He frowns and runs a hand over his beard, looking anxious. “I didn’t think about that.”

“Just imagine how embarrassed I’d be if someone else’s boyfriend walked in while I was naked.” Now I’m messing with him.

The furrow in his brow deepens, and his eyes go dark. If I didn’t have a session in fifteen minutes, I’d be excited about that look, because it typically means very good things for the Vagina Emporium. Sadly, she’s covered in multiple layers of fabric. And I’m hours away from any kind of relief for the ache that’s flared low in my belly.

“Only I see you naked,” Randy barks.

I snicker-snort. Sometimes Randy can be so very irrationally male.

He stalks forward to loom over me. “You think that’s funny?”

“Someone else seeing me naked? No, I don’t think that’s funny at all. Your reaction to the unlikely possibility is, though. When we get to Alex’s cottage, should we put you in a loincloth? We’ll rename you a random sound, and you can club me over the head and drag me into the forest. We’ll live in a cave, and you can battle bears to entertain me.” I bite the inside of my cheek to hold in my laughter.

Randy cracks a sheepish grin. “That was pretty bad, wasn’t it?”

“Uh, yeah.”

He brushes a few strands of hair, imaginary or not, away from my cheek. “I’m a little greedy when it comes to you.” He traces the edge of my jaw, the pad of his thumb sweeping my bottom lip.

“I’m aware.”

Prior to me, Randy had seen lots of women naked. I thought I had a thick skin until I started dating him. As the girlfriend of an NHL player, I get personal messages from his former conquests about how they’re a way better lay than I am, among other fun things. It was shocking at first, but at least I have friends who get what I’m going through.

I’ve had a total of five sexual partners, including Randy. I’m assuming Randy’s had at least ten times that. Maybe it should bother me, but it doesn’t. Now that we’ve decided to be together, he’s never given me a reason to worry about him being unfaithful. His dad’s history of cheating isn’t one he wants to repeat.

“You still have a few minutes before you have to be on the ice, right?” he asks.

“I should get out there soon, but yeah.”

Randy makes a noise but doesn’t respond with words, which is sometimes his way. He’s very much an action man. I knew he loved me a long time before he said the words out loud. All the little sacrifices, all the sweet things that come unprovoked are perfect examples of how he feels. And I feel the same way. But I don’t think he’s here to tell me he loves me. Not based on the gleam in his eye or the bulge making an appearance in his pants.

“What’s up?” I pat the hard lump under the jeans. “Other than moody dick.”

He covers my hand with his. “Wanna have a quickie?”

“I don’t have enough minutes for that.” I put my palm on his chest when he leans in. My resistance to Randy’s advances is minimal, even with time constraints.

“I can be superfast. I bet you’re halfway to coming already.” A smirky grin tugs the side of his mouth. That smile used to infuriate me. Occasionally it still does.

Randy may be right; he has the incredible ability to get me off with very little physical contact. He’s rather cocky about it. Being in a public locker room where someone could walk in any second should be a deterrent. But it really isn’t—for either of us. Also, Randy takes much longer to come than I do. It’s one of the positive side effects of the accident he had when he was a kid—the one that nearly robbed him of half of his amazing cock—and I have my doubts he’ll be able to get off in under ten. His record is twelve minutes, and he was just crazy excited; it was the first time we went without a condom. Now he’s gotten used to going in bare, so his longevity is astounding.

“There’s no way you’ll come before I have to get on the ice, and then we have to sit in a car with Sunny and Miller. You’ll have to behave yourself for two hours with blue balls. How pleasant is that going to be for you?”

“I’m already gonna have blue balls, so it’s not like it actually matters if I come. I can take care of myself after I take care of you.”

I’m straddling the bench, so he plants a knee between my legs and leans forward. At the same time, he twines his fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck, angling my head back as if he’s planning to kiss me.

“You can’t wait until we get to the cottage to get me off?” It’s taking a superhuman amount of self-restraint not to shift against his strategically placed knee.

“I can, but I don’t want to.” He drops his head so his mouth is close to mine. “Come on, luscious. You send me all these pictures of you in your skating gear; now you’re gonna deny me what you’ve been enticing me with for the past four hours?”

He smells fantastic, like the cologne I bought him for Valentine’s Day. “You asked for those pictures.”

“I know. Now I want to thank you for them by making you come.”

“How are you planning to make me come?” It’s a challenge to remember why this isn’t a great idea with him looking so good and talking about giving me orgasms.

“How ’bout with my fingers?”

“I’m fully dressed.”

“Like that’s ever stopped me before.”

He has a point. He can make me come just by rubbing up on me. Our chemistry is ridiculous.

I finally give in when he kisses me. I should feel bad that I’m about to receive an orgasm at work, in the changing room, but Randy’s good at persuasion, and providing pleasure, so it’s hard to feel anything other than excitement.

He brings his knee forward, and I start grinding on him right away.

I can hear his smile. “That’s it; take what you want, baby.”

I nip at his lip, aware he’s playing with me. I’ll get him back later. He slips his tongue in my mouth and starts a slow, stroking rhythm that in no way matches the slightly desperate way I’m grinding against his knee. Randy has that effect. He knows it, and he likes to use it to his advantage.

His hand stays where it is, cradling my head as we kiss. I keep rolling my hips, wishing he was hitting my special spot with a more precise body part, such as the fingers he talked about. I reach between us and palm him—he’s extra hard—through his pants. Now I wish actual sex was an option not impeded by the barrier of clothing, which I’m beginning to think is part of his master plan.