Chapter 17 Nora
NORA
Freddie’s lips move hungrily against mine with adamant fervor. I slide my hands in his hair, Abby’s words reverberating in my brain.
Maybe it’s the remnants of my wine, or maybe it’s the vulnerability from my discussion with Abby or the accidental photo I sexted Freddie and his brothers.
Or maybe it’s the hot-as-hell dark and handsome hockey player who showed up on my brother’s doorstep, drenched from head to toe like something out of my wildest dreams.
But I know without a doubt that what I feel—for Freddie—is as real as he is.
It doesn’t make any sense. Up until the other day, I’d never questioned the way he looked at me or his casual conversation. But it’s like ever since he brought me home the other night—ever since he took care of me—I have felt this magnetism, this desire to uncover all of Freddie Sterling’s secrets.
I just never thought I was one of them.
His body is hard and warm, and his hand on my thigh feels smooth and surprisingly gentle. His lips traverse over my jaw, down my neck. My eyelashes flutter as he whispers in my ear. “If it’s too much, princess, just tell me. If you want me to stop, I’ll stop.”
It’s the way he says the words. With reverence and warmth and care.
Dare I say love?
I know that’s crazy. I barely know Freddie, but at the same time, I know him so well.
But there’s no refuting that this fire between us is unknown and terrifying but also captivating.
I want to know what it feels like to be burned by Flash.
By the man who takes what he wants on the ice and knows just how to make me melt with the words he says.
“Don’t stop,” I tell him, needing him to understand. His hand slides up my thigh, beneath my sweater. His thumbs hook into the sides of my panties and he plucks the side strap, making it sting against my skin.
“You look so good in these,” he whispers. “So fucking pretty.”
My cheeks heat as he kisses my neck, his thumb sliding over my front where the lace covers my mound of hair. I tense as he massages me through the lace, my thighs tensing as he does so.
“Like a pretty little princess.” His mouth finds mine.
“Freddie…” I breathe his name as my own hands travel over his wet shirt. “You’re still wet,” I say, my voice darker than I’ve ever heard it.
“I can fix that,” he says, leaning back, and I watch as he removes his shirt.
The sight of his hard abs, his broad shoulders…under the low light of the room he looks almost magical. Like a demon in the shadows, here to drag me below.
And maybe he is. Because as I think of Abby’s words—her encouragement to trade up and embrace my burgeoning feelings for these three very different, very attractive, and very intriguing men—I know I’m certainly going straight to hell.
The best way to get over someone is to get underneath someone else.
At least, that’s what Zayne always says, though I’m not sure if I should be taking relationship advice from my dick-hungry co-worker.
I reach out and graze my fingers over Freddie’s chest, letting my nails trace his defined muscles. He sits back on his heels, and I get a good look at him, in his wet pants, shirtless, kneeling before me on my brother’s guest bed.
“Holy shit,” I whisper as my insides flare with heat.
Something about the sight of him like this—hands on his thighs as he kneels, his dark hair in his dark eyes…
“Tell me,” he says carefully. “Tell me what you want, Nora, and Daddy will give it you.”
All I have to do is ask.
The words hit me harder than they should because every time I’ve asked someone for something—Brett included—I’ve always gotten ignored. Because my exes’ pleasure always came first.
And I realize with startling clarity that I’ve never come first. Figuratively or physically.
Freddie leans closer, settling his hand on my hip as I sit up.
His mouth grazes mine. “All you have to do is ask,” he whispers. “Princess.”
I let my hands slide down to his waistband and tug. “You’re going to get the bed all wet,” I whisper shakily. “You should take these off.”
He smirks and does as I ask without question, and I fight the urge to look at him in his underwear. Because I know as soon as I do, there’s no denying what’s happening between us.
As soon as I look, it’ll be real.
As if his mouth on mine wasn’t real enough…
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
I nod, feeling on the spot.
His hands settle on my waist and he tugs my sweater. “Can I look at you?”
It’s the way he says the words. The way he asks. He doesn’t command me to do it. Doesn’t tell me to take my clothes off. He asks permission. To look at me. Like I’m something special and worthy of worship.
And for the first time, I feel the weight of those words. The adoration they carry.
This…this isn’t just some rainy evening hookup after I sent him a dirty picture.
Not for Freddie, and certainly not for me.
This means something to him.
To be able to ask my permission.
To give the power to me.
