Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
Most guys hate going down, right?
Logan
Ishould’ve shut it down.
Should’ve told her no, told her she was out of her damn mind, told her to stop looking at me like that.
Instead, I stood there in my own kitchen while Lulu Parnell asked me to teach her how to come. How to enjoy herself on my dick. With my hands. In my bed.
I wanted to say yes. God, I wanted to. Every inch of me was down for it. But she’s Eli’s little sister, my teammate’s family, the one person I have no business even thinking about that way. And she deserves better than a mistake she’ll regret before the sun’s up.
So I played it careful and redirected. Questions, not sex. Safer. Or at least, it’s supposed to be. Except now, standing in the locker room, lacing my skates, my phone won’t shut the fuck up.
The first vibration comes while I’m threading my right lace.
Lulu: Question #1 Why do guys pretend they like kissing necks if they clearly don’t?
I ignore it, but another comes before I’ve even finished tying the left.
Lulu: Question #2: Is there an actual right way to use hands, or is porn lying to us?
Lulu: Question #3: Have you ever faked it?
I nearly choke on my mouthguard.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, but the buzz keeps coming.
By the time Jake slaps my helmet into my lap and tells me to get my ass moving, I’ve got six unread messages, every single one aimed like a sniper rifle at the part of me that’s been trying so hard not to want her.
Lulu: Question #10: Why do dudes think jackhammering = orgasms?
Lulu: Question #11: Be honest—most guys hate going down, right?
The words punch through hard. Hate it? Christ. I couldn’t even pretend. Just the thought of her, the taste of her—soft, flushed, thighs tight around me—has me choking on air. If she thinks most guys hate it, she’s been with the wrong guys. Absolute idiots.
I clench my jaw and shove my phone deeper into my bag, but the image won’t leave me.
Reid drops onto the bench beside me, wrapping his tape slowly. His eyes dart to my bag, still buzzing, then to my face. “You’re still twitchy.”
“I’m fine.”
“And still lying.” He shifts to stand. “What’s going on?”
Before I can come up with a deflection, Eli claps past us, helmet under his arm, grin easy. My stomach knots. If he knew what his sister had been texting me, he’d bury me six feet under center ice.
Reid’s brow arches, reading what I won’t say out loud. “Mmm,” he hums, just low enough for me to hear. “You’re still fucked, too. Especially if she keeps carpet-bombing your notifications.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I snap, shoving my bag deeper into my locker and tugging my gloves on.
He doesn’t look up, just slices through the tape with his teeth. “Just saying—hard to hide a detonation when your face does half the talking.” His eyes glance toward the far side of the locker room. Eli’s laughing at something Jake said, oblivious.
I rip at my pads too fast, the Velcro screaming. Hutch only hums again, dry and knowing, and I grind my teeth, following the rest of the boys out, hoping drills will burn it out of me.
They don’t.
Benson’s on us hard, barking about last season being unacceptable, about needing a sharper edge, a cleaner game. We run sprints, drills, small-area battles until my lungs are fire and my legs shake. But nothing burns Lulu out of me.
The endless drills, the sting of ice against my blades, usually it works.
Usually, by the time I peel off my pads, all I want is food, a nap, and video review.
Not today. Not when Lulu’s voice is still echoing in my head.
Not when the image of her standing there in my hoodie is stamped behind my eyes.
And definitely not when all I hear is my phone buzzing in the back of my head.
By the time skate’s over, and the guys scatter for showers, I cave. Sitting there in my stall, stick between my knees, I check my phone to see she's sent me another couple questions. But my mind is hung up on the one from earlier, so I thumb out a reply to her question about oral. Just one reply.
Me: Depends who you’re asking. Not all guys are assholes about oral.
Which, of course, is a mistake. Because it opens the floodgates.
Lulu: So you’re saying some guys actually like it? Wow
Lulu: Question #14: Are you one of them?
I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting a groan.
The Rink Rat after practice is as loud as ever—jukebox humming, fryer oil popping, plates clattering.
The whole crew’s crammed into a corner booth, Eli across from me, Jake and Chase shoulder to shoulder beside him.
Reid’s next to me, because of course he is, arms crossed, eyes flat like he’s watching a slow-motion car crash.
I try to focus on my soda and burger. On Hutch telling some story about his grandpa’s cat. On anything but the phone in my lap that won’t quit lighting up.
