That Time We Faked It (Time On The Ice #3)

38. CAL

CAL

Planning Parties and Pierced Promises

F rom worrying about sitting at home with my leg elevated to juggling multiple events, life had taken a wild turn. Suddenly, I wasn’t just wasting time anymore. Instead, I was buzzing with purpose, throwing myself into planning not one but several major events. The centerpiece? A party for a mysterious woman known only as “Elle.” That was it—no last name, no details, just Elle. The name alone told me everything I needed to know: high maintenance. Every instruction came through her assistant, and navigating her demands was like trying to solve a puzzle where the pieces kept changing shape.

Still, I loved a challenge. And with my leg elevated, I could oversee everything from the comfort of a cozy chair by the fire, the vineyard views almost making up for the occasional bout of cabin fever. Wade’s mum had even set up the perfect outdoor space for me—an oasis of comfort where I could escape when the walls started closing in. Wrapped in the softest cashmere blanket, I would sit outside, basking in the warm hint of spring sunlight. Yet, no matter how peaceful it seemed, restlessness lingered beneath the surface, a reminder of deeper things I wasn’t ready to face.

Much like Elle dodged my calls, I couldn’t shake the parallel to my own mother’s evasion. It was a frustrating déjà vu, a reminder of all the times I’d chased after someone unwilling to meet me halfway. At least Elle’s motives were clear—her big birthday bash had to be perfect.

Between Elle, Ben and Wylie’s wedding, and a third event I hadn’t even mentioned, I was buried in work. And I missed Wade. Sure, he was close by, managing the Rossler family bar in the main building of the vineyard, but it wasn’t the same. Other than falling asleep next to his warm, grounding presence each night, I felt the distance. And sleeping next to Wade? Let me tell you, who needs a sleeping pill when you’ve got a man like that wrapping you in his arms, making you feel safe? He was the cure to insomnia, though not to my growing libido.

Trying to wean off painkillers meant I was very aware of Wade—the way his eyes darkened when they skimmed over me, the way he’d look back at me while carrying crates of wine or chatting with the bar staff. And those showers he insisted on helping me with? Pure torture. Who needs to shower alone? I’d make it a rule that we always showered together. Maybe I’d rewrite our fake dating contract—since we’d failed spectacularly at that anyway—and make an official dating contract, showers and hard pierced cock morning wakings essential.

Just as I was spiraling in my thoughts about Wade’s darkening eyes and sinfully hot flannel shirts, the man himself appeared on the porch. Leaning against the railing with his arms crossed, those biceps flexing in a way that should be illegal, he looked like sin personified. His smirk said he knew exactly where my mind had wandered, and when he spoke, that voice of his made my stomach do a little flip.

Lumberjack, take me away.

“Oh, is that so, Pretty Boy?” Wade rumbled, his tone teasing and entirely too self-assured.

I blinked, realizing too late that I’d said my thoughts aloud.

Damn it.

Wade sauntered closer, his movements slow, deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey. His scent—earthy with a hint of the wine barrels he was helping with—floated toward me on the breeze, messing with my already frazzled brain. By the time he was in front of me, his arms bracketing the sides of my chair, I was done for. His face was close, too close, and his eyes were locked onto mine with a heat that made my pulse race.

“So, Pretty Boy,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a sinful low. “You gonna answer me? What was it you were saying? You were so easy with your words before.”

I swallowed hard, my brain short-circuiting under the intensity of his gaze. His smirk only deepened, the bastard clearly enjoying the power he had over me.

“Come on,” he urged, leaning in closer, his breath warm against my skin. “Tell me what you want.”

My heart thundered in my chest, every beat a scream of surrender. The teasing, the tension—it was too much. I was done playing coy, done pretending I didn’t want him.

And I knew. I knew that this was it—he wasn’t going to let me stay quiet much longer.

I was speechless. My mouth went agape, and all I could do was nod. Kiss me, Wade, for fuck's sake, just kiss me.

The way he stood there, that damn smirk never leaving his lips, made me feel like I had no escape. He was the cat, circling, teasing, and I was just... trapped. I could feel my heart thudding in my chest, every breath shallow. I was so done with this back-and-forth. The anticipation, the tension—it was suffocating. It was clear he was enjoying this far too much.

"Done, huh?" Wade said, his voice almost too sweet, as if he already knew what was about to happen. "We'll see about that, pretty boy."

A low, breathless sound escaped me, and that was all I could manage. But apparently, it was enough for Wade. His lips came crashing down on mine, and he kissed me like he knew exactly how to mix pressure, tongue, and just the right amount of biting. I was lost. Forget everything—the party planning, the easing pain in my leg, the haze of painkillers lifting. Forget it all.

He was everything.

My whole body was on fire. Nerve endings sparked up and down my spine, sending a clear message to him: I was his. All of me. No hesitation, no doubt. Wherever he wanted me, I was there.

Wade rumbled against my lips, the vibrations sending a fresh wave of heat through me as he pulled back, just enough to speak. His lips brushed mine, a teasing smirk curling the corners.

