30. Penelope
He loves me.
The man I spent a year channeling all my hatred toward, the man who stole my heart at a Halloween party, the man whose father ended my Dad’s career, loves me.
I’m not sure what to do with that.
For the first time since he arrived, he takes his attention off the ice and turns to me. He cups my face with both hands, stares me dead in the face. “I love you, Pitstop.”
My heart stops, the game stops, the whole world stops spinning because Tate Myers loves me.
“You love me.” Not sure why I’m repeating that back to him, but it’s like my brain needs a hot minute to catch up.
“I love you,” he repeats it like it’s the thousandth time he’s said it out loud to me, and not the first.
“Wow.”
He studies my face before planting a kiss on my forehead. “If that’s not okay, you’re just going to have to figure it out. I dunno how to put that train back in the station. You’re stuck with my love, She Devil.”
Before he can turn away, I catch his cheek with my palm. “I love you too.”
His nose twitches. “I know.”
“You do?”
He nods. “From the moment I complimented your taco.”
I’m laughing, but there’s probably an element of truth to his sentence. We shared a connection that night, which is probably why I was so fucking angry that he was who he was.
“You haven’t complimented my taco in a long time, Tate.” I tut. “Slacker.”
“Maybe if you’d worn my jersey tonight I’d have complimented your taco. But...” He shrugs and turns his attention back to the game that’s in full swing around us. “You wanted to show your support for my enemies.”
“Ask me nicely, and I might wear your shirt in the bedroom.”
“There’s one waiting for you when you’re ready for it.”
How presumptive. “Arrogant ass.”
“You love it.”
Can’t argue, because I do.
“Oh, hey. Mom asked me to invite you and your dad to Thanksgiving tomorrow. I know you probably have plans already, and it’s super short notice, but she said if I didn’t invite you, she wouldn’t feed me. And Thanksgiving dinner is my favorite.” He still keeps his eyes on the ice, his head turning to follow the play. I know his insides are crumbling, he wants to be down there with his team, working on his skills, preparing for the big league.
“I was supposed to ask you a couple weeks ago but...”
“You were being a stubborn pain in the ass?”
He grunts but doesn’t answer.
Thanksgiving dinner is epic. I do love it. I miss having both my parents together under the same roof for it. Or even close enough that I could see them both in the same day. If synchronized Thanksgiving dinner prep was an Olympic sport, my parents would have taken gold. Since the split, Oli and I tend to take turns visiting with each of our parents. This year, he’s with Mom and I’m with Dad. Sometimes I wish we could all get along enough to eat at the same table, but apparently Oliver and I have to be more grown up than our parents when it comes to holidays.
“I’ll ask Dad now.” I pull out my phone and text him before I forget, and it doesn’t take him long to reply. “Dad says we’re in. He’ll bring his sweet potato casserole, and he said I’ll bring my apple pie.”
“I’m listening.” Tate tips his ear toward me.
“I heard pie.” Tori nudges me. “If you’re making pie, I want pie.”
The back of my neck heats. “It’s not as good as Megan’s at Get the Fork Out. But it’s a Thanksgiving staple in our house. Dad loves it.”
Tori makes grabby hands as the Snow Pirates score on the ice putting them up one to nothing. Tate growls, he’s muttering to himself about something, it sounds like he’s grousing about the line not being right, but I can’t quite make it out. “Should have brought a fucking notebook.”
Definitely heard that. From the way his cheeks flex, he’s clenching his teeth, his intense eyes are focused on the puck at all times. It’s a lot. I bet he’s even chastising himself for not being down there with his teammates, and if we lose, it’ll be his fault because he was in the rink but not playing with his team or something stupid.
My boy is troubled.
And I’m not sure anything is going to fix it but waiting out the clock to get him back on the ice.
“Would you mind if I invited Oli to Thanksgiving at your house? We usually take turns, but I’d really like to see him.”
Tate nods. “Go for it. Mom said to invite your whole family, but I figured that would be too... complicated.”
Me: Hey, Copycat. Any chance you want to buck tradition tomorrow and come to Tate’s house for my apple pie?
