12. Craig
CRAIG
Two minutes and forty-two seconds until my girlfriend will take her shirt off.
We’re both staring at the timer on her phone as it counts down.
She’s opened the curtains and cracked the blinds so there’s a little more light streaming in. Enough for me to see what I need to see. Do what I need to do.
I’ve been prepping for this for hours. Not in the way I’d prep for a game.
The opposite, really. I’ve been roaming around the house.
Staying out of the kitchen, because Stitch needs good lighting in there to work.
But I can go outside if it’s not sunny, which it isn’t today.
The headache’s become a dull background presence.
Sometimes I forget about it entirely, until I turn my head too quickly.
I talked to Sawyer, who’d been texting every few hours since he heard the news.
I had a call with my agent. I negotiated for one extra day in Kenton after a doctor at the hospital here clears me for takeoff.
But I’m restless. I have so much pent-up energy. So much tension that’s been building.
Normally I’d visualize. Obsessively, some might say, before a game. I imagine reading—tracking the puck, positioning, staying calm. Preparing my nervous system to respond correctly under pressure.
Visualizing what I’ve been waiting for would do the exact opposite of what I need right now. Spike my heart rate. My anticipation. My impatience. Everything that makes a goalie and a lover bad at his job.
So, for an hour, while Bridget was sewing in the kitchen, I’ve been back in the bedroom, slowing everything down.
Controlled breathing. Staring at the framed painting on the wall across from the bed, the way I’d find a focal point on the ice.
I started listening to an audiobook about the history of shipping containers, which is something I listen to when I need to settle down before a game.
But the word box got me excited, so I switched to a podcast episode about how golf courses manage drainage.
But drainage made me think of my dick, so I put on my headphones and some binaural beats for focus and went back to controlled breathing.
I used all the discipline I’d built to face a hundred-mile-an-hour puck to survive waiting for a timer to go off in my bedroom.
I just couldn’t think about Bridget.
I’ve trained my whole life to not think about the shot that’s coming.
My girl’s here with me now, in a ribbed cotton tank top that didn’t know today would be the last day of its life, and a pair of panties that are about to get what’s coming to them.
But she can’t wait either. My shirt’s off.
It’s just me and my boxer briefs and an erection that’s acting like a dog who’s been waiting to go outside for days.
Ten seconds.
Bridget glances up at me and says, “Do not exert too much energy.”
“Trust me, baby, I exerted more energy by refraining from doing what I’m about to do.”
Bridget turns off the alarm when it goes off, and I explode into action.
Mouth—mine to kiss. Ass—mine to squeeze. Hips—gimme. Tits—fuck.
I pick her up, and she wraps her legs around my waist as I carry her to the dresser.
She’s trying to stroke the stubble on my face, but I move her arms out of the way so I can tear that cotton off her body.
Bridget squeals, and it’s the most delighted she’ll ever sound when someone’s ripping fabric.
Arching her back and offering herself to me—that’s my girl—I sweep my thumbs across her hard nipples and devour her tits.
Smooth skin. Soft flesh. Consumed by my tongue and scraped by my beard.
“I’m so mad at you for ripping my tank top!” she says, all breathless and writhing.
“Then you’re gonna hate what I’m about to do to your panties.” I spank the side of her ass, and she gasps when I grab hold of the side of her cotton briefs and tear them apart at the seams. Too easy.
“How dare you,” she says as she spreads her legs for me.
“What. Is. This?”
“You like?”
“You Goddamn beautiful sadistic genius.” She shaved. All of it. When? While I was sleeping? When she was supposed to be working? Why? To get my blood pressure up? Is she trying to kill me? “Fucking hell, babe.” So pretty. All glistening with arousal. “What are you trying to do to me?”
“I figured you might still be a little confused, so I made it easier for you to find my clit.”
That gets her another slap to the ass. I lower to my knees and get a taste. “I missed this pussy, baby.”
Hands in my hair, she squirms and then hooks her legs over my shoulders. “It’s only been a few days.”
God damn, she’s so wet.
God.
Damn.
Fuck.
“Fuck.”
Ow.
The throbbing pain.
It’s back.
But I will not stop.
I will persevere.
“Craig, you have to calm down.”
“No.”
“Craig.”
She pushes me back and snaps her legs shut.
“Nooooo!”
She wriggles away from me and holds a finger up in front of my face. Okay, Miss Cross. “Listen to me. Sweetie. Babe. We can still have sex today, but you need to chill. Okay?”
I grunt.
