MILE HIGH

37

Right? Or is that some kind of loophole? That sounds like a loophole. That sounds like a really tempting loophole.

Since that night in Nashville two weeks ago, I couldn’t even tell you how many times I’ve gotten off to the image of Evan Zanders. Thinking about his beautifully sculpted body and the massive heat he’s packing down below has me clenching my legs together, trying to resist. I don’t think I’ve m*********d this much in my life, yet the ache and need are still there.

Reaching for my purple vibrator on my nightstand, I place it under the sheets and between my legs. The heavenly buzz fills my room as my favorite toy gets me even more wound up. It’s not going to take much. I’m almost there already.

Zanders devilish grin is playing in my mind, including the way I’d imagine his flawless body rolling on top of mine.

The image of his chiseled arms holding himself up above me while he thrusts in and out at a torturous pace. His chain that I wouldn’t mind hitting my chin as it dangled over me. And his voice—velvety, smooth, and confident. I bet that boy talks dirty in bed too.

I want him to talk dirty to me.

Buzzzzzz. Yes. So close. I’m right there. My chest is arched off the mattress.

Buzz. Buzz. Silence.

What the hell?

Looking down at the toy in my hand, I press the power button again and again, but it’s no use. It’s dead. And I didn’t pack my charger. I’ve never needed it on a road trip before, but then again, I’ve never gotten off this many times in a two-week span.

Are you kidding me? As if I wasn’t already pent up enough as it is.

My fingers. Those work.

Gliding my middle finger down my lower stomach until it grazes my c**t, I push myself into my hand. Rubbing, teasing, circling.

Okay, this will do, but I wish it were someone else’s fingers doing the work. Someone else’s long, tatted fingers that just so happened to be decorated with gold rings.

Stop, Stevie. You can’t go there.

My phone dings on my nightstand, distracting me from the brink of my o****m.

You’ve got to be kidding me. Tonight is not my night.

Unintentionally, I roll my eyes as I reach over to get my phone, and when I see whose name interrupted my moment, an audible grunt leaves my throat.

My ex of all of people is hitting me up, completely out of the blue, while I’m trying to get off to the image of the one person I shouldn’t be fantasizing about.

Brett: Hey Stevie, long time no talk.

Yeah, it has been a long time, as in not since I overheard you telling your teammates that as soon as you thought you were going pro, you were planning to drop me for the better options you assumed you had.

Brett: I talked to Ryan the other day about coming to visit. I didn’t know you were living out in Chicago now, but that’s awesome! And you’re flying with the Raptors? What is Evan Zanders like in real life? He’s my favorite player in the NHL. I’m planning on taking you to dinner when I get to the windy city. Talk soon.

Kill me right now. Kill me right f*****g now. No way in hell am I going anywhere with Brett, and there’s absolutely no chance I’m going to introduce him to Zanders of all people.

Tossing my phone to the other side of the bed, I resume my position with my fingers between my legs, but it’s no use. The moment is gone.

Fucking Brett.

With a huff, I sit up, my back to the headboard, thoroughly pissed off that my ex had the audacity to text me so casually like that. He thinks I’m going to crawl right back to him the way I did countless times in college? He thinks he can keep treating me like his backup option, and I’ll be waiting for him? I don’t want to be anyone’s option anymore.

I want someone to choose me.

Do you know who’s been trying to choose me for two weeks now? Brett’s favorite player in the NHL, that’s who.

In a moment of absolute frustration, pent-up aggression, and a sprinkle of pettiness, I reach for my phone and open i********:. Without overthinking it, I go to Zanders’ profile, where 3.6 million people follow the defenseman. He, on the other hand, only follows 128.

And I am one of those 128.

My thumbs hover over my phone screen as I internally battle with myself about whether or not this is a good idea. I mean, I know it’s a terrible idea, but right now, it feels worth it.

It’s just one night. One night of hot, very much needed, hopefully filthy, s*x. Just one night.

The usual wit I carry in my back pocket for my opening lines on the dating apps is completely thrown out. Zanders is a different breed of man, something I’m not used to. I want to send something clever, spicy, and maybe a bit elusive, but instead, the flirty message I send is... “Hey.”

Fucking brilliant, Stevie.

Not even thirty seconds later, those three gray dots dance along my phone screen as Zanders types his reply.

His message in response is not “hey.” It’s not “how are you?” It’s nothing fluffy or soft, testing out the situation. No, because it’s Zanders. The guy drips arrogance. He knows what he wants, and he always seems to get it.

Case in point, me only lasting two weeks before giving in to him.

The message he sends in reply? An address. Simply an address. Nothing less, nothing more. And for some reason, I find that really f*****g hot. He’s not playing games. He knows why I’m reaching out.

My Uber driver pulls up to a club on 18th street in downtown DC. Following Zanders’ instructions, I head to the third floor, but when I get there, a bouncer stops me, barricading the entrance.

“Name?”

“Oh.” I look over my shoulder at the line beginning to form behind me, wanting to enter the dark club in front of me. “I must be in the wrong spot.” Reading the message from Zanders, I ask the bouncer, “Is this 18th Street Lounge?”

“Name?” he repeats.

“Uh, Stevie?”

He scans the clipboard in front of him, his eyes dragging down the names before moving out of the way and directing me inside. “EZ’s in the back corner.”