Strictly for Now by Carrie Elks

CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE

MACKENZIE

The next two weeks pass in the blink of an eye. With the advanced sales for the exhibition game looking so good, it’s clear we’re going to be able to pay off the IRS debt. I hate to admit it, but Dad was right. The game is a great idea.

The production team has been calling every day, and their scout has been down to check out all of the arrangements. They explain they’ll be in the background but they’ll be here every moment dad is. He’s going to love it but I already hate it.

Eli has been stoic about all the changes. Three days ago the rink was swarmed with cameras, as they recorded practice, followed by candid interviews with Eli and the team which they’re planning to use as teasers for the big game.

I could see him getting impatient when they asked if Eli could dumb down a little.

“We want to create a narrative for you. It would be so good to paint you as the Ted Lasso of the hockey game.”

Seriously. The man has the patience of a saint.

I showed him how appreciative I was when we got back to my place that night. He’s a professional, but I also think he’s only tolerating this for me. And for Gramps.

It’s Friday night, which means it’s game night. This week the Mavericks are at home playing against the Wolf Pack, managed by one of Eli’s old teammates.

And I want to make tonight good for him. No matter what happens to the score.

Because he’s special. I’ve realized that much over the past few weeks. So as the spectators pour into the stadium and the seats fill up, I grab the bag I’ve stashed in my desk drawer. I went to the mall last week to get this, while the Mavericks were playing in North Carolina, and I smiled the whole way home.

Either he’s going to love this or he’s going to hate it.

It’s amazing how busy the stadium has gotten since news of the All-star game and my parent’s reality TV show have gotten out. Our season ticket sales have gone up three hundred percent, and we’re attracting students from the local schools and colleges, too. It all helps to create a buzzing atmosphere, as Carter wins the face off and gains control of the puck.

“You’re wearing a Mavericks jersey,” Brian says, when I take the chair next to him.

“Yeah. I thought I’d better show some team spirit.” I smile and touch the big M embroidered on the front.

“I could have gotten you one. We have spares,” he tells me. He’s kind of sweet when you get to know him.

“It’s okay. I wanted this one.”

At half time I don’t head down for my usual hot dog. Instead, I head for the executive bathroom and grab my phone, turning around so I can take a photo of the back of my jersey in the mirror.

Salinger. 8.

It’s such a cliché, but dammit I want to wear his number on my back. I want him to know I’m wearing it.

I made a huge mistake the last time I watched a home game by not showing him I cared and this time I’ll do whatever it takes for him to know.

He won’t check his messages. He never does during a game. But afterward maybe he’ll come find me.

I’m all hyped up during the rest of the game. Eli comes on for the last fifteen minutes, but he works up a sweat, slamming the puck across the ice, and I manage to work up a sweat watching him.

And when the game ends and we win, the sound of cheering is deafening. We all jump up and the rest of the box can see exactly whose name is on the back of my shirt, if they hadn’t noticed before.

I can’t bring myself to care.

I’m still grinning as I head back to my office and send the photo I took earlier to Eli, along with a message.

I’m completely naked under your jersey. – Mackenzie x

Locking the door, I shimmy off my jeans, along with my panties, bra, and socks. For good measure I find a pair of high, high heels with straps that criss cross my ankles. Then I reapply my make up and wait for a reply.

Where are you? – Eli

Come find me. – Mackenzie

There’s a pause, then I see the dots appear on the screen as he types.

Mac, I’ve got a boner the size of the Empire State building here. If I prowl the hallways I’m gonna end up getting arrested. Where the fuck are you? – Eli

I can’t help but grin. I send him another photo. This time of my legs and my shoes, my ankles crossed as I sit on my desk. To get the right angle, I have to contort my body into a completely unnatural shape, but my legs look good so it’s worth it.

Guess. – Mackenzie

In less than two minutes, he’s banging on my door, and I remember I locked it. Trying not to laugh at the way he jiggles the handle impatiently, I walk over and unlatch it, stepping back as he barrels inside.

“Lock it again,” he says, his voice thick.

His gaze sweeps down over my body. A little thrill rushes through me at the unashamed way he’s ogling me.

“Turn around,” he says when the door is secured.

So I do, the stiletto heels of my shoes hitting the tiled floor.

“Walk over to the desk.”

He doesn’t say please. It’s weird how I like that when usually I hate it. I want him to order me around. I want him to show me who’s boss.

We’re equals in every way, but sometimes a girl likes to play.

I stroll to the desk, my back toward Eli. I glance over my shoulder and he hasn’t moved. He’s looking at my legs, his eyes dark.

Placing my hands flat on the desk I lean forward, pushing my ass out and letting my back arch.

The jersey gathers around my hips, exposing me to him.

“Do you know how beautiful you look?” he rasps. “Did you wear that for me?”

“Yes.”

“Did people see you wear it?” he asks.

“Everybody,” I breathe.

There’s a shuffle. I want to look back but I also want to keep playing this game. The one where I’m his to do with as he pleases. Then I hear footsteps. Unhurried and steady.