He replies almost instantly.
Spare Parts: I can probably squeeze both in. Let me check with Mom.
Spare Parts: Meeting the boyfriend officially, hey? Sounds serious.
I roll my eyes, but Tate picks up the phone and smirks.
“It is serious, Oli. It is. She told me she loved me.”
“You know he can’t hear you, right?”
“Yet.” Tate taps the end of my nose.
I haven’t typed out a reply to Oliver yet before he replies.
Spare Parts: Mom says why don’t we both do Thanksgiving with Dad tomorrow, and then have a do-over with her on Friday, together.
Me: Sounds good to me.
Spare Parts: So it is serious, then.
Me: I hate you. Plus, you’ve already met him, remember? He’s got your blood on his hockey stick.
Spare Parts: You’re the reason he called me, aren’t you?
Spare Parts: You are. That was weird as fuck. Makes sense now.
Spare Parts: See you both tomorrow, and no tonsil hockey please, I want to enjoy my Thanksgiving dinner without fear of vomiting on the Myers’ kitchen table.
Tate’s chuckling beside me.
“What?”
He jerks his chin at the phone. “He’s going to make so much fun of you having a hockey player boyfriend, isn’t he?”
I flash a wicked grin at my boyfriend. “Sure, right after he threatens to dispose of your dead and decaying body if you hurt his only sister.”
A couple hours later, we eke out a win. Barely. But we got the job done. Scott spent most of the game in the penalty box, and I know without opening my mouth the team is going to have a chat with him about what in the name of all the hockey gods just happened.
“Are you staying for a drink after?” Tori hooks her hand over her shoulder. The bar is nowhere behind her, only Eloise, but I guess that’s the standard symbol for are you coming with us?
Not even sparing a look behind me, I shake my head. “Thanks, but we’re going to head out.”
Tori makes a hole with her finger and thumb on one hand and pokes the index finger of her other hand through it. “Oh, you’re going to head alright.” She cracks up.
“Is this why you’re not usually at games by yourself? Because you get all worked up?”
She nods. “Raffi and Wyatt are doing some kind of father-son thing tonight. I’m used to the three of us coming to games, and now... after that.” She dreamy sighs, looking down at the ice. “Well. Now I need Raffi’s dick. Repeatedly.”
“Amen.” Eloise’s voice comes from behind Tori. “I don’t mean Raffi, obviously. But... well... yeah.” Eloise steps into view as she stands up from her chair and fans herself. “I can see why you’re not going to the bar, too.” Little Miss Pixie isn’t as quiet as she first seems.
The ride home is silent, Tate’s stewing over the game, and undoubtedly over the role his absence played in the communication breakdown on the ice. That’s all it was. Passes going too long, too short, lines not being coherent. But there’s no point in telling that to Satan, he’s already blamed himself for every loss, and less than perfect game the Raccoons have ever had. Whether he was in college or not.
“Are you going to say anything?” I ask.
We’re back at my dorm room. Roomie’s out, again, and I figured he wouldn’t want to be surrounded by his teammates right now. Or rather, I don’t want them around him. Scott may end up with a black eye if Tate is allowed in his space today.
“I miss the ice.”
“You do?” I gasp, covering my chest like this is brand new information. “Why, Tate. You should have said something. No one had any idea you were jonesing for the ice like an addict who’s had their substance of choice taken away from them.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Strip.” I point at the bed.
“What?”
“Take your clothes off. If you’re going to stay angry and moody all night, I’m at least putting that frustration to good use. S-t-r-i-p. Now.”
Confusion twists up his pretty face, but he gets naked and lies back on the bed.
“Guess I’m helping myself.” Since I don’t want to look at his grumpy-assed face, I decide I’m riding that bronco with my back to him. Reverse cowgirl it is.
“Wait.” He holds up his hand as I’m about to get onto the bed. “You can’t fuck me in a Snow Pirates’ shirt. That’s where I draw the line.”
“You can’t be serious.”
He’s absolutely serious.
“So either it’s UCR sex or no sex?”