“You’re going to calm down and let me do the work. Do you understand?” she says, like she’s talking to a petulant child.
I grunt again.
She hops off of the dresser and opens one of the top drawers. Grinning. Slowly, she pulls two black silk scarves from the drawer. “Do you understand?” She flicks her gaze over to the bedposts.
Well, well.
That’s a move I did not see coming.
It is fucking adorable that she thinks tying me up when she’s naked with a shaved pussy is going to make me more chill, but I am 1000 percent on board with this idea.
“You’ve convinced me,” I mutter as I back up toward the bed. “Are you going to remove my boxer briefs?”
“You may do the honors.”
I take off my underwear and fold it up before placing it on the floor, stroking myself as I watch her tie the scarves around the bedposts.
I’ve done this to her before, but no one’s ever thought to tie me up.
I like it. Hot. And also adorable that she thinks tying me to the bedposts with silk scarves is really going to keep me down if I want to break free, but again—I’m along for the ride.
“If it took getting a grade-one concussion for me to see you tying scarves to the bedposts when you’re naked with a dripping-wet pussy, I can tell you it was worth it.”
“Get on the bed,” she commands.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I climb onto the bed and lie back, offering her my right wrist, which she ties up first. “Too tight?” I shake my head. “Not tight enough?”
I tug on the scarf with about 25 percent of my strength. “No, that’s good.” This is all about me controlling myself, after all. The scarves are just a prop. She ties my left wrist, adjusts the pillows under my head, and I pretend I’m King Kong for a second, so we can get on with this.
“How do you feel?” she asks demurely.
“Like you’d better sit on my face while I lie here comfortably or I’ll have to break free and punish you for torturing me when I have this raging hard-on.”
“Oh, you mean this raging hard-on?” she says coyly as she climbs between my legs and wraps both hands around my shaft. “Does this help?” She stares up at me while licking the precum off the head of my cock.
“Unh” is my answer.
“How about this?” She flicks the tip of her tongue at the most sensitive part and then sucks me into her mouth.
“Uhffff” is my reply.
“Let me try this…” She licks up my shaft sloppily. She knows that drives me out of my mind.
This is not relaxing.
“Baby…” I grit out. “Bring that beautiful pussy in for a landing now, or I swear to God, the bedposts are coming off.”
“Hmmm.” She stands up, feet straddling both sides of my torso, and takes two steps toward my face. I can see her pussy—mine. Her tits—mine. Her smirky, puffy lips—mine. And all I can do is look. She leans forward, gripping the headboard, arching over me. “You want me to sit on your face? Really?”
“I want you to turn around. Face my feet. Lower yourself slowly and kneel down with your legs on either side of my head so I can eat you out. Hands on my abs. Do not touch my cock. Got it?”
“All you had to do was ask, but this was supposed to be me servicing you.”
“Bring it in, Bridget.”
She huffs, lifts a leg so she’s standing on one side of me, turns around, straddles me again, and then slowly, slowly, lowers her fucking gorgeous perky ass to my face. She pauses her descent, makes an adjustment, and kneels. “Wheels down,” she says, laughing. And then she backs up into my mouth.
She is so turned on, it only takes a minute until she’s rocking and rolling. “Oh my God, Craig! That feels so good. Don’t stop. Don’t stop!”
I’m not going to stop. My tongue is relaxed, wide, and flat.
It’s my head and neck that’s doing the work.
And her hips. It’s my job to apply pressure and keep a steady pace.
That and not pass out. This is no time to bring her to the edge and back.
Fuck that. But I really wish I could touch her ass right now.
When she stiffens up and clenches her thighs around my head, that’s when I suck on her clit, and my girl screams like I knew she would.
There it is.
Fucking delicious, all over my face.
No friction.
No shame.
If this is what it’s like having a serious girlfriend, what the fuck have I been doing with my life?
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Craig. Craig.” She climbs off of me, breathing so heavy, turns to face me, straddling me again. So flushed and ripe and gorgeous. “Baby, that was amazing.” She lowers her tits to my face. Feeds me her right breast.
Well, this is also good.
This is also fucking delicious all in my face.
Jesus, she’s playing with her other tit. I want to do that. I want to do everything, but my fucking head feels like it’s about to explode. “Baby,” I say, trying to catch my breath. “Baby, we need to slow down.”
Bridget pulls away from me.
“I didn’t say we need to stop—just slow it down, okay?”
“Okay. Are you all right?”
“I’ll be fine. You’re so fucking hot, it’s driving me crazy, but I need you to fuck me now, okay?”