Chapter 22 #2
And so right there, still kneeling in front of her with her legs spread open, I push inside of her, watching myself enter her inch by inch—the way she stretches to accommodate me, how wet and tight she is against my cock, the way she sighs with pleasure when I’m fully seated inside her .
. . the experience is nothing short of a miracle, every single time.
She lifts her legs up, probably propping them on the ottoman behind me, and then shifts her hips as if to tell me to get going.
But I feel like I’m frozen in this moment, taking in her naked body before me—the thin column of her neck, the way her breasts spread as she lies back, the fine stretch marks along the sides of her abdomen from carrying her children, and the pink skin stretched around my cock.
I want to see this sight every night for forever.
And that’s what I’m thinking about as our bodies meet, over and over.
It’s what I’m thinking about when I drag one leg up and over my head, flipping her around so she’s kneeling before me, bent over the couch and I’m pushing back into her from behind.
It’s what I’m thinking about when my hands smooth over her breasts and meet her clit, bringing her to orgasm again.
And it’s definitely at the forefront of my mind as I grip her hips, tell her to hold on to the back of the couch, and watch myself slam into her until she’s squeezing me tight as she orgasms a third time, and I fall right over the edge with her.
And when I pull out, watching my cum drip out of her as I bend to grab her underwear and wipe her up, the only thing I can think is: I want to be here, in this house, with her. Forever.
Afterward, I lift Lauren up and lay her down on the couch, then snuggle in beside her. She lifts her head, propping it up on her elbow, and uses her other hand to trace the column of Roman numerals along the side of my rib cage.
“What are they all?” she asks.
“Dates.”
“Tell me about them?”
I look down at the ink and trace my finger along the first date.
“The year my mom left.” I move my finger down the next two rows, telling her, “When Audrey and Jules were born.” Then I trace the rest of the rows, reading them off from memory.
“When I was drafted into the NHL. The year my stepmom died. The year my dad left. When I retired from the NHL.”
“There’s a lot of loss recorded here, Jameson.” Her voice is quiet and sad as she leans in and sweeps her lips across my skin over the ink.
That gentle touch is almost painful, because she sees me. The part of me that I keep hidden from everyone else. And she understands. “I know. There’s a lot of good, too, though.”
She lays her head on my shoulder, snuggling in beside me. “Yeah, I guess that’s life.”
I turn so I’m lying on my side, facing her, where her head now rests on my arm. “You’ve had a lot of loss too. But I want you to know that I’m in this for the long haul. We’re going to get through all of this together.”
“I know,” she says, closing her eyes. She looks so content, lying here cuddled against my side.
“We’re going to regret it if we fall asleep on this couch,” I tell her.
“Why’s that?” she asks without opening her eyes.
“Because we’re two full-grown adults and we barely fit on here. Let’s go upstairs. Unless you don’t want me to stay, which is completely okay too.” It’s her house, and her kids are here, and if she’s not ready for me to spend the night, that’s understandable.
“I want you to stay. But also, it might be best if Ivy and Iris don’t wake up to you here in the morning.”
“My flight leaves at 7:30 a.m. and I still have to stop by my house and grab some stuff on my way to the airport. So I’ll probably be gone by five.”
She hugs me tighter, which I take as an indication that she doesn’t want me to go. We head upstairs together, and as I fall asleep with her wrapped in my arms, I’m feeling the exact same way—I don’t want to leave. Ever.
I press a kiss to her forehead, wishing again that I didn’t have to leave.
I’m half tempted to text Aaron and tell him to figure his shit out with his coach on his own, but that’s not the kind of agent I am.
Instead, I’m already making plans in my mind for bringing another agent or two into the fold so I can take a step back.
There’s no reason to still be pushing myself this hard when I’ve already accomplished everything I set out to do and more.
I don’t need money, I need time. Time to focus on myself and Lauren, and nurturing what’s growing between us, and doing whatever I can to help with Ivy and Iris—I want to step up like no one ever has for these girls.
“Shit,” she mumbles as I stand up. “It’s Monday, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. But still early. You can go back to sleep.”
