Chapter 15 Colt
Colt
For the first time in forever, I don't wake up alone.
I don't wake up to the sterile quiet of my apartment. I don't wake up to the low-grade anxiety of another day with no purpose, no ice, no team.
No. This morning I wake up with my shirtless body pressed to Zoey's back, my arm slung over her waist and my face buried in the messy, vanilla-scented waves of her hair.
And my morning wood is pressed firmly against the soft, perfect curve of her ass.
A low groan rumbles in my chest, half-awake, half-dreaming.
I shift to peek beneath the sheets just a little, only to see the smooth warm curve of her bare back leading to the swell of her ass that's barely concealed by dark, lacy fabric that parts perfectly between her two pale, rounded cheeks.
I rock my hips against it, and fuck, the friction is so good I almost come right there in my boxers.
Zoey murmurs something in her sleep, a soft, unintelligible sound that makes her hips shift back against me.
Oh, fuck me.
Heat floods my veins as my cock throbs against her, desperate for more.
Last night at The Den flashes through my brain in a haze of champagne bubbles, flashing purple and gold lights, and the taste of her lips as we stumbled through her apartment door, laughing and whispering, both of us still buzzing from the high of the launch party.
It went perfectly.
My hockey brothers. Her actual brothers. The whole damn town seeing us together.
And now, here.
In her bed. Tangled in her sheets, finally.
I kiss the nape of her neck, soft at first, then open my mouth against her skin, tasting pure sweetness. My hand slides up from her waist until my palm finds the warm, heavy weight of her breast.
Her nipple is already hard against my palm, and I roll the tight peak gently between my fingers.
She makes another sound, deeper this time, her body arching slightly into my touch even in her sleep.
That's all the invitation I need.
I'm still half-asleep, my movements slow and hazy as I push my boxers down just enough to free myself. My cock springs free, hard and aching, and I press the head against the warm, damp lace of those panties.
She's already wet. I can feel the heat of her, the slickness seeping through the fabric.
"Zo," I murmur against her ear, my voice husky with sleep and need. "Baby, wake up for me. I need you."
She doesn't open her eyes, but her breathing changes. "Mmmm…"
It deepens, quickens. Her hand finds mine where it's still cupping her breast, and her fingers tighten over mine, urging me on with a soft squeeze.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of her panties and drag them down, slow, letting the backs of my knuckles trail over the smooth skin of her ass. She lifts her hips to help me, a sleepy, instinctive movement that makes my heart hammer against my ribs.
God, I could slide down.
I could taste how sweet that pussy is first thing in the morning, bury my face between her legs until the first noise she makes is a moan. I could tease that tight little hole with my tongue until she’s begging.
Best damn wake-up call there is.
But I can’t.
Because I’m too hard, too desperate, the ache in my balls too sharp to wait.
I need her. Now.
I spit into my palm, slicking myself, because the condom is in my jeans pocket across the room and I don't want to move. Not now. Not when she's warm and perfect in my arms.
I guide myself to her entrance, nudging against her slick folds. She's so wet, so ready, and when I push inside, just the head, she makes this choked, breathy sound that goes straight to my balls.
"That's it," I whisper, my lips against her shoulder. "Just like that. Take me, baby."
I sink into her, slow and deep, and the feeling is fucking incredible. She's tight and hot and silky around me, and she fits me like she was made for this.
For us.
Her pussy accepts me, welcoming me home.
My hand slides back up to her breast, my thumb circling her nipple as I start to move. Slow, lazy thrusts that have her breathing coming in soft, sleepy pants. Her ass presses back against me with each push, taking me deeper, and I can feel the tension coiling low in her belly.
She's still just waking up, her movements somewhat uncoordinated, but her body is awake. It knows what it wants. What we want.
I slide my other hand down between her legs, finding her clit, and circle it with two fingers, matching the rhythm of my thrusts.
A soft moan escapes her lips, her head tipping back against my shoulder. "Colt..."
"Right here, sweetheart," I murmur, my lips against her temple. "Fuck you feel so good like this. So warm and tight."
I increase the pressure on her clit, my thrusts growing deeper. The bed creaks softly beneath us, and her hand reaches back, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer.
Her hips start to meet mine, a slow, grinding roll that has me needing more.
"Fuck, Zoey," I groan, my control fraying. "You feel so damn good."
She turns her head, her lips finding mine in a sleepy, open-mouthed kiss. It's messy and perfect, all tongue and shared breath, and when she comes, it's with a silent, shuddering cry against my mouth.
