Chapter Eleven
Owen
I lie on my couch, feet on the armrest and facing the ceiling. That lunch was fucking exhausting in a way practice rarely is.
“It was just a cannoli,” I tell Shutout. “Cannolis aren’t sexy.”
It’s not about the cannoli, and I know it. It’s about everything that came with it. The way she looked at me, the way she didn’t look away, like she wasn’t waiting for me to screw it up.
Shutout, who is flopped on the floor beside the couch, whines.
“I’m not that desperate for affection, anyway. Remy’s nice. She’s attentive. She listens to me. But so what? I mean, you’re nice, and you listen to me. Hell, I could be describing a houseplant right now. I’m lonely, that’s all.”
That’s the easiest explanation. The safest one. It keeps this from being something I actually have to think about.
Shutout makes a tragic noise from somewhere to my right.
“Is she attractive? Yes, obviously.” I wave my hand in the air. “Did I want to murder Adler for hitting on her? Obviously. Because it’s creepy. He’s a creep. I, Shutout, am not a creep. I can watch a hot, kind woman eat a vaguely phallic cream-filled dessert without making it weird.”
I scrub a hand over my face and lean against the couch cushions. “Besides, I’ve never really understood how guys separate sex from everything else anyway. Probably comes from being raised by a single mom. I see a woman I respect, and my brain immediately starts trying to build a life around her.”
Shutout sneezes in my general direction.
“Exactly. Thank you. Very helpful.”
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. Or maybe it’s not about him at all. Maybe it’s about the fact that he’s saying the things I don’t get to say.
Shutout’s toenails scrape against the hardwood as he climbs to his feet. He sticks his head over the side of the couch, blowing hot dog-breath in my ear.
“Ew, dude. Gross.” I try to push him away, but he’s pretty strong for an old dog, and his tongue is ridiculously long. It unfurls enough for him to slurp into my ear canal.
“Fuckin’ nasty, Shutout!” I push him away. Shutout, of course, decides that this is a fun new game and pushes against my palms. Pretty soon, he’s clambering up onto the couch to do his version of being a lap dog, though he’s functionally more like a gangly, stinky weighted blanket.
I give up and accept my fate as the human pillow.
This is easier. Dogs don’t expect anything from you except what you’re already willing to give.
Once he’s comfortably ensconced on me, I pet his ears the way he likes.
In two minutes flat, he’s snuffling and twitching while he chases rabbits in his sleep.
In the quiet that follows, my mind wanders to the problem of Remy.
Except she’s not the problem. I am. Watching her go down on that cannoli—no, goddamnit, chow down…
Lord, she really went to town on that thing.
Clearly, I have not gotten laid in too damn long if a dessert is enough to get me hot and bothered.
Aw, who the hell am I kidding? It was never about the dessert.
It was about the way she exists in a room and somehow makes everything else feel secondary.
It was Remy. Remy, who is so lovely and outgoing and who didn’t mace Adler for that hip thrusting bullshit he was doing at lunch, even though he fucking deserves it.
What the hell was that, anyway? Is that his version of putting the moves on her?
Not that I did much better. Even now, I feel like I can hardly say two words to her. Which is ridiculous, considering I spend most of my life barking orders at grown men on the ice.
“Adler’s an idiot,” I tell Shutout, neglecting to mention my own shortcomings.
My dog wags his tail in agreement, which smacks my thigh in dangerous territory, uncomfortably close to my junk.
“Okay, nope, we’re not doing this.” I nudge Shutout aside and slide him to the floor, prompting him to let out a shrill wail that definitely strays into beagle territory. I make sure not to jostle his old bones too much and nearly take a paw to the family jewels for my troubles.
Once I’m finally extricated from the big goober, I head upstairs to noodle around on my guitar for a bit. I’m not very good, but it’s nice to have something I do just for the hell of it, without any hint of competitiveness.
Usually, goofing around with my music relaxes me. Today, every time I start to play a song, I realize I’m playing a love song. Like something in me is trying to tell me what I’m not willing to admit out loud.
“Come the fuck on,” I say to my own traitorous hands after I start playing “I Want You to Want Me” for the third time.
Okay, music isn’t helping. It’s just that I need something to do with my hands, or I’m going to think about Remy licking powdered sugar from her lips again.
And then I’m going to do something stupid like imagine her on her knees, her face poised between my thighs, looking up at me with her big green eyes while she swallows my—
“Nope.” I leap up from the stool and return my guitar to its display stand. At least when my hands were betraying me, it didn’t feel so damn good. Now that my groin has joined the list of traitors, it’s harder to think about anything else.
Literally harder. Very hard, in fact. I brace my hands against the wall and glare down at my overly enthusiastic dick. “Seriously? After Adler’s whole routine? Remy’s already got one guy making it weird, and at least she doesn’t have to work directly with Adler. I’m not gonna be that guy.”
The one she has to watch out for. The one she has to manage instead of trust.
But once again, I’m imagining Remy looking up at me through her lashes, licking her lips. Opening her mouth. Taking the head of my cock in her mouth.
“How do you see me?” I asked her. She didn’t answer right away. At the time, I thought it was because she didn’t want to upset me, but for just a moment, I let myself imagine that she said something wonderful and impossible.
Not just the physical part. The part where she looks at me like she did yesterday. Like she sees something worth defending.
“I see you as someone worth getting to know. Someone I could love.”
“Dammit!” I push off from the wall and shuffle out into the hallway.
When all else fails, it’s time for a cold shower.
I strip off in my bedroom, taking extra care not to touch myself in any way that will encourage my unwanted erection.
I turn the water pressure to high and the temperature all the way down so that the droplets are frigid against my fevered skin.
It’s no use. My body doesn’t care about logic.
Or timing. Or the fact that this is a spectacularly bad idea.