“I forgot to put the trash on the curb last night. The trash trucks will be here soon . . . they come so early.”
“I’ll do it when I leave.”
She tells me where to leave the trash and recycling barrels, and then I give her another kiss goodbye and head downstairs as quietly as possible.
Once outside, the barrels sound impossibly loud as I roll them down the driveway in the silence of the early morning.
When I get the second one to the street, I turn and find a man standing only about five feet from me, a trash bag in his hand.
“Hey,” he says as he lifts the lid to the barrels already sitting at the street next to the neighbor’s driveway. “I’m Greg. I live next door.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Jameson.”
“Your family just move into this place?”
“Uh, no. This is my”—I don’t even know what to call Lauren—“girlfriend’s place.”
“Ah yes,” he says. “I’ve seen her and the kids coming and going a few times. Seems like she did a lot of work to the place.”
“Yeah, it was completely gutted before she moved in,” I say, resisting the temptation to check my watch. I need to get going and don’t feel like I have time for this conversation. “So there was a lot of work needed.”
“The previous owners were just starting to renovate when he died in a ski accident.”
I’m finding it hard to breathe. Owners? What the hell is he talking about? A ski accident is too coincidental for Josh not to be one half of this couple.
I glance back at Lauren’s house. “A couple owned this place?”
“I think so,” he says, rubbing his hands together.
He’s dressed in flannel pajama pants, a sweatshirt, and sneakers—clearly he was planning on running a bag of trash out to the barrel, not standing around chatting in near-freezing temperatures.
“Josh lived somewhere else but was moving here. Sophia lives in Boston, so she was the one here all the time meeting with the contractor. I wondered if she’d sell the place after he died. Such a tragedy.”
I clear my throat to stop from choking on the idea of Sophia owning half this house. That can’t be possible. I have a million questions, but none that I think this guy would know the answer to.
“I’m sorry, I have to run. I’m catching a flight this morning.”
“I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”
I walk back up the driveway to my car, which is parked next to the back door.
I glance at the house and think about Lauren, sleeping inside, completely oblivious to the fact that her husband did not buy this house because he knew how much she wanted to move back to Boston, but instead bought it to be closer to another woman.
I stand there, paralyzed with indecision about what I should do with this knowledge.
Do I go inside and tell her the limited amount of information I know?
Or do I wait until I can get more intel?
I glance at my watch and realize I’m dangerously close to not making it home and to the airport in time for my flight, yet my feet are still rooted to the spot outside her door.
In the end, I get in my car, and once I’m out of the driveway and halfway down her street, I dial a number I never thought I’d have to call again.
“Da fuck you calling me at five fifteen in the morning?” Woody’s grizzled voice carries through my car speakers.
“You’re a contractor. It’s not like you’re not awake by now.”
“Don’t mean I want to talk to you at the ass crack of dawn.”
“I have some questions about the work you were doing on that house in Brookline. Specifically, who were you were working for?”
On my second night in LA—because of course the situation with my player and the coach’s now-pregnant daughter was more complicated than I was led to believe—the email I’ve been waiting on from Derek finally comes through.
Woody had only been able to give me a first name and a phone number, so I set Derek to work tracking down any available details about Sophia.
Here’s everything I could find on her. Let me know if you need anything else.
The email contains links to all her social media accounts, and pages of attachments showing where she lives and everywhere she’s worked. It takes me about an hour of digging before I’ve pieced together what I think might constitute the story of her and Josh.
It appears that the first time they met in person was two years ago during an event in Whistler, British Columbia.
She’s a brand manager for an energy drink company that was one of Josh’s only remaining endorsements before he died, and she’s a big backcountry skier.
According to the pictures on her social media account, it looks like they skied together with a big group that week, and many other times over the next couple years.
There are no pictures of the two of them together, they’re always in a group, so it’s impossible to tell if they were together all along or if that was something that happened more recently.
But now it’s clear to me why Josh never introduced Lauren to the people he traveled with, or asked her to come on those trips—something I know always bothered her.
But I don’t think she ever suspected that it was because he was cheating.