Chapter 5
Viv
ONE YEAR AGO
I’m collecting what I hope is the last of the beer and soda cans when I hear footsteps on the stairs.
There’s no doubt it’s Josie coming to see if I need a hand with clean up.
I’m not going to take what she’s offering, though.
She was sweet enough to let us use her basement for Maggie and JT’s baby shower, so she shouldn’t have to tidy up after our messy friends.
“I’m almost finished, so you can take your cute little ass upstairs, find your hot boyfriend, and go to bed,” I call over my shoulder as I bed down to pick up a plate I missed earlier.
“You think my ass is cute?”
I turn at the sound of the deep voice because it’s not Josie’s, but it is one I recognize.
Brannon Mikalski is infamous on this campus, and not just because he accidentally lit a couch on fire last semester and nearly burned the hockey house to the ground.
The man is legendary for multiple reasons.
Sure, he plays hockey, and that gets him a fair amount of attention.
But the, uh…biggest reason of all is what hangs between his legs.
Rumor has it that Big Dick Mick knows exactly how to use what the good Lord blessed him with.
I don’t know that from personal experience, though.
I haven’t spent much time with Mickey, but that will change soon enough.
When Maggie and JT have their baby, I have no doubt Mickey and I will race each other to the hospital to get the first peek.
I haven’t decided yet if we’re going to be allies or enemies.
It all depends on whether or not he accepts the inevitable fact that I will be this baby’s favorite relative.
“You never answered my question.”
I look up—way up—into handsome green eyes and realize that I must’ve spaced out for a bit.
It only takes me a second to get my bearings and slide into sassy mode, since it is my natural state.
“To be honest, I thought you were Josie at first. But since we’re talking about your ass, I don’t think cute is quite the right word for it.
If I weren’t so full from the cake I ate, I just might take a bite out of it. ”
I watch as Mickey’s eyes get a little darker. “Josie and Van are upstairs sleeping. They told me to lock up before I leave. Oh, and if you want seconds on the cake, all you have to do is ask,” he tells me, grabbing a fresh trash bag from the box and shaking it out.
A man with a fine backside, a good sense of humor, and the ability to clean up a mess? I just might end up liking Brannon Mikalski after all.
He stills his movements, and then frowns. “And I didn’t mean cake like the bakery treat, just so we’re clear. I was still talking about my ass. But the cake was really good. Did you make it? I had two pieces, but I didn’t eat the icing on the second one. Too much sugar makes me a little nuts.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. The man is bouncing on the balls of his feet while telling me he has a bad reaction to too much sugar. No shit. I’m afraid he’s going to be offended by my giggling, but he starts cracking up, too, and I’m immediately relieved.
“Sorry. You probably knew exactly what I meant. I’m not really used to flirting, so I guess I’m rusty.” He’s blushing, and it’s freaking adorable.
“Nobody makes you work for it, huh?” I ask, stepping past him and bending down to scoop up an errant napkin.
And yes, I’m showing off my own ass. Fair’s fair, and if this is a contest, I’m either going to win or get a taste of his cake.
I guess that makes me a winner, either way.
Am I possibly playing a dangerous game? Always.
And a little play never hurt, anyway. If all I get is a little banter, that’s fine.
If I get more, though, I’m not going to turn it down. For fuck’s sake, the man is beautiful.
“Nah, turns out, girls only want one thing from me,” he says, responding to my question as I stand up straight. Without shoes, I’m only five feet tall, but I pack a whole lot of personality into sixty inches.
“Oh yeah? And what’s that one thing? Is it lifting heavy stuff? Because there are some boxes that need to go out to the garage.”
The smile he gives me is enough to make my heart beat a little faster.
“The muscles don’t hurt, but that’s not what they’re after.
Are these the ones that go upstairs?” He’s pointing to the pile of gifts that JT will need to pick up tomorrow, and all I can do is nod in response.
I'm usually much more composed than this. As a cheerleader, I spend my days around hot bodies. I won’t say I’m immune to them, but I definitely don’t lust after my teammates.
But Mickey? Well, when the view is this good, what else am I supposed to do?
It takes him six or seven trips to haul all the loot upstairs, and I’m realizing now that I probably should have stepped in to help, but it’s way more fun to watch him work.
