© Zoe Geller. All rights reserved.
Sexy Hockey Player Hookup Part 2
Chapter 4 Olivia
I wake up with a dry tongue and find Jackson and I lay entwined together. I grimace at the bright light streaming in through his bedroom window. The view of the sun with an alcohol headache is never a desired outcome. I don't know if I should move or pretend to sleep and let him get up first.
Jackson stirs. I have no idea how I look after a late night of drinking. I'm running exit strategies in my head. Making a run for it would have been my number one pick a minute ago. I frown, the walk of shame is imminent. His roommates are probably all home. I'm hoping they are too fucked up to get out of bed. I have to figure a way out of here without being detected.
"Morning," a manly voice greets my ears. The same night I heard whispering sweet things in my ear before culminating in his intense orgasm.
"Hi," I find my cheeks growing hot from my wanton sexual demands last night. He must think I'm a sex fiend. I have to admit he was fucking incredible. He could rock that body and his cock. He exceeded my expectations on the dance floor, in bed, and he even liked the waffles and fried chicken. And, he is the hockey star who has made local and national headlines. He would also be leaving town soon; I reminded myself. And there it is, the reality that it's over. I didn't regret it. I smiled inwardly, knowing Mira is going to lose her shit when I tell her the details.
"Are you hungry?" he asks, slinging his long legs to the floor. I sneak a peek at his chiseled buttocks I would like to bounce a quarter off of it just to see if it was possible. I decide a hard slap on it would be deliciously fun. I subconsciously lick my lips. There was so much more I'd like to do to him and with him.
"Mostly thirsty," I sit up, licking lips.
He pulls on a pair of the tight boxer, briefs, "I'll be right back," he speaks. His deep sexy voice is not judging but soft and unnervingly sincere.
I watch him make his way to the door and take in his muscular torso and ripped biceps that still have scratches on them from last night. I wonder how fast he could send a puck.
He entered the room, his hair tousled, and a few wavy locks fell over his forehead, making him look hotter than a Calvin Cline underwear ad.
He hands me a sports drink. "This will hydrate you. You didn't drink that much last night," he commented.
"I'm such a lightweight; it's not even funny. I can get drunk off one martini, and I had two. I'm glad we ate. If I drink too much, it numbs me down there."
"There wasn't anything wrong with you 'down there' or anywhere last night," he compliments me. My cheeks have to be flushed. I'm embarrassed that he drew attention to my sexual anatomy. I know I shouldn't be, but he made it sound so intimate.
"I can't open the drink," I stated as I strain to open the lid that won't budge.
"Here," he takes the drink breaks the seal before handing it back to me.
"Thanks," I start chugging the orange-flavored drink.
"You might want to drink it slower," he suggests. "If you are dehydrated, it might not sit well at first," he offers his expertise.
"Thanks," I murmur and begin to sip slower. Orange is my favorite flavor. "I'm sure you're busy, so I'll leave in a few minutes."
"No problem. I'm not a monster, I won't bite," he teases me. I take one last look at his star-studded abs before he pulls a white T-shirt over his head.
I sigh. It's time to go. I crawl out of bed and begin scouring the floor for my clothes.
Underwear- check, bra- check.
"I found your boots and dress," he hands them to me with a sweet smile on his face.
I take the articles from him and give him a small smile. I put my bra on, and in a minute
I'm ready to go. Crap, I remember my car isn't here.
"Um, my car is still at the waffle place, can you give me a lift?"
"No, problem." He pulled a designer track outfit out of a drawer and slides on sneakers that were already tied.
We made our way through the kitchen, and he swiped his car keys off the countertop.
Just then, a man appeared at the other end of the kitchen.
Shit.
"Hey, Jackson," the blond greeted him.
"Hey, Wheels. I couldn't find you at the club last night."
"I had prettier things to look at than you," he razzed him.
"I hear ya, So did I," Jackson boasts.
If my face could turn red, it would have. I hoped Tyler, aka, Wheeler, didn't hear me screaming last night. I am freakishly loud when I orgasm. But I have olive-colored skin, and you'd be hard-pressed to see me flushed. Heatstroke would be the only reason my face would turn red.
I didn't take offense to the guys comparing the hotness of their one night stands. I knew guys always one-upping each other. Everything was a competition with them.
Tyler is checking me out, but not in that I want to jump you kind of way. I'm dreading how this is going to play out. I don't want him to think I'm a slut. I'm human, and I have needs.
"This is Olivia. Olivia, meet Tyler."
"Hi," I meet his chocolate eyes and nervously give him an open hand half-wave acknowledgment.
"Nice to meet you. Don't mind me, I'm just grabbing some waters," he opens the fridge, and as he turns to go, he throws, "Later, dude," over his shoulder and disappears.
"That wasn't too bad," Jackson's comments.
"Wheels? What is that, a nickname? And how many more guys live here?"
"Wheels is because he doesn't have a car, and we drive him everywhere. Wheels, because its ironic-he doesn't have any. It's a hockey thing. Usually, we just add a "y" to our last name. But some go by their first name or a nickname that just sticks.
My other roommate is Alan, our goalie."
