, he pushes the waistband of his sweats down until his third leg basically falls out over the elastic.
And I do mean fall. It’s too heavy, too long to do anything but succumb to the will of gravity.
And I stare. There’s no pretending I don’t. It’s impossible, like trying to avoid looking at a piece of art that’s right in front of you. My eyes are laser-locked on his crotch. I was sure my memory was playing tricks on me. That there was no way he could be that long, thick, pierced, and perfect. But he is.
I should go ahead and order another vibrator now because I’m totally gonna burn out Woody, especially with new mental snapshots to use as spank bank material.
“Is there like a time limit we’re aiming for?” I whisper, not moving my eyes. “Or, like, if it matters, you were hard last time. Does that make a difference for your superstition?”
I’m joking. Sort of. Trying to make an awkward situation a little less strange.
But Dalton takes himself in hand, giving his length a tight stroke. “You’re right. I was hard. I should try to mimic the circumstances as much as possible. For good luck.” His voice sounds rough, but I don’t dare lift my eyes. I don’t want to see the victorious smirk on his face or gotcha sparkle in his eyes.