16. Evie
EVIE
Ahelpless moan slips past my lips as my body unravels for the third time in half an hour.
Briggs is dangerously good with his mouth, and my legs are practically trembling as I wrap them tight around his hips.
He’s already finished once, even taking the time to clean us both up before diving right back between my thighs. He claims he’s just catching his breath before the main event, but my body is already running on overdrive.
“Please,” I gasp, my voice trembling. “I can’t take any more.”
His head pops up, dark eyes searching mine with sudden concern. “You want me to stop?”
“I just want you inside me,” I admit, wincing at how utterly desperate I sound. “And honestly, if you keep making me come like this, I’m going to pass out before we even get to the real thing.”
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest. “I should’ve known you’d be this needy.”
“And I should’ve known you’d be such a greedy asshole,” I counter, rolling my eyes. “Even between the sheets.”
Briggs shifts, stretching out beside me and wrapping a heavy arm beneath my neck to pull me close. “Greedy? I’ll have you know I make monthly donations to a stroke recovery clinic. I give ten percent of my paycheck to youth hockey programs, and I’m a notoriously generous tipper.”
I scoff softly, resting a hand on his chest. “Oh, impressive. What’s next, an overview of your tax returns?”
He snorts, moves one hand to my hip, and flips us around so I’m straddling him again. I don’t waste any time. While he steadies me with both hands, I press my pulsing core to his erection, grinding down in slow circles.
His head drops back with a low, helpless groan.
“Shit,” I mutter. “We didn’t do the whole status exchange.”
“Hmm?” he mumbles, eyes still shut tight, throat bobbing.
“I assume you were tested after your last partner? I’m up to date and negative all around.”
His eyes shoot open, and he clears his throat. I wait as something dark passes through his expression—there and gone, shut down fast. Whatever it was, it wasn’t about test results.
“I’m good to go,” he says. “I can promise you that.”
I kiss him, shifting gears—biting his bottom lip, tugging until he makes a sound low in his chest. When I nip his earlobe, his cock twitches against me.
I file that bit away under things Briggs Maxwell likes in bed. The list is growing. Also on it: going down on me, which he handles like it’s his actual job, and could seemingly continue until sunrise if I let him.
I sit back on my heels to take him in properly. I don’t think I’ve ever been with a man built like this. Historically, my type has leaned toward lanky, intellectual types who smoke far too many cigarettes. Briggs is a different animal entirely.
His shoulders go on for days, with a chest that fills my palms and then some, that hard cut of muscle vanishing into his waistband. There’s a certain economy to all of it, and I catch myself admiring what those muscles can actually do. Both on the rink and off of it.
The dahlia I’ve been staring at since November climbs his throat and spills over his left shoulder, black ink unspooling into shapes I can finally trace with a finger. A geometric band wraps his forearm. Across one rib, small and slightly crooked, there’s a date penned in thin red ink.
His skin is a map of old damage beneath it all—a shiny seam above one eyebrow, a knot of scar tissue on his right shoulder, knuckles that have long since forgotten how to be smooth.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“I’m assessing.” I drag a palm down the center of him, from sternum to navel, watching his stomach tighten under my touch. “Hold still.”
I take his cock in my fist, and Briggs stops breathing.
He’s heavy, thicker than I anticipated, with a curve that arcs up toward his stomach. Something about that shape short-circuits me. I stroke him slowly, thumb sliding through the wetness at the tip.
His hips lift off the mattress like he can’t help the reflex. “Evie.”
“Mmm.”
“You keep that up and I’m not going to be much use to you.”
“I’ve had three.” I lean down and lick a slow line up the underside of him. “You can afford one more.”
His hand fists in the sheets. Then I climb back up over him and settle, wet and open, along the hard length of him. There’s no barrier between us, just skin dragging over skin, and we both make a whimpering sound.
I roll my hips. He grips my thighs nearly hard enough to bruise. His mouth finds my collarbone and stays. All I know is the delicious slide of him against me, his breath going ragged in my ear, my own coming shorter.
I’m one minor adjustment away from taking him fully inside me. Then a phone starts buzzing somewhere in the pile of clothes on the floor. Mine’s on silent, so it must be Briggs’s.
“Ignore it,” I murmur against his mouth.
The vibration lasts exactly two seconds before it cuts out, only to be replaced by the frantic trill of a marimba. The shift in Briggs is instantaneous. I can feel the looseness leave his frame, replaced by a sudden, rigid focus.
“Twice in a row.” He’s already untangling himself from me, reaching for the jeans he discarded on the floor. A quick glance at the screen confirms the suspicion. “It’s my father’s ringtone.”
He answers on the third ring. “Dad?”
“Briggs.” Murphy’s voice is a thin, breathy rasp that carries through the receiver, the words dragging with an unfamiliar weight. “Where’d you go?”
Briggs meets my eyes, his brow furrowing. “What happened?”
“Been shouting for you.” Briggs tilts the phone, allowing me to catch the muffled sound of his father’s voice. “Didn’t realize you’d left until I managed to crawl to your side of the hallway.”
A cold weight settles behind my ribs. Briggs is off the bed before the sentence is finished, phone pinned between his shoulder and ear as he hunts for his boxers. I sit up, my palms out in a silent question—what is it, what’s going on—and he taps the speaker button.
