Chapter 25
twenty-five
CASS
The sterile quiet of the Courtyard Marriott room feels like a sealed capsule, a world away from the roaring chaos of the arena. I perch on the edge of the stiff hotel bed—one of those corporate beds with corners tucked so tight you could bounce a quarter off the duvet—and watch Ben pace.
He’s still wired from the game, his damp hair curling at his nape, and there’s something different about him tonight. Not just the broadness of his shoulders or the contained power in the way he moves through the cramped space between the generic dresser and the bland landscape print.
It’s the certainty.
Like he walked off that ice knowing exactly who he is.
He’s a conquering hero. And he’s mine.
The thought gives me a thrill, because I’ve never felt ownership like this over another person or relationship. The closest I’ve come is the death-grip I have on my guitar during a solo, white-knuckling the neck like someone might try to rip it from my hands mid-song.
But this is different.
I shift on the bed, and the movement catches his eye. He finally stops pacing and sinks onto the mattress beside me. The bed dips, pulling me slightly toward him, and he reaches for my hand without looking, his fingers finding mine with easy certainty.
“That last play,” he says, his voice still rough from exertion. “When Nash fed me the puck at the blue line, I almost didn’t see the opening. I just—”
He pauses, reliving it, his brow furrowing in that way that looks like he’s solving an equation. And, as he continues with the post-game autopsy, I realize he can’t just win. He has to deconstruct the victory into component parts, and understand the why of his own success before he can enjoy it.
It’s unbearably cute.
And it’s also why I’m falling for him.
Because this need to understand is the opposite of every guy who’s ever wanted me for the spectacle. Ben wants to know how things work. Not to judge them. Just to get them. And the way he defended me tonight, in front of everyone, helped me reach a new level of understanding.
He saw something messy and likely to invite conflict—the reality of dating someone who dresses like me, talks like me, is like me—and he stepped up. He didn’t recoil from the reality of me and my life, he leaned into it, when I was just as inclined to ignore the bullshit from those guys.
But Ben wasn’t having it.
He assessed the threat—drunk assholes, escalating harassment, potential for violence—and selected the most efficient solution. Calm authority, backed with the promise of consequences, delivered with the same matter-of-fact tone he uses when explaining voltage drops.
She’s my girlfriend. Her name is Cass.
A simple statement of fact, delivered with the quiet authority of someone who doesn’t need to prove anything. And then he went back to playing hockey like it was nothing, like protecting me was just what he does.
I look at him—really look at him—as he continues his play-by-play, his hands gesturing like he’s mapping out the ice, his green eyes bright with the joy of reliving it—and I realize then, with bone deep certainty, that he doesn’t need me invulnerable or a fantasy.
He just needs me to be me.
I lean over, cutting off whatever he was about to say, and kiss him.
His mouth meets mine with a hunger that steals my breath. His hand comes up to cup the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair. The kiss deepens instantly, his tongue sliding against mine, and the small noise I make against his lips seems to ignite something in him.
He pulls me onto his lap in one smooth motion, and I straddle his thighs, my knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. I can feel the hard ridge of him already pressing against me through his jeans, and I love the fact that I did that.
I grind down against him, slow and deliberate, and his groan vibrates through my chest. “You played a hell of a game. Ready for overtime?”
“Cass,” he says, his breath warming my mouth, and God, I love the way he says my name.
I pull back just enough to yank his Devils hoodie over his head, tossing it behind me, and my hands go immediately to the solid planes of his chest. He’s warm under my palms, his heart hammering, and I lean down to kiss the hollow of his throat, tasting salt and the faint tang of soap.
He makes a desperate, strangled noise and reverses our positions.
One second I’m on top, and the next I’m on my back. He’s above me, his weight pressing me down in a way that makes me feel safe and claimed and utterly his. His mouth is hot and demanding, and I kiss him back with everything I have, pouring all the gratitude and the new feelings into it.
His hands slide under the hem of my shirt—his shirt, the oversized Devils practice jersey I’d worn to the party—and I arch into his touch, craving the heat of his palms against my skin. I tug at the fabric, and he helps me, pulling it over my head.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent, then his mouth finds the swell of my breast above the lace edge of my bra.
I reach behind me, unhooking the clasp, and let it fall away. I hear his breathing stop, and then his mouth is on my nipple, hot and wet, his tongue circling before he sucks. I cry out for more, for everything, my hands fisting in his hair.
“Ben—fuck—”
He hums against my skin, which he’s quickly figured out is like a live wire straight to my clit, and his hand slides down, popping the button of my jeans with an ease that suggests he’s been thinking about this since we walked through the door.
Good.
I lift my hips, helping him peel the denim down my legs, taking my panties with them. Then I’m naked beneath him, sprawled across the generic hotel bed, and he’s staring at me like I’m a miracle he can’t believe is real.
“Your turn,” I say, my voice husky, and I reach for his belt.
He helps me, his movements sure and certain—no hesitation, no anxiety—and filled with pure, focused intent. He shoves his jeans and boxers down in one motion, kicking them off, and then he’s as bare as I am, his cock hard and thick, already leaking at the tip.
I wrap my hand around him, stroking, feeling the weight and heat of him in my palm. He groans, his hips bucking into my grip. Then I guide him to me, spreading my thighs, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “I want this. I want you.”
He enters me in one smooth, deep thrust, and I gasp, my back arching. The stretch is intense, perfect, and the fullness is exactly what I need. He stills, giving me a moment to adjust, his forehead dropping to rest against mine. And then he starts to move.
It’s urgent. Powerful. Joyous.
We’re equals here, meeting each other with a passion that feels like a conversation spoken in gasps and moans and the slap of skin against skin. He braces himself on his forearms, his face inches from mine, and I kiss him as he thrusts, deep and hard, hitting the perfect spot inside me.
“Fuck, you feel so good.” He groans.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting more, wanting everything. It’s a demand, and he complies, his rhythm becoming almost punishing, every stroke driving me higher. And through it all, I’m loud and I don’t care.
Let the people in the next room complain.
He shifts, pulling out, and I whimper at the loss. But then he’s reversing our positions, guiding me onto my hands and knees with a confidence that would have been unthinkable a month ago but is now fucking hot. I brace myself against the headboard as he enters me again from behind.
The new angle is devastating, and when I look to my right and see our reflection in the mirrored closet door—his large frame encompassing mine, his hands gripping my hips, the raw claim of it—I nearly come on the spot.
“God, look at us.” I gasp, and he does, his eyes locking onto the mirror. The groan that rumbles through his chest is pure, masculine satisfaction.
He fucks me like this, hard and deep, and I watch us—the way his body moves with mine, the way his face is tight with pleasure and focus and reverence—even as my arms start trembling and my breath goes ragged. Then he reaches around, his fingers finding my clit, and I shatter.
The orgasm slams through me—white-hot, all-consuming. I cry out his name, my voice breaking. He follows seconds later, his hips stuttering, his grip tightening as he comes with a shout, shooting inside me in hot, pulsing waves.
We collapse together, a tangle of sweaty limbs and heaving chests, and I turn onto my back, staring up at the water-stained ceiling tile. Ben drapes an arm across my waist, pulling me against his side. I rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart as it gradually slows.
“Ben?” I whisper. “Thank you. For tonight.”
His arm tightens around me, a silent acknowledgment.
And it feels like home.