Lulu: Question #15: What’s the actual point of dirty talk? Is it really that sexy?
Lulu: Question #16: Where does a guy like to be kissed first?
My pulse jumps.
“Who keeps blowing you up?” Eli asks, leaning to catch a glimpse of my screen.
I snap the phone face down on the table so fast my wrist cracks. “No one.”
Reid’s mouth twitches like he’s swallowing a laugh. “Looks like someone.”
“Drop it,” I mutter, but my ears are hot, my skin crawling.
Banter swells around us—Hutch chirping Chase about Zoe, Eli calling for another round—but I’m barely there. I sneak a look under the table, thumb moving before I can think better of it.
Me: Jaw. Always jaw.
Her reply comes instantly.
Lulu: Noted. Very thorough of you, Coach.
I scrub a hand over my face, but the corner of my mouth betrays me, twitching upward.
Lulu: Question #17: Is it true that hockey guys are the filthiest?
I choke on my soda. Jake gives me a look across the booth, but Reid’s the one who speaks, loud enough for me and only me. “Careful, Miller. You’ll sprain a thumb replying too fast.”
I flip him off under the table, but it’s no use. My phone vibrates again.
Lulu: Question #18 is a serious one: Why do guys act like they don’t care after, even if they do?
I stare at that one, heart pounding. Eli’s right there, maybe two feet away, arguing with Ryan about faceoff percentages. If he knew—if he even suspected—this whole table would explode.
But I type anyway.
Me: Sometimes it’s not that we don’t care. It’s that caring scares the shit out of us.
I hit send before I can regret it. The second it delivers, I want to take it back. Not because it isn’t true, but because it is. This is terrifying. Dangerous.
This isn’t safer at all. This is me walking straight into the fire, and not wanting to turn back.
***
By the time I walk through my front door, Dusty barrels into me, and Lulu’s voice floats from the kitchen. Garlic, rosemary, something rich and warm, hits me next. My stomach growls like I haven’t had two shakes and a protein bar in the last hour.
She’s at my stove again. Bare feet on my tile, hair twisted into a loose braid, music humming low through the speakers. She glances up and her whole face lights up. I don’t remember a time when someone seemed so genuinely happy to see me, apart from Dusty.
“Perfect timing,” she chirps. “Grab the potatoes out of the pantry for me?”
I do, even though every sane part of me knows I should turn back around before this goes nuclear.
We prep the meal together at the island, me chopping potatoes, Dusty sprawled at her feet. Lulu hums along with the music, then casually drops, “So… you never answered most of my questions.”
I pause mid-chop. “Jesus, you’re relentless.”
She grins, unbothered. “Question twenty… hand placement when kissing—thigh, waist, or jaw?”
“Depends,” I grit out. “Who’s doing the kissing?”
Her eyes glitter. “Hypothetically?”
“Hypothetically.”
“Then… you.”
My knife hesitates on the board, knuckles whitening on the handle. I clear my throat, force my voice to come out unfazed. “Then all three.”
Her eyes flare with satisfaction before she casually turns back to the broccoli.
And it only escalates from there. Every time she reaches across the counter, her hip brushes mine.
Every glance is pointed, every “question” more of a dare.
She hums along to the music like this is any other night, as if she’s not actively setting me on fire.
By the time we’re nearly ready to eat, I’m a live wire.
“Okay, final one,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “From your answer earlier. I’m pretty sure guys don’t actually like giving oral. They just pretend.”
The knife stops dead, and my jaw locks.
“Who the fuck told you that?”
She blinks at my tone, too casual to be innocent, then shrugs.
“Just… experience.” Then, with a maddening tilt of her head, she adds the final blow. “Maybe I’ll test your theory next time I go on a date. You know, use all this intel you’re giving me.”
Something inside me snaps. The thought of her with selfish assholes who didn’t put her first already makes my blood roar. But the thought of her putting these Q&As into practice with someone else? With some random fuck who doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as her?
Absolutely fucking not.
I set the knife down slowly, carefully. As if I'm dismantling a bomb. Then I turn towards her, stepping into her space until her back hits the counter. She looks up at me like she knew, like she's been waiting for this to happen.
And fuck it, so have I.
“Get on the counter.”
