Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Kendall
His mouth finds mine again, and the world narrows to heat and want and the feeling of his hands claiming skin I didn't know was waiting for him.
I should stop this even though I'm the one who started it.
I should pull back. Remind him… remind myself, that I'm the team doctor and he's a player and there are rules, actual documented rules, about this exact scenario.
But his palms are sliding up my bare ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts, and my body has apparently staged a mutiny against every professional boundary I've ever built.
"I should just tell you... it's been a while for me," I whisper, because lying seems pointless and maybe I'm worried that fourteen months of abstinence since I left the NFL isn't going to feel quite like riding a bike. What if I'm rusty?
And like most of the guys on the Hawkeyes team, Aleksi's had his own reputation with women before his NHL season.
Though I haven't witnessed him bringing back women to the hotel after away games or taking home a puck bunny from the bar after home game wins.
All I know is that he had a reputation before coming to play for the Hawkeyes.
I'm sure he's used to experienced women, and I've only had a small handful of partners.
Med school doesn't exactly lead to extracurricular activities.
"What does 'awhile' mean?" he asks, no judgment in his eyes, just curiosity. He wants to understand.
"A little over a year..."
His breath heats over my collarbone.
"You're thinking too hard," he murmurs, words sinking against my skin.
My pulse trips up, the logical part of me scrambling to hold onto reason while the rest of me melts under the quiet authority in his voice.
Then his lips find the spot just below my throat. His mouth is soft and hot. Goosebumps rise all over my body.
"I'm a doctor. Thinking is my job."
"Not tonight." He pulls back just enough to look at me, those impossibly blue eyes catching the weak bathroom light. "Tonight it's just us. No job titles--no responsibilities. Just two people who might not wake up tomorrow."
The words land like a prescription I don't want to fill. Because he's right. If this turns out to be some kind of infectious disease, if the fever starts in the next few hours, if the CDC comes back with the kind of news that ends stories—
I don't want to die never knowing what this feels like.
So I kiss him again, harder this time, and he makes a sound low in his chest that I feel in my sternum. His hands move to my bare hips, nothing between us but his boardshorts.
"Off," I say, tugging at his wet, cold shorts.
That sexy-as-sin grin flashes across his face before he shoves them down and kicks free. And then there's nothing between us except intention and the hammer of my own heartbeat.
I let myself look. Really look.
Aleksi M?kelin is six-foot-three of lean muscle and old scars, the kind of body built for speed and endurance rather than show.
Only his scars remind me that he’s still flesh and blood, not some immortal being like his perfectly sculpted body suggests.
His thighs are impossibly thick from a lifetime of explosive skating.
As the team doctor I've seen Aleksi bare-chested a few hundred times. His entire body is only covered by a pair of boxer briefs. Dripping wet still from the showers.
But then my eyes drop lower—
My breath catches.
He's hard, flushed, the tip already glistening. Something low in my belly clenches.
I've seen the bulge in his boxer briefs but this is the first time I've seen him naked. I knew he'd be impressive but seeing him completely bare, his knees positioned between my thighs, hard length waiting to fill me. I'm suddenly more turned on than I can ever remember being in my entire life.
"Like what you see, Doc?" His voice is teasing but strained at the edges, his eyes studying mine as I take every inch of him in, hovering above me.
"Yes..." I whisper, my tongue swiping to wet my lips. His eyes dilate at the action and then he moves again.
He leans over the side of the bed, rummaging in his duffel. A strip of condoms is placed on the bedside table. There's enough for tonight at least. He tears one free, rips it open with his teeth, and I watch those careful, competent hands roll latex into place.
The athletic tape ring on his left hand catches the dim light. The one that matches mine.
Something in my chest twists. It’s sharp and sweet… and terrifying.
Then he's braced above me, forearms bracketing my head, and I can feel him right there—blunt pressure to my center, impossible heat, his thick head pressing into me.
"Tell me if I need to stop," he says, and I love him a little for asking even though we both know I won't.
"Don't stop."
He pushes in—slow, controlled, giving me time. The stretch is immediate and overwhelming, my body yielding in increments. I gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.
