A Secret for a Secret Read online

  I’m very glad I’m not drinking anything; as it is, I almost choke on my own spit. “You went eight years without a blow job?”

  “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t have told you that.”

  I wave away the apology. My curiosity about this guy has shot up several levels. That chick must have really had him by the balls for him to go without oral for that long. “I mean, I guess I can see how she might’ve been a little overwhelmed, because you’ve got a lot going on in that department.” I gesture to his crotch again. “But it’s not like you’d try to force the whole thing down her throat without some baby steps first.”

  I fight a smirk because I rocked the hell out of deep throating all that length and girth, and it’s a significant amount of both. My nosiness takes over, and I can’t seem to control the questions that come out of my mouth. “Did she even like, lick it? Kiss it? Suck on the head, at least?”

  Kingston blinks several times in a row and then swallows thickly. “Uh, no. She didn’t.”

  “Wow.” She seems like a prissy bitch. I don’t like her. All she had to do was lollipop it, even if she couldn’t get more than the head in. Mostly I think it’s an excuse not to be a giver. I keep that to myself, though, in case he’s the kind of guy who stays friends with his exes. For some reason that makes me jealous. I’m just a notch on his blow job bedpost. “How long have you two been broken up?”

  “Um, more than half a year.” He shifts around, like maybe this is making him uncomfortable.

  “So you’ve had lots of time to make up for all those missed BJs, then.” I’m being tongue in cheek. He’s a hockey player, a professional one, although maybe not super high profile, considering I had no idea who he was until today. Granted, my dad offered me the job two days ago, right after I got passed over for yet another service industry opportunity, so I didn’t have much time to prepare, or to study the members of the team. Also, I’ve been avoiding hockey since my first year of college, not because I hate the sport but because of the memories I associate with it.

  “You’re the first. Since college.”

  “You’re shitting me, right?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Wow. I hope I did okay, then.”

  “You did better than okay. You were amazing. It was . . . I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.” He turns his head and coughs.

  “Me, either, if I’m being completely honest.”

  “I wish you weren’t related to Jake.” Ryan’s voice is gritty and low.

  “If you didn’t play hockey for the team my dad manages, I would totally get on my knees for you again.” I need to cut this honesty crap. I still feel bad for the poor guy. Being in a relationship for almost a decade with a woman who refused to blow him is reprehensible, really.

  Ryan makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl. He’s so close I can feel his breath caress my cheek. I’m half-afraid and half-hopeful he’s going to try to kiss me. I don’t think I’d have the willpower to stop him if he did, and I’m banking on his Boy Scout morals to keep that from happening.

  I settle a palm on his chest to keep him from getting closer. “Ryan.”

  “It’s King, or Kingston.”

  “You introduced yourself as Ryan.”

  “Only my parents call me Ryan.” He covers my hand with his, and a warm shiver trickles down my spine as the hair on his arms stands on end. “Do you feel that?”

  “Feel what?” My whole body is on alert.

  “The same thing happened last time. Like there’s electricity in the air.”

  My phone buzzes on the counter behind me, startling us both. His eyes flare and he raises both hands, stepping back so we’re no longer touching each other.

  “It’s your dad,” he croaks. “What the heck is wrong with me? I shouldn’t be here. With you. Alone. Unsupervised.”

  I put a finger to my lips, clear my throat, and answer the call. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”

  “I’m on my way home now. I figured we could go out for dinner, celebrate your first day.” A horn honks in the background.

  “Or you could pick up takeout on the way home.” I glance at Kingston, who’s standing frozen a few feet away.

  “I made a reservation at our favorite place for seven, but I can cancel if you’d rather I pick something up.” I detect disappointment over that possibility.

  “How close to home are you?”

  “About five minutes away.”

  “I guess I better get ready, then.” And get Kingston the hell out of here.

  “Sounds good. See you soon.”

  He ends the call, and I drop the phone on the counter. “My dad will be home in five minutes.”