In my attempts to block out my obsession with Remy’s mouth, I overcompensate.
For this fantasy, I’m on my knees in Remy’s office, tonguing her clit while she tells me exactly what to do.
The addition of a flowchart to this fantasy doesn’t dull its urgency.
In fact, it makes the whole thing more believable, which only makes it hotter.
“You’ve been very bad, Owen. What will people think? You’d better make it up to me.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Nope, I’m not going to touch myself.”
“Good. I don’t want you to. I want you to focus on me.”
“Fuck.” I scrub my hands over my face. My nipples are so cold they actually hurt, but even the arctic temperatures of this shower can’t compete with my redirected blood flow.
“If you make me come on your tongue, I’ll let you fuck me.”
I groan, remembering how she smelled in the car, all floral sweetness with a hint of fruit. She’d taste so damn good. Would she let me use my fingers? Would she let me work her open so that she’d be ready for me?
No, she would not, because if she knew I was thinking about her this way, she’d kill me. Or, maybe worse, she’d quit. She stood up to Dante on my behalf, but this is worse than his temper tantrum. I don’t want to be someone she needs to guard herself from.
“If I thought you were dangerous, I wouldn’t have agreed to this insane new contract.”
“Remy.” I press my palms to my eyes. It’s wrong to have this fantasy, isn’t it? Even if I never act on it? Not because of the sex. Because it’s her.
But oh, God, I imagine how she’d feel coming around my fingers, the way her North Shore accent would slip out as she called my name, and my resolve crumbles.
I steady myself against the wall with one hand and wrap the other around my dick.
I picture Remy’s flushed face and how large her pupils would be so freshly post-orgasm.
I imagine her telling me that I’ve been good, that she’s proud of me, and then turning around so that she’s bent over the desk, presenting herself to me.
I picture how tight and wet she’d be, her cunt still twitching from release as I enter her, and—
I come so hard that I almost lose my footing. In the haze of relief that follows, I chastise fantasy-Owen for failing to imagine a condom.
As if that’s the problem. And yes, it’s an issue, because the idea of coming inside her is part of what sent me over the edge, but what about all that other shit?
What about the fact that I apparently have a praise kink, and that I want Remy to tug my hair and call me a good boy while I eat her out?
That I want her approval more than I want the release.
“There are so many problems with this,” I say out loud, giving my dick one last tug, because at this point, why the hell not?
Remy can never know about this. If she does, it changes everything. The way she looks at me. The way she trusts me. I will not make this her problem. Maybe it’s out of my system now.
I sure hope it is, or I’m going to have a real problem on my hands.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, wearing fresh sweats and a black t-shirt, I grab a family-sized bag of Cheetos and plop myself down on the couch to watch Ted Lasso. Shutout snores on the floor beside me.
I love Ted Lasso. A guy who leads without tearing people down.
Who doesn’t lose control when things get hard.
I could recite the whole show by heart, but it’s comforting to watch it again for the who-knows-how-manyth time.
Do I just like watching a wholesome father figure doing his thing?
I plead the fifth. Take it up with my non-existent therapist.
There is literally not a single sexy thing about watching Ted Lasso while chowing down on cheesy snacks, and yet, within a gallingly short time, my mind wanders to Remy once again. Like everything circles back to her whether I want it to or not.
“For real?” I glare at my half-hard dick already tenting my sweats. “Come on, this is outrageous.”
Shutout raises his head and cocks his ears at me with a whine.
“You know what?” I jab my thumb against the remote to turn off the TV. “I give up.” Nothing else is working. Time to phone a friend.
Camden answers on the third ring. “Hey, Owen!” He sounds a little too chipper, given my trash mood. “What’s up?”
I sit forward on the edge of the couch cushions and massage the bridge of my nose. “I’m thinking about killing Newberry. Any chance you can talk me out of it?” It’s easier to make it about him than admit what’s actually going on.
I can hear Cam’s smirk through the phone. “Huh, that’s interesting. Is that really what you’ve been thinking about since lunch?”
No, Cam, I’ve been thinking about tongue-fucking the one woman in the world who’s absolutely off-limits. “Yeah.”
“Any idea why?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yeah, I have an inkling.”
“And that would be because…?”
“He’s gonna fuck up this whole PR campaign!” I flop backward against the cushions. “And he’s annoying Remy. She already has to put up with Dante, and… and with me…” True, she doesn’t know about my worst transgressions, but I haven’t exactly been a dream client in other respects.
“Right, right. That’s a real bummer.” I can tell that he’s fishing for something.
“Cam.”
He takes pity on me. “Listen, Remy’s a big girl. It’s not your job to manage Adler, and I’m sure she doesn’t expect you to, either. If you want, I can say something to Viktor, so that it comes from me rather than you. Would that help?”
“I guess.” It won’t stop my perverted fantasies, but those, at least, I can control. Kinda. More than I can control Adler, anyway.
“Anything else you want to say about lunch?”
“Nope.” I pop the P.
“Okay. Well, I’m here if you ever want to talk. About anything.”
“Thanks,” I say. Not that I’ll be taking him up on it, but it’s nice to know that the offer’s there. “See you tomorrow.”
“See you on the ice.”
I hang up, then slouch there, staring at the ceiling. If my mom knew that I was creeping on Remy, she’d be so disappointed. She raised me better than this. Or at least, I thought she did.
I’ve got to do whatever I can to win Dante’s trust back.
The sooner Remy’s contract ends, the sooner I can stop obsessing over her.
All I have to do is stay the course, and she’ll be out of my life forever, and things can return to normal.
Even if I’m starting to realize I don’t actually want them to. The old status quo is a good thing.
Even if “normal” is pretty damn lonely most of the time. At least normal is simpler than whatever this is.