"Darling," he drawled, his voice all sinful and deep, "I just came here to make you some lunch."

The audacity. The absolute cheek. I blinked up at him, my breath shallow, my heart racing like I’d just skated a full routine. Lunch? He wanted to talk about lunch after that?

The only lunch I wanted to talk about involved him and me tangled in bed, not a single bite of food in sight. My chest heaved as I looked up at him, locking eyes, the heat between us making it impossible to form a coherent thought.

"You're unbelievable," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. His smirk only deepened, those gray eyes of his practically daring me to make the next move.

"The only lunch I want, Wade, is you," I said, my voice steady despite the chaos brewing inside me. "I want the full meal. I've been waiting for weeks. And if you so much as step into that kitchen to cook real food, you’ve got another thing coming."

His smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, replaced by something darker, more primal. "Well, pretty boy," he drawled, leaning closer until his lips just brushed against my ear. "You’d better be ready, because I don’t do half portions."

I stammered, but before I could unleash another quip or any more sass, Wade moved in that artful, deliberate way of his. In one swift motion, he picked me up, my legs instinctively wrapping around him. Somehow, the cashmere blanket I'd been wrapped in fluttered to the floor, and though my brain screamed that cashmere does not belong on the floor, I didn’t have time to protest.

His sure, steady steps carried us through the house—through hallways that had slowly begun to feel like home.

Every movement was purposeful, the warmth of his hands grounding me. By the time we reached the California king bed, its expanse wide enough to hold us both comfortably, I couldn’t care less if it had been a twin. The thought of Wade taking up all the space? No complaints there.

Wade placed me on the bed with such tender care that it almost made me want to scream. Tender care? No, I didn’t want tender. I wanted feral. I wanted to ravage him, to take him apart piece by piece and leave no part untouched. I wanted to take control, to have him at my mercy after weeks of sweet torment.

All those gentle acts of kindness, those little moments of care—home-cooked meals, fireside dinners, reading me books under the glow of the flames for God’s sake—had built this unbearable tension in me. He had the audacity to tuck me in every night, curl me into his warmth, and leave me with nothing more than a chaste kiss on the forehead. A forehead kiss.

No. Not tonight. I wanted more. I needed more. I wanted him to own me, to possess me, to make me feel like I was the only thing that mattered. And I wanted to give it all back. I wanted to show him what it felt like to be completely and utterly consumed.

“I can see the fire in your eyes, pretty boy," he said, his lips brushing against mine in that teasing way he always used to keep me on edge. But I was done with this game, and he knew it. He saw it in the set of my jaw, the tension in my shoulders.

"Tell me what you want, pretty boy," he drawled, voice low and confident.

A surge of courage flooded my veins, a piece of my former self—the sassy part, the one who knew exactly how to command in the bedroom—surfaced. I wasn’t going to play coy anymore.

"You’d better get those sexy-ass jeans off, Wade Rossler," I commanded, glaring up at him. "I need that pretty, thick length—and those piercings—in my mouth."

Wade clicked his tongue, the sound perfectly timed, perfectly condescending. "Oh, darling," he said softly, leaning in closer, "are you sure you can take my pierced cock?”

I nodded quickly, my lips buzzing with anticipation, and, mercifully, Wade began to strip with purpose. My eyes followed his every movement, and when he unbuttoned his flannel, revealing that broad, hair-dusted chest, I nearly groaned. Pair that with his naked cock jutting out proudly—it was like Christmas, my birthday, and a gold medal all rolled into one impossibly gorgeous package.

He climbed over me, and though I knew he was seconds away from slipping into his usual commanding presence—something I admittedly loved—I wanted to show him how thankful I was first. With a deliberate grip, I wrapped my hand around his length, guiding him into my eager mouth.

The taste of him hit me instantly, musky and undeniably Wade. A low hum escaped me as I took him deeper, my hands sliding to the backs of his thighs to pull him closer, not caring in the slightest when the movement made me gag. Wade, of course, cared. Always in tune with me, he angled his hips back slightly.

“Easy, Pretty Boy,” he rasped, his voice frayed at the edges.

I looked up at him, hoping he could see how much I wanted this—needed this. To me, rough was its own kind of love: the trust, the give-and-take, knowing someone could push you but never truly hurt you. A little reminder left behind, just enough to feel the next day. Wade must have read the plea in my eyes because the hesitance melted from his face.

With a low growl, he thrust into my grip, pushing to the edge of roughness but never crossing it. I gagged again, and his curse filled the room, sharp and raw. We found a rhythm after that—his hips rolling forward, my mouth taking him in with fervent, deliberate strokes. My tongue toyed with the piercings along his length, tracing and teasing until Wade’s curses became unintelligible.