His eyes flicker with heat. “Strip.”
“The fuck I will. I mean... if you’re gonna be such a child about it, I’ll just break out my vibe.” I wave a dismissive hand at him. “What do you think is going to happen? That I’m going to fuck you with the shirt on and turn into a Snow Pirate?”
He cringes, gesturing to stop me talking. “Christ. Don’t.”
I sigh. Giving in, I pull off my jersey, leaving another hockey shirt underneath. Thankfully, it’s not Snow Pirates as well, it’s an old UCR shirt I’ve had for years.
“Wait. You have Raccoons stuff?” The glee in his voice makes me smile. Fucking men. They’re all cavemen. “Leave it on. Please?”
At this point I just want to come, whether he’s a part of this process or not is up to him. When I straddle him, ass facing his body, he gropes my cheeks with both hands, palming them, caressing them.
“Is this how you want it, Pitstop? You wanna ride my cock?”
I really fucking do. The need building inside me is making my pussy soaking. He drags his cock through my lips, making me purr. I want to come, but I kinda want to edge him and leave him hanging for being a bit of an ass, but once he spears me onto his cock, my brain goes blank.
“No glove love this time?”
He groans, I’m not sure if it’s because he’s all-the-way inside me, or because he forgot to glove-up. “Do you need or want me to? I will if you’d prefer. Sorry. I got carried away.”
The way he rambles makes me giggle. “It’s fine. It’s all good.”
“You sure?” He moves to pull out.
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
He holds my hips as I bounce, the angle of how I’m kneeling is perfect for his rock-hard dick to hit the g-spot bullseye every single time.
Fuck.
Stars appear at the edges of my vision as I drive harder and faster.
He has the nerve to smack my ass cheek. He’s close, I can tell, he’s swelling and throbbing inside me, and everything’s just getting tighter and tighter.
When he slaps my ass again, I need to get back at him. Slap him, tickle him, play fight with him. Surely something like that would cheer him up. But I can’t reach around to smack his ass, and his balls are buried under all my curves and rolls. The only things I can reach are his feet.
Rolling my lips between my teeth to stop from giggling, I lean forward. I can’t help the gravelly sound that comes out of me as he drives his cock inside me from below. Fuck, he feels so damn good.
It just takes a sweep of my fingers along the inside arches of his feet for him to yelp.
Yup, my guy’s ticklish.
I repeat the action, and he squeals like a little kid.
What I don’t expect is for him to buck like a prized bronco at the rodeo, knee me in the face, and for my weight to shift so badly that I fall face-first off the bed.
“Ow!” That’s gonna leave a mark.
A hot sting blooms across my cheek and forehead as I land with an unceremonious thud on the floor.
There’s an electrically charged pause hanging in the room. I’m not sure whether to laugh, cry, or scream, and from the way he’s holding his breath he’s not sure either.
“Are you okay?” At least he asks the important question first.
I pull myself up off the needs-to-be-replaced dorm room carpet and turn to face him.
“I’m going to have a bruise on my cheek, and my forehead.” I pause before rubbing my arm. “And probably my elbow. But no blood, nothing serious.”
He nods. “Then what the fuck was that?” His voice is taut, distressed, probably because he was so close to nutting. I feel that, because I fucking was too. “You could have snapped my dick in two.”
“I thought it’d be funny.”
“You thought you’d bring our prank war into bed?”
“You slapped me first.”
He sits up in bed. “Slapping is sexy. Tickling is not.”
I mean, I’m loath to admit he kind of has a point. But I won’t back down.
“I thought it’d make you laugh, you’ve been a grumpy-puss all damn night.”
“And you thought tickling my feet when I was about to shoot my load inside you was a good plan?”
I turn to look at him, his cock looks painfully swollen, and the agony on his face makes it hard not to laugh. He looks like he might cry. “I was so close.”
That cracks me up. “You look so pathetic.”
He drops back onto the bed in a poof of air from my pillow. “I might cry.”
“I’m so glad to see you’re concerned about my pleasure, or for that matter, my injuries.”
