32. Crosby
Chapter 32
Crosby
S inking into Violet makes me see stars.
I’ve never gone without a condom before. The risk wasn’t one I was willing to take as a bumbling teenager or as a rising star in a professional sport.
But as Violet’s tight, slick heat swallows inch after inch of my cock until she is fully seated on my lap, I can’t think of a single reason why we haven’t been doing this all along.
Her arms are loosely around my neck. Her fingers trace the veins before settling in the ends of my hair, fingernails gently scraping the skin as she swirls them around. Her head is thrown back, lips parted in ecstasy as her body works to accommodate me. I hold her hips in place, enjoying the way her pussy flutters slightly around my cock, and how in this position, her breasts are directly in front of me.
Their soft roundness is topped with tight and firm rosy nipples. Perfectly pebbled in arousal, reaching forward with an unspoken request for attention. I provide it by leaning forward and sucking one into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the peak, and switching to its not-to-be-forgotten twin. She moves her hands to my chest, pushing to gain leverage as a moan comes out on a stuttered breath.
“Attagirl,” I encourage, popping off her breast and lifting her hips. “You took all of me. I’m filling you up, aren’t I?”
“Crosby, fuck,” she says, looking down at where we’re joined before sliding back along my length. I guide her on the downstroke, tilting her hips to rub her clit against me. It makes her pussy tighten a little. A few more and Violet finds a rhythm she likes—a slow lift with her knees until the tip of my cock almost slips from her, followed by a fast drop and rock. Her tits bounce with every movement, and her nails dig into my skin. I love the little half-moon indents she momentarily leaves behind, wishing she would press harder so I could see them in the morning.
Soon enough, Violet begins to lose her pace, her breathing growing more erratic, and she abandons holding on to me in favor of running her hands up and down the sinful curves of her body. My fingers dance up her porcelain skin to cup her breasts and skate back down the smoothness of her stomach to sink lower to tease the base of my cock.
“Please—” she gasps out.
“What do you need?” I ask, one hand curling harder around her to keep her steady, the other traveling to hold her chin between my fingers and thumb. “Eyes on me, Sparks. Tell me what you need. You need to come?”
“Yes!” Violet’s eyes lock on mine, the flecks of silver hazy with sinful delight, but the blue clear and sharp. She leans forward, crashing her lips to mine, taking for a moment exactly what she wants without words. A fierce and needy kiss, all teeth and tongue, as her hips begin to roll and rock instead of rise. Just as swiftly as she fuses our lips together, she breaks away, keeping her forehead on mine. “I can’t—I need you to fuck me. Hard and deep. Please, Crosby. Please.”
Her begging shudders around the trembling breaths she draws in, stealing them from me in the small space between our bodies. I give them freely, content to let this woman have anything she wants. Anything she needs.
“I’ll fuck you, baby.” I wrap both arms around her waist, lifting and depositing Violet underneath me on the mattress. I balance on my knees, widening them to keep her legs parted. I slip out of her for a moment as I fall forward to cage her in. She whimpers, wide eyes looking up at me. “It’s okay,” I tell her, thrusting back in, slow and deep. I rock my hips forward, grinding hard enough for her to gasp. “I’m going to make sure you come. Just the way you like it. Then, I’m going to fill this pretty pussy up until you’re dripping with me.”
Violet moans, hitching a leg over my hip. The adjustment draws me impossibly further into her, testing my resolve to get her there before I lose it. I drop my head on the next thrust, kissing her sternum and back up the column of her throat. She tilts her head back, giving me more access.
“Do you want that? Want to show me you’re mine?” I whisper against her skin, using one hand to keep me steady, the other sneaking between our sweat-slicked bodies to rub my thumb against her sensitive clit.
“Yours.” It’s a sigh of agreement. A heated confession with love and desperation. I can tell Violet is close by the way she struggles to focus on me, the pulses of her pussy as she begins to tip over the edge. “I’m yours. Make me come!”
I increase the pressure on her clit, swirling around once, twice, then pinch it between my fingers. I feel the exact moment she shatters around my cock, and I swallow the scream that threatens to tear from her with a devastating kiss.
It’s never been like this for me. I’ve never fucked with an urge to claim. But as Violet scratches down my back, clawing at the curve of my ass to keep me thrusting into her, that’s exactly what it feels like I’m doing.
When I follow her over the edge a few thrusts later, it’s to the declaration of her love. She holds me to her as the aftershocks work through both of us, calmed by tender kisses and gentle touches.
We lie together for a thousand heartbeats before I slip from her, sitting back on my knees. Violet begins to close her legs, but I reach a tentative touch to her calf, a silent request she grants by sitting up on her elbows.
