BETTSY
I can feel someone watching me. I’ve got my eyes closed, but I can sense it. A prickling awareness which would usually have me feeling uneasy, but this feels different somehow. Like there’s a warmth over me, almost intoxicating—thrilling, maybe.
But the events of last night trickle back into my working memory, fragmented and disjointed as they piece together like a puzzle.
An icy shiver runs down my spine as panic sets in; my eyes snap open, half expecting to see a bloody Rochelle lying next to me, but I exhale in relief when Ellie’s eyes meet mine. A chocolate-brown warmth that causes my stomach to tighten with excitement.
Déjà vu? No. I’m not hungover this time. I don’t have a headache, and from what I can tell, I definitely don’t have any boxers on.
We stare at each other for an extended time, and I try to remember if she’s mad at me, upset at waking her up, but then I remember her running me a bath and making me a brew.
I’m about to speak, wish her a good morning, when she beats me to it.
“I should have reached out to you,” she says.
Okay, that wasn’t what I was expecting.
“What?” I say.
“When you got back from Germany. Instead of waiting around for you … I should have reached out,” she says.
Am I dreaming? I can’t be sure because this is all weird. Really fucking weird.
“I’m sorry I lashed out at you before, because I’ve been thinking about it, and it wasn’t all down to you.” She pauses, biting her lip for a second before continuing. “I know you started seeing Julie but?—”
“I don’t even remember her,” I say.
“Julie?”
“Yeah. I don’t even remember what she looks like. In fact, I only remembered her when you mentioned her, but—you know, I never forgot you, Kitch.”
“Oh.”
I reach out and touch her face, just to check that she’s real, reassured when my fingers meet skin, soft and warm and all I can think of doing is pulling her into my arms.
“Do you want a cuddle?” I say.
She stares at me, unmoving, probably deciding the best way to turn me down.
It’s not like it hasn’t happened before, the rejection, that is. I’m built ready for it. A thick skin and a sense of humour equipped to make it into a joke if necessary.
To get myself a step ahead, I mentally sift through my options, wondering if there’s a cuddly toy nearby I can present in jest, but she surprises me a moment later by shuffling in, nuzzling into my chest like she’s done it a million times before.
She makes it feel so natural and effortless, but my body, primed to face rejection, takes a beat longer than it should to respond by embracing her, wrapping my arms around her.
She smells fresh, a hint of flowers or something that has me fully reassured that I’m not wearing any boxers; I can feel my dick between us, and if I can feel it—she can definitely feel it.
I wait for her to roll away, loosening my arms in anticipation, but she doesn’t. She snuggles in closer.
Our breathing evens out so we’re in-sync, a by-product of us being in the same space.
And when I think of how many women I’ve shared my space with, I’ve never felt so me .
Like I’m not trying to think of the right thing to say to impress, or if she’s in bed with me for me or for the image that comes with bedding a hockey player.
Something I hardly cared about before, but suddenly, it feels like the most important thing in the world—to be me.
I feel her breath against my skin, then she speaks again, barely audible against my chest.
“I’ve been having these dreams,” she says.
“Dreams? What sort of dreams?” I say.
“Just … dreams.”
She shifts and suddenly she’s looking up at me, and what the hell possesses me, I don’t know, but I’m pulling her chin up and dipping my head to meet her, capturing her lips with mine.
For fuck’s sake, why did I wait so long to kiss her?
We could have been ten minutes in by now.
But I don’t let myself get too excited. I keep it slow, steady, familiarising myself with her lips—soft and full, delicate, and sweet.
But the best thing? I don’t have to think about it.
I wait for the noise to start, for my brain to scream at me, tell me I’m doing it wrong, tell me she’s not really into it.
But it doesn’t come. It’s like it knows this is different.
I’m not second-guessing if I’m doing it right or if she’s enjoying it—because she’s kissing me back like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
But then she pulls away.
“This scar,” she says, tracing her fingers over my lower lip and down my chin. “How did you get this scar?”
“High stick to the face. It’s when I lost this tooth…” I point towards the gap. But something occurs to me, something that I’ve never thought about until now. “How come you’ve never asked me about my teeth? I mean, usually it’s?—”
A smile tugs at her lips. “I guess it’s just part of you, Mike. Like … it’s just Mike . And everything about you is…”
She leans in to kiss me again, and I groan into her mouth.
God, this girl.
“What do you need, Mike?” she says—no, whispers. It’s a whisper that pulls me in. Like there’s only me and her in the entire world .
“You.” I swallow. A cliché answer, sure, but it’s true. And it makes every single time I’ve been close with someone feel like a practice—all leading up to the main event. Because the meaning of life and my universe isn’t ‘42’ , it’s Eleanor Kitchener.
“Can I—” I say, pulling away to give my words a chance.
“Can you…?”
“I want to see you,” I say.
“I’m right here.”