  “I need to leave. Your dad can’t find me here.” Kingston takes a step toward me and then backs up again. “I’m so sorry. I just wanted to talk things out. I didn’t mean to get all up in your personal space, or make you rehash our night together.”

  “Why don’t we just forget any of it ever happened?” I’m trying to give us both an out.

  “Forget it happened?” He frowns.

  I lift one shoulder in what I hope is a nonchalant shrug. “It was meant to be a one-off, right? Besides, it’s kind of a bad idea to get involved with a guy from the team my dad manages, you know?” I don’t want to open up a can of worms we might not be able to close if we allow ourselves to indulge in activities we shouldn’t. Kind of like the way addicts always say “Just one more hit,” I think Ryan Kingston could be my drug of choice.

  “I don’t know that I’m going to be able to forget that night, but you’re right: it’s best if we keep it platonic.”

  That bolsters my ego a little. “Shake on it?” I hold my hand out.

  Slowly he clasps my hand in his much larger one. “We keep it platonic.”

  “Deal.”

  He’s still holding my hand, eyes locked on my face. Actually they’re locked on my lips.

  I hear a crunch and the low hum of bass, which tells me a car has pulled into the driveway. “My dad’s home.”

  “Oh crap. I really gotta go.” Kingston yanks me forward. I stumble and plaster my hands on his solid chest. I can feel his heart beating a staccato rhythm. His lips brush my cheek. “I promise I’ll do my best to keep it strictly platonic.”

  He disappears out the back door before I can say anything else.

  CHAPTER 6

  STRIDES

  Queenie

  Things I have discovered over the course of the last few days: my dad loves paper and forms. I’ve also learned how to decipher the nearly illegible handwriting of nearly thirty players. I glance at Bishop Winslow’s paperwork—I’m almost at the end of the list, thank baby Jesus riding a freaking unicorn—and try to figure out what the hell he wrote in response to a rather arbitrary question pertaining to the off-season workouts. I’m pretty sure it’s pithy and a sexual innuendo, but I can’t be sure because his handwriting is atrocious.

  A knock drags my tired eyes away from the form. It’s almost five, and I’m determined to finish inputting all this stuff before I leave for the day.

  “Uh, hi, Queenie.” Kingston is standing in the middle of the doorway, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his khakis, eyes bouncing all over the room, pausing at the open door to my dad’s office and then shifting back to me.

  “Hi, Kingston. Did you need to see Jake?”

  “Jake?” He blinks a few times, as if he’s never heard the name before. “Oh, uh, no. I don’t need to . . . there’s a delivery.” He thumbs over his shoulder, and a guy whose head barely reaches Kingston’s shoulder comes into view.

  Every interaction with Kingston since the first day has been awkward, to say the least. I’d be offended, but I honestly think he doesn’t know how to deal with this situation any better than I do.

  The delivery guy squeezes past Kingston, who takes up the majority of the doorway with his broad shoulders, and holds out his electronic device and a stylus. “I just need you to sign here.”

&nbs
p; “Are these the tablets I ordered?” I ask as I take the stylus from him and sign my name.

  “Sure are. You ordered a lot of ’em.” He glances at my nameplate poised on the corner of my desk. “Queenie, is it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

  “All right, well, thanks so much. I can take it from here,” Kingston says loudly and then drops a huge box on my desk, very close to the delivery guy’s pinkie. When the delivery guy doesn’t make a move to leave, Kingston says, “Have a nice day.” Following it with a fake-looking, close-lipped smile.

  The delivery guy gives me a nod and Kingston the side-eye as he leaves the office.

  I’d call him out on whatever that was, but I’m too excited about the delivery to care. I open my desk drawer and rummage around for a pair of scissors.

  “How do you find anything in there?” Kingston leans on the box while I sift through the contents of the drawer.

  “It’s my miscellaneous drawer.”

  “It’s a mess.”