“I went down,” Murphy says before either of us can speak. “I’m okay. Mostly. But I’m stuck, and I—” The silence on the line is a physical thing, and I know the exact price of his next words. “I could use a hand, son.”
“Twenty minutes,” Briggs says, already half-clothed. “Don’t move, Dad. Stay exactly where you are. Did you hit your head on anything?”
“No. Landed on the ankle. The bad side.” He lets out a dry, humorless wheeze. “Floor’s cold, so you know.”
“I’m on my way. Keep the line open.”
We dress in a frantic, uncoordinated blur. I locate my jeans beneath the bed and shove my feet into boots, foregoing socks. He’s already got his keys in his hand before I can reach for my coat.
Five minutes ago, the only thing in the world was the feel of his hands in my hair. Now we’re moving through my apartment like a crew clearing a room.
In the rental SUV, he drives with his hands fisted on the wheel and the phone glowing in the cup holder. Murphy’s heavy, labored breathing fills the cab.
“Dad. You still there?”
“Not much choice in the matter.”
“You warm enough?”
“And what’s your plan if I’m not?”
“Fair point. Nothing, I guess.” A beat. “Just keep talking to me.”
So Murphy talks. It’s a stream of disjointed complaints—the cold tile, the hallway light he never got around to fixing, the neighbor’s dog that’s been barking since eleven o’clock.
Briggs doesn’t offer much. He just lets out a short yeah every minute or so, a breadcrumb of presence so his father knows he’s still on the other end of the line.
His knuckles are white against the leather. As we clear the Boulder Highway interchange, I reach over and cover his hand with mine, tracing the rough skin of his knuckles. He doesn’t turn his head. But he does flip his hand over and lock his fingers with mine.
When we hit the driveway, he’s out of the seat before the engine is even dead. The front door is unlocked, the porch light dark, and the wreath thuds against the wood as he throws it open.
Murphy is on the hallway floor outside Briggs’s childhood bedroom, propped against the baseboard in his pajamas.
“Where’s the walker, Dad?”
“Right by the bed.”
“You didn’t use it?”
“It’s three goddamn steps to the bathroom.” Murphy’s jaw is set in a familiar, stubborn line. “I’ve done it a hundred times without the wheels.”
“Yeah, well.” Briggs drops to a crouch beside him. “How’s that working out for you tonight?”
“Don’t get cute. Just help me up.”
It takes both of us to manage it. I slide under one arm while Briggs takes the bulk of the weight on the other. We count it down together, and Murphy lets out a sharp intake of breath on three.
“Easy,” I murmur. “Don’t put any weight on that side—”
“I’m aware of how my own anatomy functions, kid.”
“Then use the good one.”
“Christ Almighty.” He anchors a hand on the doorframe. “The two of you. Ganging up on an invalid at three in the morning.”
“You’re not an invalid, Dad,” Briggs says, his voice flat.
“Also not the preferred terminology anymore,” I add. The second the words clear my teeth, I regret them. Not the time. Definitely not the place.
“Get your hands off me,” Murphy snaps.
Nobody lets go. The walk out to the rental is a slow, ungraceful performance. Briggs provides the strength while I manage the doors, Murphy swearing a steady blue streak through every inch of the carpet.
Once he’s situated in the passenger seat, I sprint back inside for a bag of frozen peas and wedge them against his ankle. It’s a nineteen-minute drive to Henderson Hospital, and not a single soul says a word.
That’s how we end up spending our Christmas morning: in an ER curtained bay, under a strand of tinsel someone’s taped to the triage desk, while a nurse in a Santa hat checks Murphy’s vitals.
The doctor finally surfaces around six. She’s young and professional, and I appreciate that she talks to Murphy instead of through him.
“Good news is there are no fractures. X-ray is clean.” She pivots the screen so he can see the image, a gesture of transparency most doctors skip. “What you’ve managed to do is roll an ankle that was already compromised. There’s significant swelling and some soft tissue damage.”
“So I’m fine,” Murphy says.
“You’re intact. But you’ll need to see your regular PT once the holiday is over,” she says gently. “You need to stay off that foot entirely for a couple of weeks. That means the chair full-time, not the walker. After that, we’ll reassess and likely get you back on your feet where you left off.”
Murphy stares at the fluorescent lights.
“Mr. Maxwell?”
“The chair,” he says.
“For two weeks.”
“Yeah.” He gives a single, sharp nod. “I heard you.”
He goes quiet after that. He doesn’t say a word while she walks Briggs through the discharge instructions, or while the nurse delivers the paperwork. He just lies there with his foot elevated, taking it.
Briggs disappears to handle the billing, leaving the two of us alone in the quiet of the bay.
“All that work,” Murphy says finally, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “For three steps to the john.”
“You’ll get it back. It’ll go faster this time.” I pull the guest chair in closer. “The strength is still there, Murphy.”
“Is that right?” He turns his head to look at me then, his gaze sharpening. “Your shirt’s on inside out, sweetheart. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
My neck flashes hot. He watches the color climb with a look of pure, unadulterated satisfaction, the right corner of his mouth hitching into a grin.
“Merry Christmas to the happy couple.”
“Well, shit.” I shut my eyes, scrubbing a hand over my forehead. “Merry freaking Christmas, Murph.”