“Really.”
She taps her index finger against her knee, and my attention is drawn there like a magnet, sliding higher on her bare thighs, before I remember my manners and refasten my gaze where it belongs. On her beautiful face.
When she speaks again, I’m not prepared for the tone of voice she uses.
It’s quiet and intimate. Like a husky purr. It instantly twists my abdomen muscles into a knot, my Adam’s apple getting stuck high beneath my chin.
“Are you sure, Sum?”
The fly of my jeans suddenly feels like shrink-wrap. Way too tight.
“Sure about what?”
“Your ability to keep this friendly.” Slowly, she rises from her chair and, miracle of miracles, moves into the V of my thighs, bringing her sexy, round tits within inches of my face, and my manners become a thing of the past. I don’t remember ever having them. My chest rattles up and down as this girl, this fifteen out of ten, straddles me, parking her hypnotic ass on my thighs . . . and begins to play with my beard, twisting it around her index finger. I’m reeling from that contact when life gets even better. She leans in and rubs her lips side to side against mine, transforming my dick to wrought iron in my pants. “I see the way you watch me. I think you like me a little too much for this to be nothing but a business arrangement.” She gently touches her tongue to the seam of my lips, and I hiss like a teakettle, my hips shifting restlessly. “Don’t you, Sumner?”
My brain is upside down. I’m panting. “I, uh . . .”
She looks into my eyes, nodding over what she sees. “You’re going to want more than my name on a marriage certificate, won’t you?”
“I can keep it under control,” I say thickly, my tongue nearly lolling out of my mouth.
Britta presses her forehead against mine, and we both look down at the crude outline of my erection, her letting out a soft expulsion of air. As if to say, Caught ya. The things I would give to have Britta unzip my pants and ride me on this couch. Limbs. Years of my life.
Hell, I’d give up hockey.
Because of that, I come very close to crying when she scoots off my lap and reclaims her chair, leaving me breathing like a marathon runner with a throbbing spike between my legs. “You’re a relationship guy. I can tell. Throw in the fact that you’re attracted to me, and this will go sideways.”
“You’re right. I am a relationship guy, but . . .” I’m searching for any way to reassure her that I’m listening and acknowledging. Taking her seriously. “It’s . . . obvious you’re not a relationship girl.”
That’s what I come up with.
She blinks. Rears back a little, then recovers. Did I say the wrong thing? “R-right. I’m not. I’m not a family girl either. I don’t want to get married and have kids. None of that. And you clearly do. I’m worried this arrangement might mislead you—”
“No. I won’t be misled.” All right, look. If I’m saying this to her, I have to mean it. I can’t lie to her. Maybe I’ll never totally let go of the hope she’ll change her mind about me, but I won’t try to trick her into changing.
I won’t back her into any corners. That’s a vow. “You’re not a relationship girl. You’re not a family girl. I won’t forget.”
“Sumner, I don’t know . . .”
“You get to be an owner in this place. I get my green card. We can do this as friends.”
“Not a relationship. An . . . expiration ship?”
I loathe that word as soon as it comes out of her mouth.
“We can’t break up as soon as you get your green card, or everyone would do it. They’ll find it suspicious, and neither one of us wants to go down for fraud. So . . .” She consults the ceiling. “We could expire the same time next year. New Year’s Eve 2024. That should be enough time to file paperwork, go through with the interview, and stay together awhile once the dust settles.” She studies me. “Can you live with that?”
Can I? Live with the knowledge that I’ll have to let her go the same time next year?
Again, I have no choice.
Not if I want to stay in Bridgeport and play hockey. I’ll just have to worship Britta from afar for the rest of my life. Keep my feelings to myself.
What she is asking me for is fair—a platonic arrangement where I don’t get the wrong idea. And I won’t. She’s making it clear that she doesn’t want anything more from me than $50,000.
“Yeah. I can live with that.” It’s my damn optimistic heart that won’t let me hold the rest inside. “But it’s just you and me. Neither one of us dates anyone else. For authenticity’s sake.”