Her lips part. “Logan—”
“You want your answer?” My voice is rough, borderline feral. I plant one hand beside her hip but leave the space, just in case she wants out. “You wanna know if I like it? You wanna come, Lulu?”
Her pulse flutters in her throat, eyes wide but unflinching. She licks her lips. “Y-yes.”
“Not good enough.” My palm glides firmly up her hip. “Tell me exactly what you want.”
Her breath trembles, but her eyes don’t leave mine. She shifts forward, closing the last inch between us, her body pressing into my space.
“I want you to show me. I… I want you to make me come. Please.”
That’s all it takes—my restraint burns to ash.
I grab her hips and lift, setting her easily onto the counter. The hem of her dress rides up instantly, baring smooth thighs I’ve been trying not to think about all damn day.
I shove the fabric higher and out of my way, then sink to my knees in front of her.
My eyes lock on hers. “Last chance, Parnell.”
She nods, eyes never leaving mine. “Show me.”
Her panties are soft under my fingers, but I hook them aside and press my mouth to her pussy before she can say another word.
The taste floods my senses, and every rational thought disintegrates. I grip her thighs and throw her legs over my shoulders, spreading her open as my tongue drags over her slowly, teasingly, just to hear the way her breath stutters.
She gasps when I press the tip of my tongue on her clit, her hips jolting toward my mouth, and I grip harder, pinning her wide.
“Fuck, you taste insane.”
“Logan—” My name breaks in her throat, her fingers yanking at my hair with the kind of sting I want to burn into memory.
Good. I want her desperate. I want her ruined.
I flatten my tongue, circle her clit, then suck hard. She cries out, muffling it against her wrist, and the sound goes straight to my cock.
Slowly, I push a finger into her, then another, filling her while my mouth works her over. She clenches around me, slick and tight and fucking perfect, and I groan into her, curling my fingers deep.
“Feel that?” I rasp against her clit. “You’re gonna come on my tongue, Lulu. For me. Not for those assholes who didn’t know what the fuck they were doing. Me.”
“Possessive, much?” She huffs a laugh that’s broken as she arches, thighs trembling on my shoulders. “Oh my god—”
“Mmm, you're goddamn right I am.” I suck harder, tongue flicking faster. “Show me how bad you need this. Give it to me.”
She breaks. Loud and shaking, clutching my hair with both hands as her backs bows and she comes hard around my fingers, my mouth, me. I don’t stop, working her through it until her body goes soft and trembling, and she’s slumped against the cabinets, her chest heaving, and skin flushed.
Only then do I rise. My jaw’s wet, my pulse jackhammering, my cock aching like I’m about to explode.
She blinks up at me, dazed. Wrecked. Beautiful. So fucking beautiful. I grab her hand and press it to the thick, aching bulge straining my sweats.
“Does that feel like I don’t like it, baby?” My voice is all gravel and hunger.
Her responding laugh is breathless, gorgeous. “Guess that’s Question Eleven answered.”
I smirk, but it’s weak. Because reality’s already clawing at me. Eli’s sister. My teammate’s sister. On my counter, with my mouth still wet from her.
I force myself to step back, but it’s too fast, too sharp. Her eyes flicker, and I see the moment of doubt, the split-second where she thinks he’s regretting this.
“No.” My voice comes out raw. I drag a hand down my face, then meet her eyes dead on. “Don’t do that. Don’t ever think it. I couldn't regret this if I fucking tried.”
She swallows, eyes searching mine, the uncertainty easing just enough for her to nod.
“Then let me…” She slides off the counter and steps into me, fingers tentatively brushing my waistband. “Let me return the favor.”
Every nerve in me howls yes, but I catch her wrist, curling my hand around it and holding it to my chest instead.
“Christ, Lulu. Don’t offer me that unless you’re ready for me to never let you stop.”
Her breath hitches, heat sparking in her eyes, and I almost lose it. Almost tell her on the spot.
I could live on my knees for you.
Could spend forever tasting you, worshipping you, getting drunk on the sound of you falling apart.
The words burn in my throat, dangerous and too true. Instead, I shake my head.
“Not tonight," I say hoarsely. "You’ve already given me enough to lose sleep over.”
Her mouth curves, slow and wicked. “Then lose it.”
And I know I will.
Every fucking night, until I have her again.