I roll onto my back, pulling her with me, manoeuvring her to straddle my thighs, dick laying on my stomach between us, begging for attention.
But all my attention is on Ellie.
“That’s not what I mean,” I say. “Can I see you? All of you?”
She meets my eyes for a moment before looking away, cheeks flushing pink.
My hands automatically move to her thighs, rubbing along the outside, stopping shy of the hem of her nightshirt. I do this a few times, edging the fabric away little by little. Not too much, but enough so she knows I’m waiting for her permission.
“Okay,” she says, reaching down and tugging at the shirt.
It’s over her head in a flash, cast aside on the bedroom floor.
An empty-net to score on. A hot shower after a long game. The playoff cup with my name etched onto the plaque—all things that used to compete for the top spot of my adoration.
Until now.
Now, they’re officially relegated to I don’t give a crap status. Ellie is the top of the list, forever and always — playoff cup being a close second.
I let out a groan, not able to stop my hands from roaming. The curve of her hips, the softness of her stomach, and her breasts: full and heavy in my hands, nipples a dark-pink that I tug lustfully.
“Fuck, you’re perfect. ”
“I’m—”
I cut her off, needing my mouth on hers again—not able to waste another second.
I pull her down to take her mouth; our kisses becoming deep—frantic.
“Tell me about your dream,” I say, breaking the kiss.
“It’s—nothing,” she says.
“I want to hear about it. Was I naked?”
“I—a few times.”
“Oh, fuck,” I say, threading my hand through her hair, gripping her head as I look into her eyes.
“The other times, you had the suit on.”
“Oh, yeah? Because I have lots of suits—one for each day of the week.”
She chuckles.
“Dream Mike was quite bossy,” she says, and with that, I grip her hips and roll her onto her back, falling onto my side so I can see—so I can touch her.
“Was he? I mean, I can be bossy if you want me to—in fact, I?—”
“Mike,” she playfully scolds, planting a kiss on my lips. “Don’t overthink it.”
She’s right. I’m doing that thing—trying to be who I think she wants me to be, trying to appease her.
But I want to know. I want to understand what she likes, what she doesn’t like, what gets her hot, what triggers the breaks.
And then I realise there’s literally so much about her I don’t know.
What’s her favourite colour? I want to say purple because I get that feeling.
The towel she gave me last night was a Cadbury purple, matching the bathmat, so that’s a pointer, right?
I push my thoughts aside as I kiss her back, nibbling on her lip.
“Why don’t you take these off and let me see all of you?” I run my hands over the crotch of her underwear, revelling in the fact she shivers underneath me.
I kiss her neck, breathing in the sweetness of her skin, while she wriggles her underwear down. I have to steady myself … count to ten, tell myself that it’s not time yet as my dick throbs between us.
Honestly, if she touches me again, I’m done for. The last time I came was the time we had sex.
I shift my weight, gearing myself up to move after kissing her again. Lips, throat, neck, collarbone…
“Where are you going?” she says, her breath catching as I move away.
“I’m going to make my wife come on my tongue—maybe my fingers too, depending on what you like. Unless you’d prefer I didn’t?”
She lets out a low hum as I kiss her thighs, excited by how much I’m going to enjoy them wrapped around my head.
I honestly enjoy going down on a woman—always have, and probably always will, but for some reason, this time I feel nervous.
There’s a tingling in my stomach—butterflies of anxiety dance around because there’s a question floating on the edge of my mind: what if I can’t make her cum like this?
Except, I don’t get much time to dwell on that because I glimpse her pussy, practically glistening and I’m pushing her legs apart before I can doubt my ability further.
Her clit, hard and so damn inviting, has my mouth watering and my dick painfully hard. I plant one last kiss on the very inside of her thigh before setting my tongue on her pussy, licking tentatively at her clit to see how she responds.
“Oh, my?—”
Her hands bolt to grip my hair, which only encourages me further, working my tongue in a rhythm before I get my fingers involved.
“Is the pressure good?” I ask. “Do you need some—” I slip my middle finger into her pussy, feeling her clench around me. Tight. Hot. And really fucking wet. And if I wasn’t so invested in how good she tastes, I’d be begging to fuck her .
“Mike—”
I position my lips to suck on her clit, slowly working my finger in and out as I do.
“Mike—”
I swear to God I feel her clit throbbing against my tongue as her hands grip my hair firmly. Then she cries out, clamping her thighs around my head and honestly—I’ve died and gone to heaven and I groan as I come right there. On the sheets.
Oh, fuck.
It was the sounds, the way she was shaking…
“Oh, my?—”
“Okay?” I ask.
“I—”
She’s breathing heavy, laboured gasps as she catches her breath. And I plant a last kiss on her thigh before going back to her clit.
“I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” she breathes.
“You are. You did. This is what I needed.”
“Mike—I…”
“Yeah?”