He sits up again. “I am concerned. Very concerned. You should climb back up here and let me finish the job for both of us. You don’t even have to do anything, just lie there and take it.”
I cover his hand with my palm and shove him down onto his back. “Then I’d have to look at your face, and I don’t want to.”
Something flickers in his eyes, insecurity, maybe? Like a breeze catching a sheer curtain making it ripple, then it’s gone.
“Luckily for you, I still need to get my O, and I don’t think my toys are charged, so saddle up.”
He holds up a hand. “No more tickling.”
I point at my face. “Learned my lesson. But you’re stupid if you think I’m doing all the work.”
Taking up my position again is a little tentative, slow, like part of me is afraid he’s going to buck again just for shits and giggles. Asshole might out of spite. When I’m situated, his hand meets my lower back and pushes me forward so he can guide himself inside me.
We both huff out the longest breath of satisfaction. When I move my hips, he moves his to counter, the head of his cock pressing so deep inside me, so hard it takes my breath away.
He spreads my cheeks, gliding his thumb over my asshole.
“Nope.” I stop grinding on his cock. “You can stop that thumb right now. That’s a one-way-traffic only kinda hole, Mr. Myers. Ass play is off the table.”
He retracts his hand. “Understood. I won’t touch it again.”
“Good. I’ll have to chop your hand off if you do, and I like your hands.”
He grunts.
I start moving again, slowly, my legs starting to burn from holding myself in this position, and my body aches with frustrated need. I’m soaking, my nipples burn with lust, and I just want to fucking come.
“Fuck.” He’s grunting as I bounce on his dick. If he comes first and goes soft, I will stab him. I will. I swear to... fuck... fuck. Oh... shit...
My head tips back, the stars reappear, and my insides clench around him as my body starts to let go.
I’m not sure which one of us tips over the edge first, but whoever it is drags the other one with them.
My body pulsates, trembling with pleasure as wave after wave of undulating ecstasy surges through me on a wail.
When I catch my breath, I lie back on the bed next to a panting Tate. There’s a flash of a grin, a wickedness in his eyes, and he’s already pulling my shirt off.
“I’m not done with you, She Devil. I need more.”
He’s still soft, so he plunges his fingers inside me as he tweaks my nipples with his free hand.
“What if I don’t want more?” I’m a fucking liar, a lying liar who tells all the lies because I do want more, I want his whole fucking arm inside me until I drench him with come.
He pinches my clit, and when I yelp, he squeezes even harder. “Liar, liar, clit on fire.”
My moan is drowned out by him taking my lips in his and kissing me. I’m not sure which of us is more eager for him to get his mouth unlocked. I just want to take his face and kiss him senseless.
I claw at his bare chest.
“Love it when you get nailsy.”
I sink my nails into his pec, and he growls.
“Love it when you get growly.”
“I’m sorry I kneed you in the face.” He sweeps his fingers over my still-throbbing cheek before dotting a kiss onto my forehead. “People are going to think I hit you.”
“You did. With your kneecap.” I giggle. “I can’t believe I didn’t predict you’d spasm and flail when I tickled you. Who knew you were so ticklish?”
“I’d have told you if you’d asked.” He blows a raspberry on my nipple, making me shudder.
As much as I want to come again, I need to ask him something first. “Tate?”
His head snaps up, either at the tone of my voice, or the fact I used his real name. Maybe both.
“Why do guys wanna stick things in the outbox?”
He chuckles. “You mean anal?”
Nodding, my cheeks heat. Ain’t nothin’ goin’ near my poop-chute. Never. Not ever. That’s a one-way system for a reason.
“It’s pretty fucking hot. Forbidden. No risk of getting knocked up. It’s raw, dirty...”
The way he’s talking about my ass makes me clench it. Sure, I’m curious, but mostly grossed out. Ew. No.
I’ll stick to the old fashioned way.
“See?” He nuzzles my breast with his lips and nose. “I told you that you needed another orgasm, you’re way too think-y for someone who just lost it on my cock. Let me see what I can do about that.”