29. Weston #2
“Sure. Callum’s there—he won’t let anything happen.”
“Good, I was hoping you’d say that.” I lean in, my lips hovering at the shell of her ear. Her sweet perfume tickles my nostrils and all I can think about is getting her upstairs, alone.
It’s reckless. Stupid, even. One wrong look from the wrong person and the whole season could blow up in our faces.
But fuck it—I need her.
“Let me give you a tour of the rest of the house.”
Her lips tip up in a slow smile and she nods, following me inside. I’m careful not to touch her, even though my fingers burn with the desire to press against the small of her back, lead her up the stairs.
Instead, I keep a respectful distance between us. Pretending we’re colleagues, just short of friends.
Eyes darting around the room, I duck upstairs with Harbor right behind. We tiptoe up the wooden steps, and I’m suddenly glad Bennett hired a DJ. The music’s so loud no one hears us, plus there’s tons of distractions. No one will even notice we’re gone.
Turning the knob to my room, I grab Harbor’s wrist and pull her inside. Spinning around, I box her in with my arms, our faces inches apart.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” Her voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. But there’s a sultriness, a longing there, sending all my blood rushing straight to my cock.
“I missed you, Hurricane.”
“So did I.” She winds her arms around my neck and then we’re kissing, the bass from the music outside vibrating the floor.
She tastes like wine, a slight hint of vanilla on her lips as I slip my tongue into her mouth.
“God, I’ve been waiting to do this,” I murmur, sliding my hands down to her hips and pulling her closer to me. Inhaling her floral scent, getting lost in her. “This is all I’ve been wanting to do.”
I palm her ass cheeks, squeezing, and she giggles.
“Weston…”
“I want you. You’re prancing around in this tiny slip of a dress, and all I can think about is taking it off.”
“We can’t,” she breathes into my open mouth.
“We can.” I press down on the lock, the click snicking behind us. “See? Privacy.”
“You’re a bad boy, Weston Steele. What would HR think about this?”
“Probably nothing good. How about we don’t tell them?
” I drop my lips to the tender skin of her neck, nipping and sucking.
“They don’t need to know about this…” I glide my hand up her thigh, bunching the fabric of her dress in my hand.
“Or this.” Sliding her panties to the side, I trail my fingers through her wetness.
“Such a good girl, soaking and ready for me.”
She exhales a soft, breathy moan as I sink two fingers into her tight pussy. Moving in and out, conscious of the time constraint. Her muscles contract around my fingers, nipples peaking through the thin material of her dress.
“You’re fucking glorious, Harbor, you know that?”
Her lips curve into a smile beneath mine and my cock lengthens and hardens in my pants.
I want this woman.
Need her, like I need air to breathe.
In this moment, the only thing on my mind is fucking Harbor. Making her come all over my cock, unraveling for me and only me.
“Lose your panties.” My voice is husky with desire as I issue the command.
She doesn’t hesitate, gripping my shoulder for balance and stepping carefully out of her panties.
“Perfect.” I slide another finger into her, flicking my thumb against her clit. She writhes against the door, her head thrown back.
“You like that, baby? Just like that?” I press on the sensitive bud and she squirms under my touch.
“Weston…” She moans my name and I unzip my pants, pulling out my cock. I’m hard and ready to go.
“Shit—condom,” I mutter, pulling my fingers out of her pussy.
“It’s fine. I’m on birth control and I trust you.”
I pause. “You sure?”
She gazes up at me, eyes hazy with lust. “Yes, I’m sure. Fuck me, Weston. Bare. Nothing between us. I want you to be my first.”
My heart stutters in my chest.
Harbor’s never been with someone like this.
The vulnerability, the way she trusts me—she’s giving me something real. Something I don’t want to fuck up .
I press my forehead to hers. Because this isn’t just sex. Not with her. Not now.
Pumping my cock a few times, I line up with her entrance and slide in.
Fucking heaven.
Tight and wet and hot, and I sink in like I’m home.
“Fuck…” I hiss, gripping her hip and pulling her closer. “You’re so fucking tight, baby. Perfect for me.”
“Yes…” she moans, grinding against me.
Our bodies move together, frantically seeking more. More friction, more heat, more of each other.
“You feel that, baby? How fucking deep I am? That’s what you do to me, Hurricane—turn me into a damn animal.”
She arches into me, our bodies slapping together. “God, yes. Weston…don’t stop. I want all of you. Every filthy, perfect inch.”
Hearing her dirty words, I drive into her. Fierce and deep. I want Harbor to remember me and my cock every time she takes a motherfucking step. To feel me inside her still, deep and aching. Pushing her over the edge.
“Harbor…” I kiss her hard on the lips, my tongue tangling with hers. Wrapping my hand around the delicate column of her neck, I squeeze lightly, testing. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away. “Come for me, baby.”
I press on her neck, pistoning into her hard. The door rattles, but I’m not concerned about the noise. Everyone’s downstairs, dancing and drinking.
Harbor unravels in my arms, her body convulsing.
I loosen my fingers around her neck and she sucks in a desperate breath as I drive into her.
A few thrusts later, I explode, the hot pulse of my release mixing with hers.
Pressing her body to mine, I kiss her—hard and deep—my hands stroking her hair, her face.
“God, baby. You’re so fucking perfect.” I hold her to me, heart still racing, sweat cooling on our heated skin. She’s trembling and flushed, wrecked and radiant—and mine.
All mine.
I know—right here, right now—I’d burn down everything in my whole damn life to keep her.
We stay still for a moment longer, wrapped up in silence and sweat and the illusion that this bubble won’t burst. But we’ve already been gone too long.
“Guess we have to go back out there…” I adjust my shirt, tucking away my cock.
“Sadly. I don’t want to leave Piper alone too long though.”
“Hold on, stay still.” I duck into my bathroom, returning with a warm washcloth. Gently, I wipe between Harbor’s legs, washing away all the traces of us and tossing the cloth into my hamper.
We redress quickly, and I crack open the door, checking both directions.
“Coast is clear.”
Harbor slips into the hallway first, smoothing her hair down and trying to pretend we didn’t break every rule we made. I follow behind her.
“Damn, Cap. Hope you stretched first.”
One of our defensemen—Ford, a solid D-man with a dry sense of humor and zero filter—is leaning against the wall, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. His gaze flicks to Harbor’s tousled hair and swollen lips, then back to me.
My stomach drops.
Shit.