Connell (Carolina Reapers 3)

“Mr. MacDhuibh!” the reporter said with a smile, taking out his recorder. “She said you wanted to tackle the interview while you’re shooting?” He gave the models an appreciative glance.

“If that’s okay, Mr. Perry?” A girl draped herself across my chest, and the smell of hairspray engulfed me.

“Sure! Call me John.”

“John, call me Connell.”

We shared a grin, and he shook his head. “Man, that’s some job you have.”

“It pays the bills,” I said with a shrug.

“Connell, if you could turn to the side?” the photographer asked. “Yes, just like that. Desiree, lift your head a little, sweetheart? There, now look up at him.”

Her blue eyes met mine, and we held the pose.

“Okay, now Connell, I want you to really channel desire into this shot. Put your hand at her lower back.”

Her bare back, since she was only wearing a matching bra and panty set with matching garters and stockings. My hand splayed wide across her skin, and I wanted to apologize to her—not just for my hands, but for an industry that required she be in such gettup outside her bedroom.

“It’s okay,” she assured me, gripping the lapels of my suit.

“Do I look that uncomfortable?”

“Kind of.” She crinkled her nose. “I’m fine. You’re fine. And this is way more than I was wearing in the last Vickie’s shoot.”

“Right. Good to know.”

“Connell, you look a little…” The photographer faded off.

“Like you’re holding your sister,” Cannon suggested.

Awesome.

“You have a girlfriend, right?” Desiree asked, looking up at me with fake lust in her eyes.

“Aye.” One that would be anything but happy if she saw how I was holding this model.

“Just pretend I’m her. Close your eyes. Picture her, open them and keep that feeling. It’s one or two clicks at most.” She nodded supportively.

“Okay.” I closed my eyes and pictured Annabelle in that sundress, up on her kitchen counter. Annabelle naked above me in my shower with her head thrown back as I licked her to an orgasm. Annabelle riding astride me, her eyes glazed and her lips parted.

Then I opened my eyes and focused on the area just above the girl’s eyes so the blue color didn’t completely fuck me up when all I wanted was deep, soft brown.

I heard the clicks and prayed he got what he wanted.

“Perfect. Okay, reset,” the photographer ordered.

The girls walked away for a second, and John came over. “Man, that’s intense. You ever tap any of that? Off the record, of course.”

“No,” I replied as I was moved into the center of the backdrop by an assistant with a light meter.

“Right. Okay, so on the record?”

“Still the same answer.”

John shook his head. “No, I meant, are you ready to start the interview? You know the feel of our magazine—very stylish. Very masculine.”

“I’ve read it.”

“Good. This issue is on success in sports. Basically a look at what makes you tick, what makes the long hours worth it.”

“Fire away,” I said as the girls finished doing whatever they were doing.

He started off asking about our hours, the away game schedules, and our pay. He moved on to the cars, the houses, and the women.

Ten minutes, a new suit, and what felt like thousands of pictures later, I grew impatient.

“Here’s the thing,” I told him as the models moved poses again. “Those questions might have really applied to me when I was in Miami, but the Reapers are a very...different atmosphere. Sure, we all have the nice cars and the great salaries. We’re all lucky to do what we love for a living. But it’s a much more family-centered team. Most of us live in the same neighborhood, and you don’t see the same...flash that I have on other teams.”

“And the women?” he asked as the girls flanked me for a group shot.

“I’m in a committed relationship with a woman I love and respect very much. A woman that I actually met because I’m a jackass, not because I’m a hockey player.”

“And does she care that you have six Victoria’s Secret models hanging off you right now?” He scanned the models with a grin.

“I’m sure it’s not her favorite part of dating me,” I answered truthfully. “But she trusts me with good reason. And from what I’ve seen, these lovely women are highly professional.”

It wasn’t like we were having an orgy in front of the camera for fuck’s sake.

“Right, but you have pretty much every man’s dream job, and you spend your days like this—next to the women every woman in America wants to be, and every American man wants to fuck. Are you telling me that you don’t...indulge?”

“I’m sorry?” My jaw locked.

“You guys are on the road so much, you must—”

Yeah, that was enough.

“Are you serious? First off, let’s remember that I’m not American. Yeah, okay,” I said in a mocking tone. “What, like we’re all the same, right? Us NHL players. We all fuck around on the road because our relationships are only to keep our beds warm at home and raise our kids, and hey, it’s not cheating if you’re in a different area code. Isn’t that the saying? I mean, what bampot could possibly resist all the beautiful women throwing themselves at us, right?” I glared at him.