51. Peyton
PEYTON
By week three of training camp, I’ve accidentally developed routines with Daltyn.
Which feels dangerous. And mildly concerning.
Every morning, he drinks coffee so strong it could probably strip paint.
Every afternoon, he comes home starving and half-feral from practice.
And every evening, he steals whatever blanket I’m currently using, despite owning at least twelve of his own, cuddling with me on the couch where we watch TV or a movie.
Domesticity has apparently arrived, whether either of us agreed to it or not.
Currently, I’m standing barefoot in the kitchen stirring pasta while music plays softly through the cabin speakers.
The door opens, and heavy footsteps follow.
Daltyn appears in the kitchen, looking exhausted.
Sweat darkens the collar of his Avalanche practice shirt while his damp hair curls slightly at the ends from practice.
My brain short-circuits .
Which honestly feels rude considering I’m trying to cook.
“You’re staring again,” he says tiredly.
I blink. “You look sweaty.”
One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “That’s usually what happens at hockey practice.”
Fair.
His eyes drift toward the stove. “What’s that?”
“Pasta.”
He steps closer, peering into the pan. “That explains the noodles.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“I know.”
He drops down onto one of the stools at the island with a low exhale and drags a hand over his face.
The movement pulls his shirt tighter across his chest.
Which is deeply unhelpful for me emotionally.
“You okay?” I ask softly.
Daltyn shrugs once, but it’s tighter than usual. Full of frustration.
I turn the burner down before walking toward him slowly. “What happened?”
“Coach is changing defensive pairings again.” His jaw tightens. “Everyone’s out of sync.”
I lean against the island beside him. “You’ll figure it out.”
His eyes lift to mine. Something softer flickers there, like hearing reassurance from me affects him more than it should.
It probably affects me much more than it does him.
“I hate when you look tired,” I admit quietly before I can stop myself.
His expression changes .
Heat floods my face. “I mean?—”
“You worry about me.”
My stomach flips hard.
I should probably back away from this conversation.
Instead, I step closer.
Daltyn’s knees spread slightly automatically, making room for me between them without even thinking about it.
The intimacy of that tiny unconscious movement nearly destroys me.
His hands settle lightly against my hips. Like he’s still giving me room to leave.
I don’t.
“You take care of everyone else,” I whisper softly. “Who takes care of you?”
Something flashes across his face then. Gone too quickly for me to fully understand.
Before I can overthink it, I slide my fingers gently through his hair.
Daltyn exhales hard.
The sound shoots straight through me.
His forehead drops briefly against my stomach like the touch itself loosened something inside him.
My chest aches.
Suddenly, this no longer feels temporary.
It feels real.
Dangerously real.
Slowly, he lifts his head again.
Our eyes lock, and the entire room shifts.
My pulse stumbles as my fingers caress the stubble on his jawline.
Slowly, I lean down and kiss him.
It’s tentative for half a second before his hand tightens instinctively against my hip .
Heat surges through me.
Daltyn deepens the kiss. He kisses like he plays hockey. Focused and intense. Like he forgets the rest of the world exists once he commits.
My fingers tighten in his hair as his mouth moves against mine.
His exhales become my inhales, and vice versa.
“Peyton,” he says roughly against my lips.
The sound of my name in his voice nearly melts my spine.
I kiss him harder, desire coiling through me.
And this time?
He makes a low sound in his throat that goes straight between my legs.
God.
I pull back just enough to look at him.
His pupils are blown wide now. Chest rising faster. Hands flexing against my hips like he’s trying very hard to stay controlled.
That shouldn’t affect me this much. But it does.
Especially because I realize something in that moment.
I want this.
Slowly, I slide downward, hitting my knees.
Daltyn stills. “Peyton.”
There’s a warning in his voice, along with something that sounds like disbelief.
My heart pounds wildly as I look up at him from between his legs.
His hands grip the edge of the island behind him hard enough that his knuckles whiten. “You don’t have to?—”
“I know.” The words come out softer than I expect. But I’m certain that I want this .
His entire body goes tense when I reach for his joggers, then grab him, pulling him free.
He sucks in a breath as I stare at his large, thick erection, the tip glistening with precum.