  “Me and the drawer have a lot in common,” I mutter, and I finally find what I’m looking for. “Aha!” I produce a pair of craft scissors better suited for a five-year-old, but they’ll have to do. I elbow Kingston out of the way—he’s still hanging off the box—and attempt to use the cut-proof scissors to break through the tape. Unfortunately it’s completely ineffective, so I resort to picking at the edge. Sadly, I’ve been anxious lately—see the guy standing next to me, watching me fight to get into a cardboard box, for details—so I’ve been picking at my nails, and they’re pretty much stubs.

  “Can I offer my assistance?” Sitting in Kingston’s palm is a utility knife.

  “Why am I not the least bit surprised that you have one of those?” I nab it from his palm, then fight to get the blade out, because again, nail stubs aren’t great for traction. I finally manage to get it open and cut through the tape securing the box. I open the flaps and sift through the packing peanuts, grabbing hold of one of the packages. Styrofoam peanuts litter my desk as I pull the box free and squeal with excitement. “You are going to save my eyeballs and my sanity!” I kiss the package and hug it to my chest.

  Kingston’s deep chuckle reminds me that I’m not alone, and that he’s just witnessed me talking to and kissing an inanimate object. I glance his way, ready to give him a little sass, but the words get stuck in my throat.

  Because he’s full-on smiling, and it’s ridiculously beautiful. Particularly because there’s a tiny chip out of the corner of his front tooth, and for some reason, that slight imperfection is incredibly endearing. And sexy.

  Of course, this is the very moment that a highly inconvenient memory also surfaces. One where he was wearing the same smile. Because he managed to give me not one, but three consecutive orgasms with his incredibly competent mouth.

  Our gazes lock, and it feels like some kind of magnetic field prevents us from looking away. His smile fades and his tongue peeks out, skimming the imperfect tooth.

  “Is everything okay out here? I thought I heard—oh, Kingston, hi.” My dad breaks the spell. “What’s this?” He motions to the giant box taking up more than half my desk.

  “So, remember the other day, when I was asking you about the technology budget?”

  “Uhhhh . . .”

  “You said you had no idea and that I should ask Alex,” I remind him. I also asked when he was clearly in the middle of something, on purpose.

  “That sounds about right.”

  “Well, turns out we have a pretty sizable technology budget, and Alex has all kinds of connections because of all of his previous endorsement campaigns, so I managed to get a set of tablets for the entire team at a highly discounted price. All we have to do is tag the company in a few social media posts. Isn’t that awesome?”

  “Um, yes?” My dad rubs the back of his neck and glances at Kingston, as if he’s going to help out here. “Why exactly do we need a set of tablets for the whole team?”

  “Because you’re using entirely too much paper. It’s like a tree graveyard in your office, and every time we have a meeting I have to make four million copies. Also, these guys have worse penmanship than a class of preschoolers.” I turn to Kingston. “Except you. Your handwriting is extremely legible.”

  “Thanks.” He grins again, and my brain shorts out for a second.

  “You’re welcome,” I finally whisper-breathe. “Anyway, once I get all the documents on file as PDFs, they’ll be able to complete the forms via tablet, and I won’t have to manually input anything, which will free up my time, save my sanity, and preserve at least one forest somewhere. See why I’m so excited?”

  “This seems like a lot of work, and won’t you have to teach everyone how to use them? And me? I’ll have to learn how to do all that stuff.” I can see that my dad’s starting to panic.

  “I promise it’ll be simple, and I’ll give you a tutorial. I can even make a video for the guys. I’ll walk you through the whole process. You’re working with a bunch of kinesthetic learners, and this helps make everything accessible and interactive.”

  “It’s actually a great idea,” Kingston chimes in. I’m not sure if he’s trying to save my ass, or he really thinks it’s a great idea, but I appreciate the support.

  “I’m sure Lou-Ellen was a great assistant, and I know she was lovely, but you’re still stuck in 1999, and the rest of the world is two decades ahead of you. I know it seems like a lot, but honestly, I’m about to make your life a hell of a lot easier.”

  “Okay.” My dad blows out a breath and nods. “If you think this is going to make things easier, then I’m game, as long as it doesn’t interfere with any of your other duties.”

  “It won’t. I promise.”

