CHAPTER FIFTEEN MARSHALL #2
"Off." She tugged at my shirt, her voice rough and breathless.
I pulled it over my head and tossed it to the floor, and her hands were on me before I could take a breath.
She traced the muscles of my chest with her palms flat, her fingers warm against my skin, then down my stomach, following the V-shaped muscle that disappeared below my waistband.
She ran her fingertips along that line slowly, deliberately, watching my face while she did it, and my abs contracted under her touch.
I grabbed her wrist, stopping her before I lost control.
"Bedroom?"
She shook her head. "Here," she said, biting her bottom lip. Something about the way she said it—low and certain—made my pulse kick hard against my ribs.
She pushed me back against the couch and reached for my belt.
Her fingers worked the buckle, then the button, then the zipper, and I lifted my hips so she could pull my jeans and boxers down.
She wrapped her hand around my cock, her grip firm enough to make my vision blur.
She stroked once, slow, base to tip, her thumb sweeping over the head and smearing the wetness there.
Then again, twisting on the upstroke, and I hissed through my teeth, my hands fisting the cushions.
She watched me the whole time, that expression half power and half want, and I couldn't look away from her.
She stood, and I reached for her leggings, hooking my thumbs into the waistband and pushing them down along with her underwear.
The fabric caught on the slickness between her thighs, and something primal tightened in my chest. She kicked them aside and straddled my lap again, the heat of her bare skin against mine pulling a sound from my throat I didn't plan on making.
I reached between her thighs, running two fingers through her slit, slick and swollen.
She was soaked. I slid two fingers inside her, curling them against the spot that made her legs shake, watching her head drop back, her lips parting on a moan that vibrated through both of us.
I pumped slowly, adding pressure with my palm against her clit, and her hips rocked into my hand.
"Condom," I breathed. "My wallet…"
She reached behind her and grabbed my wallet off the coffee table where I'd tossed it before we ate.
She tore the packet open and rolled the condom on me herself, her hand firm around my shaft, her eyes locked on mine.
Then she positioned herself over me, one hand on my shoulder, and sank down.
Slowly. Inch by inch. I watched myself disappear inside her, and my head fell back against the couch, my jaw clenching as the tight, wet heat of her wrapped around me.
She didn't stop until I was completely buried inside her, every inch, her walls gripping me so tight my breath came out in a shudder.
Her weight settled in my lap, her thighs spread wide around my hips, and I could feel her pulse fluttering against my cock.
Neither of us moved. Not yet. She rested her forehead against mine, matching my breath.
I watched her face, the way her eyes closed, the way her lips parted, the way she bit her bottom lip, the way pleasure moved across her in waves.
She set the pace, rolling her hips in a slow circle that made the pressure build like a fist tightening low in my stomach.
Each roll ground her clit against my pelvis, and I could feel how wet she was, slick between us.
She pressed her forehead against mine, our breath mixing, and I watched her face.
The way her eyes fell shut, the way her lips parted, the way she bit her bottom lip when a particular angle hit deep.
I gripped her hips and matched her rhythm, thrusting up when she rolled down.
The change in angle drove me deeper, and she cried out—loud and uncontrolled—her nails raking down my shoulders hard enough to leave welts.
The sting of it only made me push harder, pulling her down onto me with every thrust until the sound of skin hitting skin filled the room.
"Right there," she gasped. "God, right there, don't stop."
I held the angle and the pace, my thumb finding her clit and circling it in tight, relentless passes while she rode me.
Her thighs clamped around my hips. Her breathing fractured into short, ragged bursts, each exhale a moan she couldn't hold back.
I could feel her tightening around me, her walls clenching in rhythmic pulses that made my vision tunnel.
When she came, she came with her whole body—back arching, nails buried in my skin, clenching around my cock so hard my vision whited out.
I followed her over with a groan I felt in my chest, my hips driving up, spilling into her, both of us breaking apart at the same time.
She collapsed against my chest, breathing hard, her body limp and damp against mine. I wrapped my arms around her and held her there, still inside her, our hearts hammering against each other through our ribs.
"I love you." She muttered, right into the center of my chest, quietly, as if it slipped out on purpose.
"I love you too," I replied.
I meant it in a way I'd never meant anything in my life.
We were playing on home ice, and we were up two nothing after the first period.
The arena was packed, the energy vibrating through the building.
Things with Lillah had settled something in me, like clicking a gear into place.
I felt lighter. I skated harder, read the plays a little faster and better.
I played my best period of hockey, better than any I'd played all season.
We were up two-nothing after the first period, and the crowd was loud. Twenty thousand voices bouncing around the arena gave you quite the adrenaline rush. The second period changed everything.
I was battling against the boards in the defensive zone, digging for a loose puck behind the net, my stick working the ice, my shoulder braced against the glass. The whistle sounded, and that was when the opposing team's winger, Flint, skated up beside me.