If You Need Me (The Toronto Terror Series)

“Calm the fuck down,” I tell my reflection as I grip the edge of the sink.

Of all the inconvenient times to spring an anxiety boner, this sure tops the list.

“Open the damn door, Dallas.” Willy rattles the knob.

“Ah, fuck me.” I grit my teeth against the surge of desire.

It’s pointless, though. I’m already picturing her pissed-off expression: rosy cheeks, fists on her curvy hips, full lips pushed out in an adorable, annoyed pout. My erection turns into a steel rod.

Wilhelmina Reddi-Grinst, referred to by the team as Hemi—but who I call Willy, mostly to ensure her attention is on me—is the public relations director for the Toronto Terror, the professional hockey team I play for.

She’s also the woman of my dreams—has been for years. Unfortunately, she hates me. She has good reason. We’ve known each other since kindergarten, and I was a dick of the highest order growing up.

Even more unfortunate is the way my body responds to her every single time. Especially when she’s giving me shit. People always bend over backwards to please me. But not Willy. Never Willy.

“I’ll be right out,” I call, panic layering on top of anxiety. This should not be happening. I took care of myself before I left the damn house. Twice. But here I am, battling yet another raging anxiety boner. In the bathroom of a pet rescue shelter. It’s embarrassing.

And it’s a new low. But handling my situation in here is better than having pictures of me holding a rescue dog while sporting a hard-on all over the internet.

Horrible decision made, I uncurl one hand from the edge of the sink, hating myself as I reach into my underwear to fist my cock. I accidentally groan at the instant relief.

“I heard that sound, Dallas. I heard it.” Willy raps aggressively. “You better open this door by the time I reach three or I will sign you up for clown and sauerkraut pierogi detail.”

I hate clowns. Probably because my older brothers, Manning and Ferris, made me watch IT when I was four. And sauerkraut reminds me of my great-grandma Helga’s house, where my siblings and I sometimes had to stay as kids when my parents went away on vacation. I came down with the stomach flu after eating her borscht, and now the smell of cooked cabbage in any form triggers my gag reflex.

“I just need a minute!” I call back, stroking fast and hard. I slam my eyes shut, trying not to picture Willy naked and angry. It’s difficult with her on the other side of the door.

“You’ve had ten. Your minutes are up.” More knocking. “Three,” Hemi’s voice shakes with rage.

The fallout from this will be bad. So, so bad. She’ll for sure make me pay for this. And the worst part is, I’ll eat it up. Because it will mean her focus is exactly where I want it. On me. I know it’s messed up to enjoy pissing her off. It’s a problem, and I should seek therapy for it. But her anger is preferable to apathy.

The angrier she gets, the harder I get. It should be the opposite. I should not love getting under her skin the way I do. But at least I know I affect her, too.

“Two. Clown detail it is.”

I can’t do clown detail again. Public panic attacks aren’t good for my image.

“I’m sending the email with your name, right now.” The glee in her voice sends a shiver down my spine. God, I love her.

I’m so fucked when it comes to Wilhelmina.

And then I do something stupider than whacking off in a public bathroom.