Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
ELLIE
I get to Mike’s apartment just before ten, buzzing the intercom and making my way up to the fifth floor via the lift.
I’ve got three bags. One for my stylist stuff, one for my clothes and one for all the bits I couldn’t fit anywhere else because I’ve never been to a hockey game before—not like this anyway—so I have no idea what to wear.
The girls told me not to dress for the cold, which—given the fact that we have jackets and we’re definitely not allowed to take them off—means no layering.
Kelly
It’s the body heat. That’s what kills you. Everyone crammed in a small space.
Jen
It’s the beer as well as the body heat.
Vicky
For me, it’s the rage. I spend half the game shouting at idiots. Warms me right up.
I’m not sure if I should wear the jacket yet, but I am anyway.
The truth is, I’ve been dying to show it off ever since Jen shipped it to me, though I’m nervous about Mike’s reaction.
And although I’d told myself I’d bring up the hashtag as soon as I saw him, that thought vanishes the second he comes into view.
The lift doors spring open and I spot him, leaning against the door to his apartment.
The size of his grin tells me it was a good idea.
In a cinematic moment, I hurry forward, dropping my bags and flinging myself at him.
This is exactly what I imagined coming home to feel like: perfect and inviting, but more importantly, a safe-hair zone.
“How was the journey?” he asks.
“Fine, yeah.”
We make our way inside with my bags, only making it as far as the hallway before they’re abandoned, and his lips find mine, the familiar warmth of Mike engulfing me.
“That fucking jacket—” he says.
That’s all it takes to ignite the fire. The searing hot kiss and the way his hands are everywhere. My hips, my waist, my back … slipping the jacket from my shoulders so it exposes a fair amount of skin.
“Are we alone?” I whisper, tilting my head to the side, letting him access that sensitive patch of skin that has my entire body tingling.
There’s a vibration of laughter, mixed with a groan of something … as he answers, “yes.”
That’s all the encouragement I need .
I tug at the waist of his sweatpants and slip my hand inside, rubbing him over his boxers, desperate to tease him.
“Can I fuck you here?” he asks, planting a kiss on my lips, firm and deep. “Can I push you up against this wall and show you how much I’ve missed you, Mrs Betts?”
Oh, my … I nod my head, our mouths meeting again.
I dip my hands in under his boxers, squeezing his length before building up a steady rhythm with my fist; the noises he makes driving me wild.
One of his hands cups my cheek, locking my mouth onto his, and the other, hikes my leg up—fully clothed, but the angle makes me cry out, gasping as my hand shifts to allow the bulge in his sweats to press into me.
He could do absolutely anything to me right now. Honestly, this guy…
“I need you, Kitch,” he whispers, pulling away from our kiss, pressing his forehead against mine.
And because I need him just as much, I’m wriggling free to lose my shoes, hitch my top up, and push down my leggings and underwear.
I fumble with one leg, cursing the clingy fabric, but then he’s got a grip on my thigh and nothing else matters.
In one firm motion, he’s inside me, that familiar ache of him, deep as I adjust, making me quiver.
The first time we’re feeling each other completely. No barrier. Nothing between me and him.
His hips rock as he thrusts. Slow and steady. I reach a hand between us, circling my clit with trembling fingers as he moves, the desperation to come while he drives into me pushing me over the edge as I moan a warning of my orgasm.
I’m coming.
It hits me hard and fast—blinding and hot as I cry out against his mouth as he continues to move inside me.
“I’m close,” he says.
And that’s when this all-consuming need to taste him takes over. It’s like I can’t think of anything else .
I nudge him away and the look on his face changes to painful desperation, right up until I drop to my knees, and I look up at him, my tongue darting out to flick the tip of his dick.
“Fuck.”
I slide my mouth around his shaft, pushing deep.
He unravels instantly. The wild groans of his pleasure as he grips my hair, not exactly hard but firm enough, so I wince as I swallow him down.
He’s wrapped up in his orgasm, but then his expression changes as he looks down at me, his eyes flicking to the top of my head.
Ah, crap.
“What—oh, fuck, are you okay?” he says. “Did I?—”
He stops. Freezing on the spot for a second before he pulls out, then his hand gently smooths my hair—next to the patch of scalp that Megan did her best to cover by adjusting my parting.
I did not want to tell Mike about this … I mean, I’ve told him everything else, but this? I wanted this to be something I never had to speak about ever again.
His voice shakes. “What the—what the fuck is this, Kitch? What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing,” I say, getting to my feet. I hurry to dress myself, painfully aware that I’m half naked now since the post-sex fog has cleared.
“Like hell it is … it looks like someone—” His face slackens. A horrible realisation settling behind his eyes. “Kitch … did Kathryn do this to you?”
“Mike, please?—”
“Is this about the money?” He crouches down to tug his own clothes back into place. “Because I’ll?—”
“Mike. Please.” I lay a hand on his chest, trying to find his eyes. “Please.”
But I see it. The fiery look, the way his jaw tightens.
“This is enough,” he says. “I know she’s your sister but?—”
“I’m not going to see her again,” I say. “She humiliated me in front of a salon full of clients … but I was angry and I did something stupid?—”
“What did you do?” he asks. “Is this about the night…”
My cheeks flush with shame as I inhale.
I nod. “I loosened a few lids on some nail polishes.” I cringe. “I know it’s petty, but?—”
“That’s what you did?” He says through clenched teeth. “That’s what you did, and she ripped your hair out in return?” He shakes his head. “Nah … this isn’t on. This isn’t?—”
“Mike, we’re just going to forget about it,” I say.
“This is one step too far.”
“What are you going to do? You can’t go there and pull her hair in return.”
“No, but I can pay Greg a visit.”
“Mike,” I say, stepping towards him, closing the space between us and putting my hands on his face, forcing him to look at me. “It’s over now. That’s it. I’m not entertaining the idea of seeing her ever again. Please, can we leave it?”
“Kitch, I?—”
“Please? For me?” I whisper, digging deep—mustering everything I have to plead with him, my eyes locked on his as I force my desperation to the surface.
And after several minutes, he finally nods. Sharp. Reluctant. But it’s enough.