Chapter Fifteen #2
“You have the most incredible mouth I’ve ever seen. It distracts me like nothing else.”
I lick my lips for him. “Even when I’m barking orders at you on the ice?”
“Especially then. You make me better.” He sucks my bottom lip in his mouth, giving me no time to respond to his sweet words.
I tuck them away, losing myself to him as he deepens the kiss, teasing me with flicks of his tongue.
He removes my boots with brutal efficiency. I am clay he can shape however he wishes, at the mercy of his hands. He tunnels one beneath my skirt, tugging at the elastic holding up my fishnets.
“These things are weapons.” He works them off my legs and tosses them aside, sliding his broad palms up my bare legs, skin on skin. The texture of his coarse palms on my smooth thighs makes me groan in relief. It’s been so long since someone explored my body. I am hunger barely fed.
He’s slower to remove my panties, careful never to break eye contact, his eyes backlit with primal longing as he discards them on the ground.
It’s a naughty sort of sensation, being bare for him only there while we’re still otherwise fully clothed. Like it’s our little secret.
In another world, this is a thing we do. We go on a date to a bar that smells like comfort food. I text him I’m not wearing anything under my skirt. He suffers with that knowledge all night until he can get me alone.
But this could be it for us. The only time. And if it is, I want to see as much of his golden skin as I can.
Swallowing the sudden swell of sadness, I tug his shirt up and over his head. His muscles are so honed it makes me ache. I want to explore every dip, every bulge, every corded muscle with my fingertips and then my lips. My tongue. His is the body of an athlete through and through. Art.
Metal clinks in the silence as I unfasten his belt, followed by the slide of his zipper.
He captures my hand gently before I can free him, tenderness undercutting the gesture. “Right here?”
All I can do is nod.
Without hesitation, he spreads my legs and drags me to the edge of the wooden tabletop. He takes himself out, wrapping his thumb and middle finger around the base as if presenting himself for my inspection.
I don’t even know if I’m still nodding, but I know I’m barely breathing as I trace him from base to tip. Parts of me light up that I didn’t know existed. I’ve done this before, but have I? It feels like it begins with him.
He yanks a foil square from the wallet in his back pocket and sheathes himself.
One hand grips my hip over where my skirt is bunched up.
“I need to have you in these clothes.” He lines us up but doesn’t penetrate, tracing the dome of his cock up and down, sensation exploding at the sensual tease.
“And then I need to have you without them.”
I kiss his shoulder, craving that one last bit of his skin, reveling in the way he shudders.
Leaning back on my palms, I spread my legs an inch wider, surrendering myself to him.
He eases inside halfway. Our groans mingle. It’s tight to the point of discomfort, and not just because it’s been a long time for me. He holds us there, letting me adjust to his size.
One of his hands slips behind my back, unsnapping my bra, dexterously removing it and tossing it aside without disturbing my shirt.
But then he lifts at the hem for a peek at my bare tits.
“What happened to ‘having me in my clothes’?” I tease.
“Can’t help it.” Pulling halfway out, he pushes in harder this time, still without giving me everything. But he doesn’t make me wait long, repeating the movement with a stronger punch of his hips.
My body has acclimated. I need more. “Again. All the way.”
His gaze is glued to the place we’re joined. He looks stricken at the sight in the best way. “Fuck, you’re so tight. You feel incredible.”
And then he presses my chest, urging me backward. I land on my elbows.
He spears me to the hilt as his thumb lands on my clit.
My composure snaps as he sets to work. I’m a needy mess for him to handle, and he knows exactly what to do. It feels so good I’m almost embarrassed, like when you accidentally groan too earnestly while getting a massage.
He moves his hips faster, the table creaking with every thrust, the joints less tight than they should be.
I try to sit up. “Should we move?”
He presses me back down with a rough hand. A jolt of pleasure zips through me. I stretch my arms overhead to grip the edge of the table. The action makes my cropped shirt ride up, exposing the underside of my breasts. His eyes darken with hunger.
“I’ll get you a new table,” he grits out, leaning to kiss the space beneath my nipple, barely slowing down his thrusts. “If it can’t handle this, it’s not good enough for you.”
“Break it, then.”
He takes my command very seriously, giving me steady pumps and perfect circles of his thumb, quickening his pace.
His hand slides up the center of my stomach, his fingertips flirting with the bottom swell of my breasts.
He flicks the shirt to expose a little more. The rub of fabric against my stiff nipples makes me cry out.