"Okay?" His voice is tight, restrained.
"Yes. God, yes." My hips tilt on instinct, drawing him deeper.
He groans, ragged and raw, then sinks the rest of the way home.
For a moment we're both still, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air. His left hand finds my right, fingers threading through mine, pinning my arm gently above my head. I feel the slight scratch of tape against my knuckles—grounding me even as everything else threatens to spiral.
"Kendall," he breathes. "You feel—"
"I know." Because I do. This isn't supposed to feel this right. This isn't supposed to feel like coming home to a place I've never been.
Then he moves.
The first stroke punches the air from my lungs. The second pulls a sound from my throat I didn't know I could make. By the third I'm wrapping my legs around his waist, pulling him tighter to me, meeting him thrust for thrust, my short nails raking lines down his back.
"Harder," I hear myself say, barely recognizing the sound of my voice.
He complies—hips snapping faster, deeper—and the slap of skin on skin fills the small room along with our ragged breathing. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, the sensitive spot behind my ear. Every touch feels like he's mapping me, memorizing me… marking me.
"Look at me," he says, and I do.
His pupils are blown wide, hair falling across his forehead damp from the hot tub and now with newfound effort. He looks wrecked and beautiful, like he's trying to see straight through to my soul.
"Aleksi—" His name comes out like a desperate prayer on my tongue.
"I've got you," he promises, and I believe him.
His hand slides between us, his index finger at my clit as he adds pressure, his mouth wrapping around my nipple. His tongue swirls over my aching nipple and I arch into his mouth, wanting more–so much more.
The orgasm builds fast, mutters of prayer spill from my mouth, coaxing him on further, and he takes my encouragement, thrusting deeper, his fingers swirling faster, his lips tightening around me.
Pleasure coils tight in my belly, electricity sparks up my spine. When it hits, it's white-hot and annihilating, my body clenching around him as I cry out. He follows seconds later with a guttural sound, face buried in the curve of my neck, hips stuttering.
For a long moment we stay tangled—trembling, gasping, hearts crashing against each other.
Then he lifts his head, eyes soft in a way that makes my throat tight.
"Are you okay?" he asks again.
I can only nod, the rest of my body jelly to what he just did.
He presses a kiss to my temple before carefully withdrawing. I feel the loss immediately—my body already mourning the connection.
He disappears into the bathroom. I hear water running, the snap of latex. When he returns he stretches out beside me, one arm sliding beneath my shoulders to pull me into his chest. I go willingly, draping myself across him, listening to the thunder of his heartbeat slow.
"That was—" he starts.
"I know."
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder blade. "We have all night."
We do. And for once, being quarantined in a motel just provided its only perk.
Three hours and four condoms later, I'm boneless and draped across Aleksi's chest like I might not move for a week. My body hums with the kind of exhaustion that feels earned, muscles deliciously sore, skin sensitized, every nerve ending still sparking.
I've lost count of the ways he's touched me. The ways I've touched him back.
The orgasm count, though? That I know. Five. Maybe six if you count the one that blurred into the next without clear borders.
I've had more in the last few hours with Aleksi than I had in the final year of my marriage.
That thought sobers me like ice water down my spine.
I need to say it now. Establish boundaries before this goes any further than it already has—before I start believing in things that will only hurt worse when they end.
"Aleksi," I start, voice hoarse from overuse.
"Mmm?" He's half-asleep, fingers still playing idly with my hair streaming down my back, his pinky brushing down my spine every once and awhile, making me squirm against him. And he likes it.
I push up on one elbow, putting space between us even though my body protests. "We need to talk about what happens next."
His eyes open, suddenly alert. "Next?"
"When we leave here. When we go back to Seattle." I force myself to hold his gaze. "This was amazing. But it can't happen again."
The lazy circles on my shoulder stop. "Hold on—"
"Listen." My voice shakes despite my best effort to steady it.
I sit up fully, pulling the sheet across my chest like armor.
"I'm the team doctor. You're a player. The medical board has explicit rules about fraternization between medical staff and athletes.
If anyone finds out about this, I could lose my license.
You could be suspended. Traded. The Hawkeyes could face sanctions. "