“Can I—” I swallow, pushing the request out in a rush, “Can I see? Please?”
A shy and secret smile spreads across her wine-stained lips. She nods, planting her feet flat on the bed and widening her legs. I watch with fascination as a small pearled bead of my cum begins to drip from her. Instinctively, I trace a finger through it before pushing it back in. Violet’s back arches, a sharp inhale parting her lips, eyes flashing with heat.
“Don’t want to waste any of it, right?” I smirk. “Want to keep everything exactly where it’s supposed to be.”
“Holy fuck, Crosby.” Violet squirms, hips wiggling and laughter lacing through her words. But her nipples stand at attention, and a beautiful blush spreads across her chest, climbing to paint the apples of her cheeks. She’s just as affected by this as I am. I move to her side, cuddling her close for a few minutes before I move us to the bathroom to clean up in the shower.
“Crosby!”
I turn at the sound of my name, seeing the last person I expected. Ethan stands just inside the locker room in a dark-gray pressed suit and black tie. He has one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone, eyes flicking between it and me.
I cross the carpet in my breezes, superstition making me careful to skirt the logo, and stop in front of him with my arms crossed.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, working hard to keep my voice neutral. I’m in the middle of suiting up for the tournament, trying in vain to ignore that my team of three drew a scrimmage against Ahlman. I just want this weekend to be over.
“You’re wearing a microphone for us today. Mitch said you agreed last night, so I’m here to facilitate.” Ethan finally puts his phone in his jacket pocket. “You did say yes, right? I’m not here for nothing?”
I search my memory from the last twenty-four hours and remember the brunette at the reception. I met someone last night at her introduction—Mitch, apparently—and agreed to something. I wasn’t paying any attention, so I guess this is what I get. I don’t really care. I’ve had a hot mic once this season, nothing much came from it, just a few soundbites of me chirping and cheering.
“You seriously flew to Vegas to watch someone put a mic on me, Savoy?” I cock my head to the side, weighing the truth of his appearance and hoping to piss him off a little.
“I’ve been here the whole weekend. I just came to the tunnels to make sure this was done correctly.” Ethan turns and waves a hand back at me. “C’mon, they’re waiting on you.”
We head down the hall to a media room where the same woman from the night before is waiting. She doesn’t do more than nod a greeting and set to work. With the microphone and pack secured, she dismisses me with a soft “good luck.” Ethan stands off to the side with his phone back in his hand, furiously typing and swiping.
Ethan gives me a curt “thank you” in the hall before wandering in the opposite direction of the locker rooms. I shake my head as I walk back to the locker room and get into my pre-game headspace. Even for an exhibition, if I don’t get my head on right, I can’t be my best on the ice. While there isn’t a real win on the line, there is the enjoyment of the fans to consider. They voted me here, and making sure I give them a good show feels important for my first All-Star appearance.
Back inside the locker room, I finish getting my gear on and taping a few sticks. Another production member comes in, letting us know it’s time to go, and the familiar buzz of competition stirs under my skin.
I sit on the Vegas home bench, cheering and laughing with my fellow players throughout the first few rounds of the tournament. The league is evenly split, forming the bases of the teams, with the extra fan-voted players filling out the ranks. We have eight goalies to share, and they rotate in and out for the rounds of play. I have my teammates for the match—Ben Lawson and Elias Torvik from Milwaukee—on either side as we yell at Tex to shoot.
The crowd is going wild for the fun and fast matchup on the ice. The guys are having a blast as they take the game at 75 percent seriousness, leaving the opportunities for trick shots and good-natured roughing as the final seconds tick away. My group plays next, so I take a moment to double-check the laces on my skates, shake out my wrists to get loose, and pick a stick. The other two I don’t play with will likely find their way to a fan before the end of the night. I smile at the reminder that I’m lucky enough to call this my job.
Finally, we take to the ice, five minutes for warm-ups. Ben, Elias and I go through some basic drills, the routine making it easy to find a way to play together. Elias plays right wing and Ben defense, so we balance out pretty well. We have the Vancouver goalie on our side, and we’ll be shooting at New York’s tender. I’m excited about that. It reminds me of our season opener, which makes me think of Violet.
Unconsciously, my eyes lift to the seats behind the penalty boxes. A few rows up, Violet is smiling in a black sweater, the bright purple accent color of our team’s home jersey spelling out “Rise” in big letters across the front. She’s jumping up and down as she waves. I shove one hand under my arm to pull it free from my glove so I can wave back. The rest of our friends are around her, and while I can’t make out what they’re shouting at me, I know it’s encouraging.