But when Mickey returns from his final trips, tugs his shirt off, wipes his face with the fabric, and tosses it on the back of an empty chair, I’m kind of glad I made him do all the heavy lifting.
“Is it hot in here or is it just me?” he asks, a sheen of perspiration glimmering off his chest.
“Yes,” I say, because both things are true: it’s warm down here and Brannon Mikalski is hot as hell.
He nods and then smiles, as if my meaning just clicked in his brain. That devastating smile stays in place as he walks toward me, stopping just a foot away from where I’m standing.
“What else do you need?” Mickey asks, proving that I’m not the only one capable of flirting.
“That’s a loaded question,” I toss back. “But you can start by transferring the leftover punch into a pitcher,” I say, pointing to the one on the counter of the little kitchenette tucked in the corner of Josie’s basement.
“On it,” he says. “And when I’m done with that, just tell me what’s next on the list.”
Based on the look he’s giving me, we both know exactly what’s next on the list, and that thought motivates me to finish bagging up the trash.
I do a final sweep of the room, and this is probably where my moral compass or good sense should kick in and advise me that hooking up with Mickey is a terrible idea.
Our best friends are madly in love and already procreating, so there’s no way we can avoid each other afterward if we decide to cross the line.
And since I learned that hard way that I’m not built for relationships and the heartache they inevitably cause, there’s no way anything that happens between us could end up being permanent or real.
But that’s part of the fun. I’m not looking for a commitment, and I can’t imagine Mickey is, either. But if I’m presented with the opportunity to find out if Mickey lives up to his nickname, I’m sure as hell going to take it.
“Holy fuckballs!”
Mickey’s muttered curse is followed swiftly by the sound of water sloshing onto the countertop, and it’s punctuated by the crack of the plastic pitcher on the hard concrete floor.
At least it wasn’t glass.
I walk to the crime scene to survey the damage and the good news is that we won’t have to mop. A little clean-up is necessary since the counter is sticky, but the floor isn’t in bad shape.
I can’t say the same for Mickey’s jeans or his bare torso. It’s like he took a shower in my party punch.
“I got distracted and the pitcher started to over flow. I tried to get it all into the sink, but my hand slipped. I swear, I’m usually not this uncoordinated.” Mickey shrugs before reaching for a roll of paper towels.
Plucking the paper towels out of his hands, I shake my head and open drawers until I find a stack of fresh tea towels.
“These will work much better,” I tell him as I turn the faucet on and wait a second for the water to warm up.
Wringing out a damp towel, I turn to the hottest player on the Bainbridge Men’s hockey team and say one word. “Strip.”
The man doesn’t even blink. His eyes stay trained on me as he undoes the button on his jeans, pulls the zipper down, and tries to shimmy out of the wet denim.
It’s not an easy task, and since he could obviously use some help, I drop to my knees and grip the unruly fabric in my hands, pulling as gently as possible.
He gives his ass a shake and the material begins to fall a little more easily.
“Hol-y fuckballs,” I say, biting my lip as I utter his favorite phrase. “You really should warn a girl that you go commando.”
“Sorry,” he says, with no trace of contrition in his tone. “I’m not a big fan of underwear. Or clothing in general.”
“Bran Mikalski has nudist tendencies,” I say, pushing his jeans down all the way and holding them in place so he can step out of them.
“That’s good to know. I’ll file that little tidbit away for later.
” Resting my ass back on my heels, I admire the naked man in front of me, and I’m not shy about it, either.
There’s no time to waste being coy since the night is half over, and we’re just getting started.
Mickey’s body is sculpted and strong. I force my eyes to start at the top and leisurely work their way down, taking in his green eyes, the auburn scruff that lines his jaw, and his broad shoulders.
There’s a smattering of hair on his chest and a happy trail that leads over washboard abs to the promised land.
Instinctively, I lick my lips while I stare at his lengthening cock.
“Viv,” he says my name with an urgency, a need, that has me squeezing my thighs together.
I watch with fascination as he fists the base of his cock in his right hand.
He tightens his grip and closes his eyes while I resist the urge to grab onto the backs of his thighs and suck the tip of his dick into my mouth.
It’s so damn tempting, though.
“You need to stop looking at me like that,” he says. “Or else I’m gonna think you like getting on your knees for me.”