Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
And she did, while not only being gorgeous as hell, but also absolutely right.
Our figure skating program is trash. Hell, it’s not even a program. It’s three girls whom Chelsea tries her best to coach. She doesn’t even like figure skating, but I didn’t think two six-year-old girls and a ten-year-old would be comfortable with me. So, I trained Chelsea the best I could, but it’s obvious the program isn’t thriving. Shit, it’s on the verge of flatlining. I don’t carry anything in the pro shop because people get it online. I sure as hell don’t promote it, because why? It’s embarrassing, and with how great the hockey programs do, I didn’t see a point.
Despite how badly Phillip wanted it to succeed.
Damn it, I don’t want to need Fable.
But I do. In more ways than are written out in the stipulations of Phillip’s will.
When she touched my bed, I wanted to lay her down in it. Let her nuzzle her nose in my sheets before I nuzzled her sweet pussy. Seeing her in my space, I was nervous she’d think it was plain, but she had such a look of awe in her pretty green eyes. The way her lips parted when she looked at the photo of me kissing her nose during our Olympic skate still has my cock throbbing. I want her, desperately, and if I make it through her driving me up the wall with whatever ideas she has to revive the skating program, I may tell her so. I may finally shoot my shot, as Liam said. But…for what? To fall madly in love with her and then let her go?
Again?
She doesn’t like Thistlebrook, and this place is my home.
Her in my space is a mindfuck all in itself, and I don’t know how to handle it.
I do know that my damn heart isn’t safe around her.
I’m sipping on a cup of coffee when a knock lands on my office door. I know it’s her, and instantly, my blood rushes to my cock. I try to steady myself and will my cock not to plow through my zipper. I feel like I’m sixteen again, unable to control my desire for her. How many times did I have to “go to the bathroom” to get control of myself or rub one out just to be able to touch her again? I hate to admit this, but it was enough times that, at almost-forty, I’m still embarrassed. She does something to me. Even when she isn’t here, I’m haunted by thoughts of her. Now, she’s not only living rent-free in my head, but in my space.
I have to work with her.
I slowly shut my eyes and remind myself that I have to hear her out and that she’s here to help me, not take anything from me. It almost works, until she enters my office. As soon as her lush, jean-clad ass drops into the chair in front of me and she leans on my desk with a file, I know I’m fucked.
Not only is Fable stunning this morning, but she has come with a file, and in the file are detailed plans and Post-it notes. It’s her mind on paper, and it’s a goddamn mess, while she looks like a walking dream. Her hair down in wild waves, she’s wearing a little makeup and gloss on her thick lips. She has on an oversized black tee that hangs off one shoulder, showing the strap of a bright-pink sports bra, leaving perfect spots bare that I want to suck on. Those painted-on jeans have rips along the knees, and she’s added a pair of pink canvas shoes. Her eyes are full of excitement and a determination that I haven’t seen since we were training together.
And she smells like a field of my favorite wildflowers.
Which only makes sense because my ice princess is as wild as they come. Gardenias, tuberose, mint, and lyreleaf greeneyes. She makes me want to roll around on her like a dog and hope I walk away with every single scent of hers on me.
Not even wishing me a good morning, she jumps right in. “The first thing we need to do is contact parents to let them know that I’ll be taking over instructing,” she tells me, pulling me from my horndog thoughts.
I take the paper from her and mutter, “Good morning to you too.”
“Morning,” she says, but I can’t focus on anything but the photo on this paper. It has a whole bunch of words and a photo of her on skates, her arms above her head in a pose, but all I see are her nipples through the leotard she wears. She’s wearing white tights that don’t hide the many tattoos along her hips and the tops of her tights. She has this hourglass figure that makes me want to fall to my knees for a chance at her, even if the sand runs out.