Her pussy clenches around me, milking my cock, and I follow her over the edge, my own release tearing through me with a force that steals the air from my lungs.
I bury my face in her neck, biting back a roar as I spill inside her, my whole body trembling with the intensity of it.
Eventually, I press a kiss to her shoulder and slip out of her, rolling onto my back with a contented sigh. The morning sun is warmer now, painting stripes of a new day across the rumpled sheets.
Her breathing evens out against my chest. I trace the line of her spine, as my brain clicks into gear, planning my day.
Willa at ten, team meeting at noon, maybe meeting up with Zoey’s brothers for lunch.
Shit.
Morgan’s room is right down the hall.
“Zoey?” I whisper.
“Mmm?”
“How soundproof is this apartment?”
"Huh?" Zoey shifts, rolling onto her stomach and burying her face in her pillow with a muffled groan. "What time is it?"
"Doesn't matter," I say, rubbing her back. "Go back to sleep."
She makes a noncommittal sound, but her breathing evens out almost immediately. I watch her for another minute, then I slip out of bed, pulling on slacks and shirt from last might and treading quietly out of the room.
I head straight for the kitchen and raid the fridge and cabinets, pulling out eggs, milk, flour, and butter. I find a bag of chocolate chips and a container of fresh blueberries in the freezer, and when I look at both options, the debate begins in my own head.
Chocolate chip pancakes are a classic. They'd be Morgan's favorite.
But Zoey would prefer blueberry, hands down.
I decide to make both. Because why the hell not?
I'm whisking batter in a large glass bowl when a small voice pipes up from the doorway.
"You're going to need more butter in that, Buddy."
I glance over my shoulder and Morgan is standing there in unicorn pajamas, her hair a wild mess of morning tangles. She's been watching me with the critical eye of a tiny, terrifying food critic.
"Good morning to you too, Morgs."
She climbs onto a stool at the kitchen island, propping her chin in her hands, polite enough not to comment that I'm wearing the same clothes I was last night.
"You're not using enough butter. Mom says butter is love. You gotta show the pancakes you love them."
I bite back a smile. "Is that so?"
"Yep."
"Right." I grab another knob of butter from the dish on the counter and drop it into the sizzling pan. It melts into a golden pool. "Better?"
She squints into the pan. "It's a start. Now, are those chocolate chip or blueberry?"
"Both."
She nods, a serious expression on her face. "Good choice. Compromise is key in any successful kitchen endeavor."
I laugh, pouring the first pancake. "Where'd you learn that?"
"Food Network." She hops off the stool and rummages in a drawer, pulling out a deck of cards. "Wanna see a card trick I learned on YouTube?"
I glance at her again, still waiting for the usual Morgan interrogation.
Why are you still here? Did you sleep on the couch?
Instead, she’s just shuffling cards, watching my pancake technique like I’m her favorite morning TV show. No questions. No commentary on my wrinkled shirt.
I flip the pancake and nod. "Sure. But only if you promise not to cheat."
"I don't cheat!" She shuffles the deck with more skill than the last time we played cards. "Okay, pick a card. Any card. Don't show me."
I do as she asks, selecting the three of hearts.
She goes through an elaborate series of cuts and flourishes, her little tongue poking out in concentration. I keep flipping pancakes, watching Morgan the whole time, when Zoey appears in the doorway.
She's wearing the Snow Leopards hoodies I haven't been able to find for a week over a pair of soft sleep shorts, which she did absolutely not sleep in. Her hair is a gorgeous disaster, her eyes still soft with sleep, and she’s covering the biggest yawn I've ever seen.
"Morning, sleepyhead," I say, flipping a pancake and smiling across the room.
"Morning, Mama," Morgan chirps, not even looking up. "Buddy's making pancakes. But he needed butter coaching."
Zoey's still blinking. "You're making pancakes."
"Obviously. Blueberry for you." I nod at the stack. "Chocolate chip for the miniature Gordon Ramsey over there."
Zoey shuffles to the coffee machine, brushing her hand across my lower back as she passes. Morgan is now attempting to make my chosen card 'magically' appear from behind my ear, which involves a lot of dramatic waving and one card accidentally fluttering into the batter bowl.
"Oops." She fishes it out, leaving a chocolatey smear on the counter. "Minor technical difficulty."
Zoey leans back and sips her coffee, and her expression is pure joy, her lips curved in a soft, contented smile as she watches her daughter effortlessly commandeer my morning.
And I get it.
This feels like a family.