Leaning forward—and pinning my legs higher in the process—he uses his face to nuzzle the fabric higher, exposing me. His thrusts slow as his tongue carves a path up the center of my chest. I clench around him, nearly hyperventilating with the need for more.
“Leo.”
“Are you sensitive here?” he asks, teasing his tongue over the full swell of my right tit, then my left, denying my nipples any contact.
“Touch them,” I beg.
“That’d be a yes.” He blows a hard stream of air against an aching peak as he circles my clit faster.
I whimper, waiting, spiraling, strung tight as a bowstring beneath him.
When he doesn’t give me what I want—content to make me wait—I arch my back to put myself on tantalizing display, begging with my body for his mouth, or his fingers.
“Shit.” He snaps at the sight, his tongue darting out to meet a rosy peak in one hot, wet stroke before pulling my nipple fully in his mouth—
I detonate, nails digging into wood, my orgasm gripping me until I tremble in release.
His pace quickens as he chases his own, then slows into long, punishing strokes until he’s pulsing inside of me.
Time is drunk, stumbling, uncertain as we breathe together in recovery. His eyes find mine as he smooths my hair out of my face. His thumb lingers on the apple of my cheek until he helps me sit up.
He leans forward and kisses me softly. Both our eyes are open, which should be awkward.
It is so not.
For months I ached for him to touch me. Now I ache because I don’t want him to stop.
Before I can find my words, or the ability to speak, my clock springs to life on the wall.
Leo barely falters at the trilling song. He pulls out of me carefully before throwing a lazy look over his broad shoulder. “What is that?”
“It’s a collectable clock,” I manage, grateful for something else to focus on. “You love it, right?”
“It’s…musical.”
I bite my lip. He’s trying so hard to be polite despite the absolute racket. “The button panel broke in the move, or else I’d turn it way down. Or off. I promise it’s not that bad when it’s not screaming.”
Vivi so called this—that “All My Loving” would play at the worst possible time. Well, I guess it could’ve been worse. It could’ve been during the act.
Vivi.
I won’t be able to tell her about this. Any part of it. Not even that Leo came over.
Definitely not what we used this table for, though I’m sure she’d be proud of me under any other circumstance. Her New Year’s resolution one year in college was for me to get laid, benevolent friend that she is.
“You could remove the batteries,” Leo offers. “Where’s it from?”
“My house growing up.” I push up to a seated position. “Kind of an heirloom.”
That sounds more palatable than the truth—that it’s the last piece of my childhood I have, and the idea of getting rid of it feels distressingly final.
It’s the only thing I have from the house I grew up in.
A relic from a time all but scraped from the record.
My mom was all too keen to throw it all away when she got married again and started over, and my dad doesn’t care much for the material things in life.
The familiar melody sounds like home—like the uncomplicated childhood I had before hockey took over my entire life. Before my family broke into pieces that no longer fit together. It sounds like before, when I had a home to return to that felt like mine.
All that would make for terrible pillow talk. Or table talk, if you want to get technical.
The fact I’m thinking about any of this while he’s removing a condom boggles the mind. “Taking out the batteries would probably work, yeah. Trash can’s under the sink.”
“Are you thirsty?” he asks as his boots—he fucked me in his boots—thud on my kitchen floor. “Hungry?”
“Are you going to cook for me in my own kitchen if I say yes?”
“I would.” He says it so plainly, like the answer is obvious and all of this is totally normal. “I’m sure you have the ingredients to whip something up.”
My chest pulls tight. “I’m not hungry, thanks.”
“Anytime.”
That word expands in the air.
Anytime implies there will be more times when we have sex and then grapple for the correct next move, which is a lot more than the zero times I expected any of this to happen when I met up with him earlier this evening.
I swallow, hot all over. I’m not used to being unsure or out of control. I’m used to rules, regulations, good hockey, bad hockey, no gray areas.
Getting involved with my player is a black-and-white bad idea, but Leo gives me intensely gray, swirling, confusing ideas.
“Will you stay?” I ask quietly.
He returns to the table and pulls me to my feet. When he glances down at me, I brace myself for a possible no thank you or I better not.
But what I get is a forehead kiss that I feel all the way down to my toes. “As long as you want me to.”
I press my forehead into his chest, soaking up the smell of pine and exertion on his bare skin.
What I want hardly feels like the point, and will surely bite me in the butt tomorrow. But for now?
“All night.”