“Are you sure?”
Instead of answering, I lean forward, my tongue darting out to lick the tip, tasting his salty precum. A soft moan escapes me as I savor his taste. It floods my senses, making my head spin and my core clench.
“Fuck.” His hand tightens on the edge of the island behind him.
I whimper as I take him deeper into my mouth, my lips stretching around his girth. I can’t take all of him, but I do what I can, my tongue swirling over the tip.
“Jesus, Peyton.” His hand leaves the island, sliding into my hair.
My hand glides from his base, stroking what I can’t fit in my mouth. A thrill rolls through me as his face contorts in pleasure, his head falling back, a low moan escaping his lips. His hand tightens in my hair, as though he’s starting to lose control.
And fuck, do I want to be the one who unravels him.
The one who makes him lose control.
“Peyton—fuck that feels good,” he hisses. His thigh muscles tense like he’s trying to rein himself in.
His words spur me on, and I bob my head, hollowing my cheeks, and sucking him as deep as I can. His hips lift from the barstool, like he can’t help himself.
“My God, Pey. This is better than I imagined.”
Another moan escapes me.
He imagined this?
That turns me on even more.
I suck faster, wanting to take care of him the way he’s always taken care of me. To show him how much I care for him. How much I want to please him.
He moans, loud and long, his hips moving faster. His hands curl into my hair like he can no longer control himself.
Fuck. It turns me on to see him unraveling.
I suck him deeper, my eyes watering from his girth. But his answering moan is worth it, as is the way his hips start moving in unison with the way my head bobs over him.
“Pey,” he whispers, thighs tensing as he continues rocking his hips. “You better stop if you don’t?—”
I suck harder, then swirl my tongue faster over his tip, wanting him to lose control. Wanting to taste him.
A long, low groan comes from him, his chest heaving, before he shoves himself deeper. His release spills down my throat, hot and thick.
I struggle to drink him down as he comes and comes... until he collapses onto the barstool.
I release him from my mouth, staring up at him. Using my fingers to wipe the cum and spit from my lips, I stand, gently sucking my fingers.
His eyes widen. “Jesus.”
I give him a coy smile, and he groans, grabbing me and pulling me against him.
“That was fucking amazing, Pey,” he whispers before his lips find mine, kissing me long and hard.
Suddenly, the smoke alarm starts chirping, causing us to jump apart.
My eyes fly wide with horror. “Oh shit. The garlic bread.”
I run to the oven and pull open the door. Smoke rolls out, revealing a tray of charbroiled pieces of bread .
Daltyn tucks himself inside his boxers, then comes up beside me. “I think it’s a little burnt.”
I snort, waving the oven mitt, my eyes burning. “You think?”
He closes the oven, then grabs the mitt and waves it by the smoke alarm until it quiets.
He laughs, but then stops when he sees how upset I am.
Strong hands grip my hips, then he whirls me around to face him.
“Hey. Don’t be upset.” He gently places a kiss on my forehead, then my cheeks, before ending with my lips. “Let’s just order in. Watch a movie.”
I bow my head. “I really wanted to cook you dinner.”
His finger goes beneath my chin. His voice is soft, a hint of teasing in his tone. “I’ll take the blowjob over pasta any day.”
A laugh bubbles up, then slips out.
We both start laughing.
He pulls me in, hugging me tight before he spins me around. I’d forgotten about the music I had on while cooking, but as he pulls me into his arms again, humming along to “Nothing Else Matters” by Metallica, I suddenly don’t care about burnt bread or ruined pasta.
He dips me, then pulls me upright.
“How about you order the food and I’ll clean up the kitchen?”
I nod, a smile playing on my lips.
But then I grow serious. “You’re not mad?”
He shakes his head. “No way in hell.” His large, calloused hands cup my face. “I could never be mad at you, Peyton.”
My heart melts from the way he’s looking at me.
His stomach growls, and we both laugh .
He swats my ass lightly. “Order dinner. I’ve got this.”
As I head to my phone to order from the Italian restaurant we like, I glance over my shoulder, watching him dump the overcooked pasta, then pull the burnt bread from the oven.
Yeah, you’ve got this.
You always handle everything.