“Yes,” I say, feeling the heat of those words, of my permission. “Yes, you can look all you want,” I tell him, breathlessly.
Freddie slowly lifts my sweater, and I hold my arms up, letting him pull it over my head. I’m acutely aware of how on display I am, that he can see every curve and roll and every unflattering angle upfront and personal.
I half wait for him to make some comment about my weight like Brett used to do these past few months, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes his time and looks at me. Intently.
His gaze is slow. Intense.
It makes me feel more vulnerable than I felt when I learned I’d sexted my ex and his three hockey player brothers.
“And you can touch me all you want too,” I tell him, my voice shaking slightly. His mouth finds mine once more, and I whisper, “However you want me, Freddie, I’m yours.”
Maybe it’s foolish. Maybe it’s the worst decision of my life.
But maybe, just maybe, it’s not. Because the minute I say those words, I feel ten times lighter. I’ve spent so long giving, I think I’ve forgotten what it truly feels like to receive.
Freddie holds my hips gently as he kisses me, and he leans me back into the comforter. Gently. He handles me like I’m made of glass, and though it should piss me off, it doesn’t. It only makes me crave more.
I look up at him as he lets go, kneeling back on his heels again, and this time I get a good look at his cock—which is poking out of his boxers.
My gaze flashes right to his pink head, and I gasp, and he smirks as he takes it in his hand.
“Like what you see, princess?” he asks, and I nod.
“I want to see more,” I say without a second thought.
Freddie chuckles. “Is that so?”
I nod, not taking my eyes off his cock.
“Well, what my princess wants, she gets,” he says, and with that he slowly slides his boxers off, giving me an ample show. My heart races in my chest as I realize Freddie Sterling is naked. In my bed.
Well, my brother’s guest bedroom bed to be exact, but that’s just details.
I look him over, committing the sight to memory as I take him in. Dark, wet hair. Deep, forest-green eyes. Hard muscles and perfect tan complexion. And his cock is…
Fuck, he’s gleaming with precum.
I bite my lip because the sight alone is arousing as hell.
Even when Brett and I had sex, it was mostly planned.
If it was spontaneous—after a game or something—it usually took a little while to work him up until we could have sex.
Foreplay was never a problem for me, since I like to take my time, but Brett was always impatient.
As Freddie sits before me, hand wrapped around his cock, I realize that he’s not rushing this at all.
He’s waiting.
For me to take the lead. And something about that is more powerful and telling than anything else.
I reach for him, for his cock, to pull him closer, and he lets me.
“Can I touch you?” I ask, my voice shaking.
“Yes,” he breathes without hesitation. He kisses me, that slow, deep tantalizing kiss that makes my insides turn to lava. It reminds me of the way Rush kissed me, but yet, it’s different.
“You can use me however you need, princess,” he purrs. “Just…” He tenses as I wrap my hand around his cock. He pulls away, looking at me with an ache and vulnerability I’ve never seen in a man before.
“My safeword is hurricane.” He breathes carefully. “If I say hurricane, it means stop.”
I look at him in question. “I thought stop means stop?”
He shakes his head, his eyebrows furrowed. “I’ll tell you to stop,” he whispers. “But I don’t mean it. When I tell you no, or tell you to stop I—” He swallows hard, and I see the pain etched on his face. “I want you to keep going. Only stop if I say hurricane, okay?”
I nod. “And if I want you to stop, I’ll say hurricane too,” I whisper as I start to stroke him.
Freddie kisses me deep, and I feel my insides start to flutter. His lips caress me from my throat to my neck. His hands carefully work their way down my body, his fingers pulling at my nipples until they stiffen.
He thrusts himself in my hand, and I feel a bout of precum kiss my palm, warm and sticky. And then he pushes me away.
I tense, but he didn’t say stop or hurricane.
And then I feel his lips trailing down my abdomen to my navel, and he pushes me down into the bed, straddling my legs.
My cheeks heat, because this position makes my hips and my thighs look bigger when I lie flat.
I’m taken back to the comments, however sly and under his breath they were, that Brett would utter when I lay down like this.
Freddie stops, and for a minute I think he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he slides his thumb over my mound through the lace, right over my clit, and I nearly jump off the bed.
He chuckles. “So swollen and needy already.” He tsks. “I bet I could make you come just like this.” He flicks my bud. The jolt of energy that runs through me is electric.
“F-Freddie,” I suck in a breath as he starts to massage me.