Just before I turn to focus on the officials at center ice, I blow her a kiss. Gus’ hand shoots out in front of her face, catching it before he presses the “kiss” to his own cheek. Violet pushes his shoulder while Obie rolls his eyes. Even Bones smiles at the childlike joke before he pops a quick kiss to Violet’s head to make up for it. She beams at him and turns to send me one of her own in return.
“Has she moved on to being shared now? Guess it makes sense she’d take care of her daddy’s whole team. Do you like getting in on it, too? You do seem awfully close to a few of your teammates.”
My friends’ faces darken in the crowd, and the smile slips from Violet’s face. I don’t have to turn to my left. I know who’s standing there. A rough exhale rushes out my nose.
“Motherfucker,” I practically chew the word through my rising anger.
“If it weren’t for Violet, I never would have realized finding the right puck bunny is just as important to my career as daily skate. Of course, I didn’t get it right the first time, like you probably did,” Ahlman continues, as though he’s talking about the weather and not how he tried to use Violet to secure his NHL career. Anger, pure and wild, courses through me. I bite down—never more grateful for a mouthguard—as my jaw tenses enough to almost crack a molar. “Kind of a shame, though. Violet sure is a good fuck.”
I know I can’t get away with hitting Ahlman during the All-Stars. So far, the most violent thing to happen has been an accidental tripping that resulted in a Los Angeles player sliding into the back of the net, hitting his face on the pole on the way in. Both players involved gave back-slapping hugs to clear the air after and play resumed. But I really, really want to beat the shit out of this guy.
Instead, I turn to him, locking my spine to revel in the three inches I have over him. I cut my eyes down, enjoying the way he adjusts on his skates like he can draw level to me.
“I’m going to need you to shut the fuck up and back the fuck away from me. Now.”
“Or what?” he taunts, a fist coming up to push at one of my shoulders—hard. It barely registers. All I know is he made the first move. I still can’t hit the guy, but I can—and do— grab the back of his neck to shove him away.
It lasts less than a second. There is no opportunity for anyone to jump in to keep a fight from escalating. We’re already separated, pushing off the ice to get to our spots for play.
Instead, Ahlman gets in the last insult.
“Trying to pull my hair, Wells? I liked it better when your girlfriend did it.”
The buzzer announces there won’t be the opportunity for more. This might be an exhibition for fun, a celebration of the game and the fans who watch it, but it just got personal for me. I can’t use my fists to settle the score, but I can still fucking win, and I plan on doing just that.
“That guy’s an asshole,” Lawson acknowledges as we skate into position. “I can’t wait for the season to start back up so I can fuck with him.” He shakes his head and leans toward the ice, eyes focused on our opposition.
I crouch into a face-off stance, my muscle memory keeping me present even when my mind is playing out a million different accidental murder scenarios. None of them are helpful. When the puck drops, I slap it to Torvik and shut everything else in my brain down. I just have to get through this and get back to Violet.
Our match is rather tame as we go up and down the rink. They score. We score. Everyone plays exactly like they should but unlike the previous matchups, an undercurrent of tension thrums throughout the game. With the mechanical way everyone plays, there’s limited excitement, and even the crowd is subdued.
I look up to check the clock.
One minute remains.
I move up my lane, maneuvering the puck with a little extra flare I wouldn’t normally play with. When no player is charging you, it’s easier to show off a little more. It’s a one-on-one match as I get closer to the crease. I like that Lawson and Torvik have their players handled. Giving me the chance to square up on Ahlman.
With blazing eyes, tense arms, and a painful scowl, he looks like he’s playing game seven of the Stanley Cup. I smirk a little, causing his eyes to narrow at me as he lunges. I dodge, circling the net around the back side with him giving chase.
I suddenly hear Tex’s voice bellow clearly across the ice to me, “Michigan!”
My body works automatically to comply. All the post-practice shooting sessions of that trick shot flooding back to me at once.
With the puck tucked closely against the blade of my stick, I flip my backhand and lift, balancing the puck there. New York’s goalie is still twisted the other way, even though I’m sure he knows what’s coming. As I round the corner of the net, I flick my wrist into the top corner, sending the puck into the back of the net.
The arena erupts with cheers, my trick shot injecting a little life back into the atmosphere. Lawson and Torvik skate forward to tap me on the head. I reach a gloved hand out to the tender, bumping fists with him, thankful he let the play go ahead, even if it meant a loss for his team.
The officials blow the whistle, the announcer calls the final score 2-1, and I glare at Olivier Ahlman until he leaves the ice.