  He looks to Kingston. “Did you need to see me?”

  “Oh, no, sir. I was helping Queenie. I should head out.” He thumbs over his shoulder and takes a step toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow. At practice. Have a nice night. Bye, Queenie.” He awkward waves, his face having turned bright red once again, and darts down the hall.

  My dad cocks a brow. “He seems smitten with you.”

  I snort laugh; it’s a horrible sound. “He’s like a poster boy for the Boy Scouts of America. I think a Girl Scout leader would be more his type.”

  “Opposites attract.” He shrugs, maybe trying to come across as nonchalant, but I know my dad, and I can tell he’s fishing.

  “Are you saying I couldn’t be a Girl Scout leader?”

  “You’re more suited to the rebel faction, I think.” He grins and I laugh.

  He’s not wrong. “Well, he seems like a rule follower, and you made it pretty clear that I’m off limits, so I don’t think you have anything to worry about with Kingston.” It’s me he should be concerned about, because as much as we might be mutually off limits, there’s clearly an attraction we’re both fighting. Kingston seems a lot more capable of keeping himself in check than I am.

  CHAPTER 7

  DODGE AND WEAVE

  Queenie

  Over the next couple of weeks I settle into a routine. In the morning I make eggs and avocado toast for me and my dad, which we eat while we review the schedule for the day.

  I write a lot of memos, arrange meetings, answer emails, and study team statistics whenever I have a little downtime. Having completed almost all the required courses for a psych degree, I’ve taken stats, and it’s something I actually enjoy and excel at, so analyzing numbers is fun for me.

  And it’s so much easier now that I’ve moved everything over to digital. I still make my dad paper copies, but at least we’re only killing a few trees and not an entire forest. He was reluctant at first, but when he realized how much more streamlined everything became, he finally relented. It’s made my job so much easier, and it means I can focus on something other than endless paperwork.

  Since I’m fully immersed in the world of hockey and everything that entails, I’ve also observed pr
eseason training camp several times. Watching those guys in action gives me a renewed respect for how hard they push themselves physically. It explains Kingston’s exceptional stamina and flexibility.

  And so far we’ve got the awkward platonic thing down. He’s always polite, always appropriate, and always red faced when I run into him.

  I’d like to say I give him a wide berth as a result, but that would be untrue. In fact, I derive perverse enjoyment from watching him flounder and splutter every time we cross paths, because it’s so very different from how he was that night we spent together. I can’t figure out which version is authentic, or if it’s both.

  Today the team has on-ice practice, so I pack up my laptop and the notes for a memo I’m drafting, as well as the schedule of events for the next month. We’ll be heading into exhibition games soon. I also get to watch Kingston tend goal without being obvious about it. It’s a win all the way around.

  The patter of little feet and the high-pitched excited voice of my favorite toddler grabs my attention. I glance over at the bench and smile as Rook smothers his son’s face in sweaty kisses. Bowman’s sister, Stevie, has stopped by a bunch of times over the past two weeks. She’s hard to miss with her pale-blue hair. She’s always been friendly and chatty with me, and she’s easy to talk to.

  “Daddy! No!” Kody pushes on his father’s cheeks, but he’s giggling.

  Stevie, who also happens to be Bishop Winslow’s wife—there are some interesting dynamics with these players—gives her attention to Bishop. He pulls her in for a kiss that isn’t quite PG. She does the same thing Kody did to Bowman, pushing away while laughing.

  “Stop mauling my sister, Winslow!” Bowman gripes.

  “I’m not mauling her. I’m saying hi to my wife.” Bishop smirks and winks at Stevie.

  Bowman sets Kody down, and the moment the kid sees me, his eyes light up. Kody bounces up the stairs and clomp-run-hops excitedly over to me.

  Kingston, who’s been a silent observer thus far, glances over his shoulder, watching Kody bumble toward me. Our gazes meet briefly, and the corner of his mouth quirks up before he turns away. And like every other time we make eye contact, a flush creeps up the back of his neck and travels to the tip of his ears.