I moved my hands to his ass, squeezing firmly before slipping lower to cup his balls. The way they tightened under my touch made my heart race, a thrill coursing through me as I felt him unravel. He came with a sharp groan, his release hot and familiar as it slid down my throat. But the real victory was in the sight of him—his head tipped back, neck corded, every muscle taut as my name fell from his lips like a prayer.

I pulled off him with a soft pop, licking my lips as my eyes roamed over him. His chest heaved with every labored breath, framed perfectly by that damn flannel shirt, now hanging open. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Wade’s gaze met mine, and the serious, focused look he’d worn moments ago was gone, replaced by something softer. His face lit up, younger somehow, freer. My breath hitched.

Beautiful didn’t even begin to cover it.

“What’s that look for, darling?” he asked softly, His voice, low and rough, curled around me like smoke, settling in places I hadn’t realized were longing for warmth.

The word love crept into my thoughts, and for once, it didn’t scare me. Because I knew. I’d known all along, really. I was hopeless, and Wade? Wade was everything I didn’t dare dream I could have.

“I was just thinking,” I said, channeling every ounce of sass I could muster, “that I’m going to steal that shirt later. It’ll smell like you—and you coming. I like that.”

His laughter was deep and warm, It was a distraction, sure—for both of us. Anything to keep him from realizing I was already lost in him.

And if the way his eyes darkened as he leaned closer was any indication, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Wade, clearly inspired by some wicked idea, shrugged off his shirt, revealing his broad shoulders and the tattoo that curled across his skin. My breath hitched as I drank him in, my hands itching to trace every inch of him. But I held back, afraid that if I let myself touch him now, he’d see just how vulnerable I was. Little did I know, Wade wasn’t interested in letting me hide.

Without saying a word, he slid my pants off with deliberate care, kissing each new patch of skin he uncovered. When he reached my cardigan, he slowly tugged it up, pressing his lips to my stomach, lingering on the softness there with reverence. He worked his way to my ribs, leaving a trail of heat in his wake, before pulling the fabric over my head. Then he paused, meeting my eyes with a gaze so intense it left me bare in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

He kissed me then, fierce and unyielding, a kiss that left nothing unsaid. When he finally pulled away, he lifted me with steady hands, slipping his shirt over my shoulders with a care that felt reverent. Sitting back on his heels, Wade let his gaze roam over me, slow and intent, as if committing every detail to memory.

“Perfect,” he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss just above the waistband of my underwear. His breath sent a shiver straight through me. “And mine.”

His eyes flicked up to meet mine, dark and certain, and my heart slammed against my ribs. I held the moment close, unspoken yet absolute—I was his, as certain as the breath in my lungs and the beat of my heart.

Wade made quick work of my underwear, peeling it away and humming his appreciation as my cock sprang free, already aching for him. His tongue darted out, teasing a path along my length, and his eyes stayed locked on mine, daring me to look away. The intensity of his gaze had me melting completely before he’d even taken me fully into his mouth.

And when he did? God, it was everything. He swallowed me with a practiced ease, alternating between rough, hungry movements and tender, deliberate ones. He pulled back just enough to wet his fingers, holding my gaze the entire time, making sure I watched. The moment his fingers pressed into me, the burn was sharp, but I arched into it, moaning loud enough to make a porn star blush. I was starved for him, desperate to feel every part of him filling me.

“Want you, want you, want you,” I babbled, pushing myself back onto his fingers, shameless in my need.

Wade hummed around my cock, his eyes daring me to look away as he curled his fingers inside me, matching the rhythm of my desperate thrusts. That steadfast gaze, the smug heat in his eyes, was my undoing. My orgasm hit me like a tidal wave, spilling down his throat as my body shuddered violently.

He pulled away slowly, almost teasingly, leaving me achingly empty. The sensation made my breath hitch, the post-release rush of emotions clawing at my chest. I was perilously close to crying, overwhelmed by the intimacy of it all. But, as always, Wade knew exactly what I needed. He climbed back up, his lips soft as they brushed over mine, tasting faintly of me.

“You’ll have all of me for a lifetime, Pretty boy” he whispered against my lips. “You have me.”

Then, with a maddening calm, he slipped off the bed and strutted into the bathroom. The sound of running water filled the silence, and when he returned, he was freshly dressed, a damp cloth in hand. He cleaned me up with a tenderness that made my chest ache, then dressed me with the same deliberate care. I didn’t bother protesting, didn’t summon a single sassy quip. Instead, I let him look after me, soaking in the quiet affection on his face—the look that made me think, Maybe, just maybe, he could love me too.

Once I was settled, Wade pressed another kiss to my lips. “C’mon, pretty boy, time for real lunch.”

“I think you’re the real lunch,” I mumbled, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

He chuckled, scooping me up with ease since my crutches were nowhere in sight. “You keep that up, and I might just start believing you.”

He carried me into the kitchen, setting me on a stool where I had the perfect view of him moving around the stove. Watching Wade cook, his broad shoulders flexing as he stirred a pot, was going to be torture—but the kind I wouldn’t mind enduring.

The real challenge? Keeping my hands to myself.