Two warm palms press against my hips. I’m so turned on it isn’t funny. All he’d have to do is push his finger between my legs to find out. But he doesn’t. Instead, he pushes himself against me, the thick ridge of him digging into my ass.

“You made me search for you,” he whispers.

“I know.”

“You like playing games?” His breath is warm against my ear. “Is that what it is?”

“Yes.”

“I bet you fucking do.” He slaps my behind, once. It’s unexpectedly hard. I let out a yelp.

And then I get wetter still.

My breath is ragged as he traces the curve of my hips, the outside of my thigh, the inner part of my knee where the skin is sensitive.

Another slap. Just as hard. I get even wetter.

“You like that?” he asks after I let out a soft groan.

“Yes.” I’m not sure I can form any other words right now.

“So do I.” He kisses my neck. It’s such a sweet contrast to the surprising sting of his palm.

There’s another shuffle, then I feel something different. His mouth, kissing the skin where it’s still sensitive from his slap. His lips trail down the curve of my behind, to the fold of skin where my ass meets my thighs,

And then his tongue darts out and licks me.

I have to muffle my mouth with my hands not to scream.

“Are you going to be good?” he asks me.

“I’m trying.”

“If you make any noise I won’t let you come.” He slides his palms up my thighs and pulls them apart, placing my feet wider apart.

And then he feasts on me.

I’ve never met a man who enjoys a woman the way Eli Salinger does. It’s like I’m his favorite meal and he hasn’t eaten in a month. I press my mouth against the back of my hand, trying not to cry out as my body goes into overdrive. My legs shake hard enough for him to have to steady me with his strong palms.

And then he goes in for the kill.

His tongue is incessant and talented, coaxing the pleasure out of me with teasing licks. He pushes a finger inside of me, then two, curling them until I’m on a cliff edge of desire.

Another lick and I careen down into oblivion.

My body convulses around his fingers, my legs shiver, and those stupidly high heels I’m wearing give way. He reaches for my hips again, holding me against him, before turning me around and sliding me back onto the desk until I’m sitting on the surface, my legs spread, the glow of my orgasm still suffusing me.

The smile on his face is so big I can’t help but smile, too. He leans forward to kiss me and I curl my hands around his neck, so happy that this man is here.

That he’s mine.

I press my cheek to his, and whisper in his ear. “Fuck me, Salinger.”

And he does.

Twice.

The second time with me bent over the desk again, so he can come inside of me while he sees his name written across my back. And when he does, letting out a long, low groan that’s so sweet it makes me ache, it feels perfect.

Like everything.

“Wear this jersey next week,” he says once he’s cleaned me off. I’m still wearing nothing else, but I’ll have to put my jeans on before we leave. Even if everybody else has left the building, it’s way too cold outside to have bare legs.

Plus, there are security cameras. And I might not mind having his name on my back, but I do mind exposing myself to the staff.

“Okay.” I nod.

“And the week after.”

I smile. “Am I allowed to launder it between wears?”

“Nope.”

I laugh again. I’ll definitely wash it. But he doesn’t need to know that.

“And the week after that.”

“That’s Bye Week,” I remind him.

“I know.” His eyes catch mine.

Bye Week is when the exhibition game will be played. When the Mavericks face the team captained by my dad.

He’s not only asking me to show him support. He’s asking me to show more. To show I care. To show I’m his.

My heart slams against my chest.

“Okay.” I nod.

He kisses me again. This time it’s sweet. I lean into his kiss, every part of me on fire.

“Did it hurt when I slapped you?” he asks, his brows pinched.

“No.” I swallow hard. “I liked it.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. I don’t think I want to be slapped every time. But tonight it was hot.” I liked the little game we played. Sure it was mild, but it was sexy. My cheeks pink up when I think about it.

“We should go home now,” he says. “Before I take you against this desk again.”

“Not even you can do a hat trick that quickly,” I tell him.

“Don’t try me.” Gently he lifts me off the table, then he drops to his knees and unfastens the straps of my heels. They left little red welts and he presses his lips against the tender skin.

I ruffle his hair and he looks up at me, his eyes are so open and honest it makes my heart hurt. “Where are your clothes?” he asks.

“In the desk drawer. I can get them.”

But he won’t let me. Taking them out of the drawer, he slowly dresses me. Starting with my panties, followed by my jeans and socks. We don’t bother with my bra because that’s too much effort. He stuffs it into his pocket and I slide my shoes on.

When I’m almost decent, he holds his hand out and I take it. He pulls me close to him, using his free hand to smooth down my hair.

“Thank you,” he whispers. His own hair is messed up from the way I mauled it during our first romp on my desk. He looks sated and boyish, and it touches me.

And I don’t think he’s thanking me for the sex. Or maybe he is. But there’s more. I think he’s thanking me for the jersey. For putting myself out there.

For trying not to be afraid.

There’s a lump the size of Manhattan in my throat as I stare back at him.

“Any time,” I tell him. And then I let him take me home.