The Bad Boy Craves For Me- Hockey Romance

CARTER

“Fuck.”

Rolling onto my back, I inhale sharply and throw a hand over my head. I’m fucking spent, so I take a moment to catch my breath before I toss my legs over the edge of the bed and sit up, pulling the condom off my quickly deflating cock. My tongue swipes at a bead of sweat that clings to my top lip, and I plow my fingers through my hair.

“No,” Laura whines, sticking her bottom lip out. She nearly launches herself across the bed, reaching for me when I stand. “Don’t get up yet, Carter.”

I hold up the condom. That should be explanation enough, no? “Just throwing out the condom, Laura.”

Her light brows knit together. “Lacey.”

I stifle a laugh. Oops. “Right. Sorry. Lacey.”

“We could go again,” Lacey calls while I toss the condom in the bathroom trash can.

I lean my forearm on the wall as I take a leak in the toilet. We could go again. I like sex. I love sex. Even better when it’s with girls like Laura.

Fuck. Lacey.

Lacey the blonde bombshell from the cover of Maxim in August of last year. I remember that much because she told me thirteen times at the bar tonight. I started counting when that M-word left her mouth the third time.

We could absolutely go again, but I have an itch to watch her leave. An itch for some well-deserved privacy. Contrary to popular belief, I actually value my alone time, even if it could be better spent with body parts buried in girls who had been mostly naked on the cover of a magazine at one point in their lives.

Don’t get me wrong; Lacey’s the kind of girl you don’t think twice about getting into bed with when you just wanna have some fun. That’s why we fucked like rabbits for the last thirty minutes without pause, after I got her off in the elevator on the way up here.

Maybe I’d been feeling generous, or maybe I was in the mood, but the truth is I just wanted to shut her up. I mean, I got it the first twelve times—she was on the cover of a magazine.

I thought thirteen was supposed to be a lucky number, not a bad omen.

“Can’t,” I finally answer, washing my hands while checking myself out in the mirror. I’ve got a nasty split down the center of my swollen lower lip. I got off easy tonight; the other guy didn’t. “Got an early flight.”

Our flight isn’t until noon; I simply don’t want her to stay.

Crossing my arms over my bare chest, I lean against the door frame and watch her snuggle beneath the blankets. Yeah, definitely not happening.

“You should probably head out.”

Scooping her dress off the floor, I hold it up in front of me so she can’t see the face I’m making. I have undershirts bigger than this. Don’t get me wrong—it looked great on her. I had an eyeful of tits and ass the second she strode by our table and gave me the fuck me eyes.

I toss it toward her. That’s all she has. No bra, no panties.

Fuck, that should’ve been my warning, shouldn’t it have?

I yank my boxer briefs back up my legs and plant my hands on my hips, watching her. Waiting. She’s not doing a damn thing, just staring up at me with wide, blue eyes. She seems to be under the impression the larger she makes those things, the easier I’ll sway. I can’t even begin to tell her how wrong she is.

I scratch my scalp. Rocking back on my heels, I clap my fist into my palm a couple times, click a beat out with my tongue, and wait for her to fucking do something.

This is so fucking awkward.

“Can I stay here tonight?” her quiet voice finally squeaks.

This question again. I get it every time. I don’t know why. Is it because they genuinely want to stay, or because each woman I mess around with is secretly holding out hope they’ll be the one to change Carter Beckett’s ways, to make him want to settle down? Sometimes I think there’s a pool going with a prize for whoever the winning girl is.

Oh, wait; there is. The prize is the captain of the Vancouver Vipers’ eight-figure salary.

My answer is the same every time. “I don’t do sleepovers.”

“But I…” Her chin quivers, watery gaze trembling. For fuck’s sake. I can’t with the tears. We met all of two hours ago; what’s she crying over? “I thought we got along well. I thought maybe…I thought you liked me.”

“I liked hanging out with you tonight,” I manage, running a hand over my nape. The sex was a solid seven out of ten. “You were lots of fun.”

The past tense is meant to emphasize that this is over, this is where we part ways and likely never see each other ever again, but instead, it has the opposite effect.

A broad, bright beam spreads across her face. “Maybe we could go on a date.”

Oh for the love of—

I resist the urge to slap a palm to my face. Actually, I don’t. I drag that shit down my face in slow motion before scrubbing it back up, all while suppressing a groan. Points for that.

“We live in different countries.” Shit, we’re not even on the same coast. We literally couldn’t be farther apart. She’s in Florida, I’m in Vancouver.

“Well, maybe I could…come to Van—”

“No.” Irritation prickles the back of my neck, my jaw tightening as I turn away and find the slacks I discarded by the hotel room door the second we came barreling in here. I pull out my phone and open the Uber app. “I don’t date. I’m sorry. I’m not looking for anything serious right now.”