When Aria Monroe lands her dream job as the new photographer for Los Angeles's professional hockey team, the last thing she expects is to work with the cocky, arrogant center Connor Holden who rocked her world five years ago during a one-night stand...
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After a setup of hot chocolate, plush blankets, and an endless amount of pillows in one of the meeting rooms of the arena, I didn't have it in me any longer to fight the pulsating, thrumming attraction I had to Connor Holden.
I made it a total of an hour before my lips were on his with a crushing force that caused him to stumble backward, my hands raking through his hair. After a half-hour of making out like a couple of hormone-crazed teenagers, I followed him out to the parking lot and into his car without any complaints.
Is this decision completely irrational? Definitely. It's not my smartest life choice, considering I'm in no place to make any sort of commitment to anyone, but my heart is still pounding with unrelenting lust at the way Connor's lips are wet and swollen. It's pitch black on the highway aside from a couple of street lights lining the sides, and if I thought the front of Connor's face was hot? His side profile is a different story.
Sculpted jawline, full lips, a gold chain peeking beneath the zipper of his sweater... The man is agonizingly gorgeous.
And despite the tiny twinge of guilt I feel for doing this, I keep reminding myself that Connor knew what he was signing up for. He's aware I'm not ready to be in a relationship, and he wouldn't be taking me to his place for the first time after I told him I wanted to strictly fuck if he were under any other impression.
At least, I hope not.
I hardly notice the parking garage we pull into in the middle of downtown Los Angeles. It's swanky and private, very Connor Holden, but I only have one goal in mind, and it's not to inspect the man's living arrangements.
"I'm getting the door for you," he reminds me as soon as he puts the car in park. My knee bounces as I wait for him to round the vehicle, and when he tugs it open, I scramble out, crashing my lips to his again.
Ever since yesterday when he was quite literally knuckle deep inside me, my body has been protesting against going cold turkey. It's been too long since his hands have been on me. Twenty-four hours feels like an eternity.
Connor must feel the same because the guttural groan that vibrates against my lips has me spiraling.
He backs me up against the brick wall of the parking garage, landing with a thud, but the quick, shooting pain is hardly felt when it's followed by his teeth nipping at my lower lip and his hands gliding up my waist.
"Fuck, I need to get you inside," he pants.
My want for him is all-consuming. It's a fire racing through my veins, an addiction I'm in desperate need of a fix for.
Kissing him feels like the first breath of fresh air I've taken in a long, long time.
Connor lifts me into his arms and punches in a code next to the door, which leads us into an elevator. As we make the ascent to his place, he doesn't stop teasing me. His fingers are playing with my thong that's peeking out the top of my jeans, giving it a snap every few seconds or so. His eyes don't leave mine, growing darker by the second.
