The Girlfriend #2
Maybe not with his usual accuracy, but with the familiarity of someone who had spent years learning every response. He noticed when my breathing changed. When my thighs tightened. When I stopped kissing him back because I could no longer concentrate.
“Close?” he murmured.
I nodded.
He smiled against my mouth.
“Good.”
His fingers moved faster.
I grabbed his shoulder.
The climax hit with a warm intensity, less sharp than usual but deep enough to make my back arch beneath him.
He whispered my name while I shook.
He kept touching me until I reached for his wrist again.
“Too much.”
“Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.”
“I’m trying to be good.”
He kissed the corner of my mouth. His eyes closed briefly and he pressed forward again.
This time, he entered me slowly, giving my body time to open around him. He locked eyes with mine as he pushed deeper.
A rough breath left him.
“God.”
His skin was still slightly sticky from dried champagne. The absurdity of it made me smile.
“I love you,” I said.
His expression softened.
“Say it again.”
“I love you.”
His hips rolled against mine in deep, unsteady strokes. Not the practiced rhythm he usually found. Every movement came with a slight adjustment as we rediscovered each other through the alcohol, exhaustion and emotion.
The messiness made it intimate. He lost his balance once and laughed into my neck. I tried to change the angle and accidentally kneed him in the side as he made a wounded sound.
“Sorry,” I giggled.
“You told me to stop apologizing.”
“That was before I assaulted a champion.”
He lifted his head.
“You called me champion.”
“I have several times.”
“Again.”
I tightened my legs around him.
“Come here, champion.”
Something in him snapped.
His mouth covered mine and the next movement came harder. Then another.
The rhythm sharpened, driven by the adrenaline still alive beneath his exhaustion. His hands gripped my hips as he moved against me, body pressing mine deep into the bed.
The headboard struck the wall.
He drove deeper and I moaned.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“There?”
“Yes.”
He repeated it.
His mouth moved over my neck while his pace built.
This was the messy part. Sweat gathering between our bodies. His damp hair sticking to my cheek. Our breathing growing louder as the bed shifted beneath us.
He kissed me without aiming carefully, mouth landing on my jaw, my throat, the edge of my chin.
I loved all of it.
He had spent the entire night being pulled in every direction. Teammates grabbing him. Cameras following him. Strangers asking for photographs and pieces of the moment.
Now his attention belonged entirely to me.
He buried his face against my neck.
“I thought about you,” he said.
“When?”
“On the ice.”
His hips moved harder.
“When I was holding it.”
The trophy.
I wrapped my arms around him.
“I looked for you.”
“I know.”
“I couldn’t find you at first.”
“I was behind your parents.”
“I got scared.”
The confession caught me.
He slowed.
“I would never miss it.”
“I know.”
His voice broke slightly and he stopped moving.
For a moment, he only held me.
His weight covered my body, his face hidden in my neck. I could feel his heartbeat against my chest.
Fast.
Uneven.
I stroked the back of his hair and a small piece of gold confetti caught between my fingers.
He lifted his head. His eyes were wet.
That changed everything.
The night’s frenzy drained out of him almost visibly.
The shoulders that had carried a team through four playoff rounds softened beneath my hands as he kissed me.
His mouth pressed to mine with care, lingering between each breath.
When he began moving again, the rhythm had changed.
Each stroke was deep and measured, his body staying close enough that there was almost no space between us.
I held his face.
He watched me.
Really watched.
His eyes moved over every reaction as though he wanted to remember the moment more clearly than the rest of the night.
“Tell me what you need,” he said.
“You.”
“You have me.”
“All of you.”
His expression softened further.
“You’ve always had that.”
His hand slid between our bodies, back to my clit.
The touch was gentler now.
Patient.
He knew exactly how to bring me back toward the edge without rushing me, pressure building in careful circles while his hips continued their slow rhythm.
Our breathing blended. Every movement became quieter, deeper and more intimate than the one before. The pleasure gathering inside me felt different this time.
His mouth brushed mine.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you.”
His eyes closed and the tension in his face eased.
His hand kept moving.
Pleasure built, becoming impossible to separate from the love flooding through me.
My breathing broke.
He felt it.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “Come for me.”
My body tightened around him. He held himself deep and watched my face as I came apart beneath him.
His name left my mouth. Soft.
He kissed me through every aftershock.
His own control slipped soon after.
He pressed his face into my neck, hips losing their measured rhythm as his body tensed over mine.
I held him tightly.
He came with my name against my skin and his hands locked around me, as though even now he needed to make sure I was still there.
When it ended, he did not move away.
He stayed over me until the weight became almost uncomfortable.
I didn’t complain.
His breathing slowly steadied.
The room had gone silent around us.
Eventually, he rolled onto his side and pulled me with him.
I rested my head on his chest. His heart still beat too quickly beneath my ear.
I traced one finger along the faint red mark left by his shoulder pad.
“You’re going to feel terrible tomorrow.”
“I feel incredible.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m a champion.”
“There it is again.”
He kissed the top of my head. Then his hand moved down my back, slow and absentminded.
“I want to marry you.”
I lifted my head.
He looked completely serious. As serious as a man covered in dried champagne and confetti could look.
“You’re drunk,” I repeated.
“I know.”
“You won the championship six hours ago.”
“I know.”
“You cannot propose right now.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
“I’m warning you.”
My chest tightened.
“Warning me?”
“That I’m going to.”
“When you’re sober?”
“Probably.”
“That would be ideal.”
He touched my cheek.
“I already have the ring.”
I stared at him.
He smiled.
The expression was sleepy and smug.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“Where?”
“Not telling.”
“You cannot say that and then fall asleep.”
“I can.”
His eyes closed.
I pushed his shoulder.
He groaned.
“Where is it?”
“Safe.”
“How long have you had it?”
“Months.”
“Months?”
“Wanted to wait until after the season.”
“What if you hadn’t won?”
His eyes opened.
“I still would’ve asked.”
He reached for my hand beneath the blanket, threading our fingers together. I settled against his chest again and he pulled the blanket over both of us.
“You need water,” I said.
“In the morning.”
“There are two bottles on the floor.”
“Too far.”
“You’re going to regret that.”
“Stay.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
I lifted my head.
He was barely awake now, eyes heavy and voice softer than I had ever heard it.
I kissed the center of his chest.
“I promise.”
His arm tightened around me.
Within minutes, he was asleep.
I remained awake longer, listening to his breathing and picking tiny pieces of gold confetti from his hair. I placed each one carefully on the nightstand.
Just before I fell asleep, he shifted and pulled me closer.
“We did it,” he murmured.
I smiled against his chest.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“We did.”