Thirty-Six
OWEN
* * *
I peek into the oven without opening the door. It took me a while to figure out that I let the heat out when I opened the door and that made whatever was in the oven take longer to cook. There I was thinking that every damn recipe I tried was just wrong. Or this oven sucked.
Glancing at the clock over the stove, I note that it’s nearly time for Owen to get home.
He had a three o’clock game today, so I carefully timed dinner to finish for seven.
Oh, I kept the television on the sports channel so I could keep an ear out for the score as I worked and then cooked.
It was a close game between the Lights and the Pittsburgh Chaos.
They went into overtime and then into a shootout.
And lost.
Owen doesn’t really let losses bother him. But he really hates it when they get to a shootout and lose. I’m hoping that my surprise tonight will help him forget it.
By the time I’m satisfied that everything’s done and turning off all the burners and the oven, covering it all up, I hear noise beyondthe front door. This is it. Chills break out over my body with nerves. With one last look around the kitchen, I move to the entry as the door opens.
I can tell by his expression that he’s not happy.
He doesn’t get grumpy often—and never with me—but there’s this look that he gets that almost looks like defeat.
Or maybe discouragement. Whatever it is, I can feel it too in my chest. I’m not sure if it’s an echo of all the shit I was so accustomed to feeling or if I’m feeling it because it’s Owen.
He flings his bag into the laundry room, where it hits the tile floor with a smack and thunk. His eyes meet mine as he strips out of his winter gear. February in New York. Wonderful weather.
As soon as his jacket is off, I’m in his arms hugging him tightly.
It wasn’t long ago that it was always Owen comforting me.
I truly love how much I’m able to comfort him sometimes.
It’s not a role reversal so much as a feeling like I’m actually equal in our relationship.
He’s not always taking care of me. Once in a while, I get to take care of him.
There’s also a lot of pride in knowing he wants me to be the one to do so. Out of all the people in the world, Owen chose me. He seeks me out when he’s excited and when he needs to escape. The feeling is almost overwhelming. I never thought I’d be that person for anyone.
“I have a surprise for you,” I say quietly.
“Yeah?” he asks. Even his voice sounds tense. His hands smooth down my back and grip my ass cheeks, picking my heels up off the ground as he grinds me to him.
When I lean back a little, I can see the heat in his eyes.
Mentally reminding myself that the kitchen is safe, and no appliances are on, and fairly confident that everything will still be warm after I take care of my man, I grip his shoulders and bring my legs around his waist. “First, let’s get rid of some of your stress,” I say, my lips against his.
Owen smiles, a sigh brushing my skin. He carries me to our bedroom and into the bathroom, where he flicks on the shower water.
His hair is still damp from the shower he took at the arena, but he almost always takes a second shower when he comes home or gets to his hotel room after a game.
The first one is to get the first layer of sweat off. The second is for cleaning.
We strip and step in. I waste no time getting my hands lathered with soap while Owen lets the hot water wash over him. For a minute, he stands there under the steam and lets the water run down his divine body. I’m still struck sometimes by how incredibly god-like this man is.
He opens his eyes and I pull him from the direct spray of water so I can rub soap all over his slick skin.
I’m thorough, making sure his pits are clean and his hands get an extra three washings.
Who knew hockey players’ hands stunk so damn bad?
Like, there’s not even a comparison. There’s skunk, and there’s sewage, and city grime.
All those things have very distinct smells and you know what it is when someone mentions them. Hockey hands are the same thing.
Just… ew.
I turn him around and wash his back, his hair, his ass cheeks, and down his crack. Owen shivers as I get on my knees to scrub his legs and press my face to his sexy ass. If hockey players have two things, it’s stinky hands and glorious asses. Just saying.
When I’ve finished washing everywhere but his cock, I turn him around but stay on my knees, and press him against the wall.
I use my soap covered hand to stroke his hard cock.
It’s got to be the best dick I’ve ever seen.
We’re talking perfect length at maybe just under eight inches.
Maybe over? I don’t know, I’ve never measured or asked.
And he’s thick with a slight curve. All veiny and sexy with these big balls that just, ugh! So hot.
Owen’s hands are pressed to his thighs as I work his dick. Sucking off this man really is one of my favorite things to do. I truly am a BJ slut. More so for Owen than anyone else, but I’ve never been opposed to sucking dick.
I rinse him free of soap and finally take him in my mouth.
Owen groans. It’s not loud, but it’s deep and guttural; pne of those sounds you can feel in your chest. It’s hot as fuck and so damn sexy.
Keeping one hand at the base of his cock, I bring my other between his legs.
First massaging his gloriously heavy sac and then further back.
He spreads his legs a bit, giving me access to his pretty hole.
It didn’t take me long to realize that Owen really likes butt stuff.
Once we started playing with toys, it became very apparent.
I’m not a fan of topping. It’s just not for me.
I would if Owen really wanted me to, but he seems content enough to let me use his toys on him.
I make it a point to regularly, so he always has his needs met, too.
He’s so good at making sure mine are that I want to make damn sure his are as well.
He’s so good to me. Too good. I can never compare.
My eyes flicker to his as I press my finger to his hole. He’s already watching me, hunger all over his face. Flicking my tongue over his cockhead, I press my finger against him until his body lets me in.
Owen’s lips part as he stares down at me.
I bring him further in my mouth, sucking him lightly as I make myself at home in his ass.
Mostly, I’m just playing with his dick right now.
I love to see the different expressions on his face as I trace it and suck it and graze my teeth gently along the length.
I suck at deep throating. My gag reflex is so fucking strong. But I give him as good as I’m able, keeping my hand at the base so I can go to town without a mishap.
Pushing a second finger in, Owen’s head falls back as he moans for a good, long time.
His hand moves to my hair, gripping it tightly but gently.
He makes no move to control the situation.
Sometimes I think sucking his dick is more for me than him.
He enjoys it—there’s no doubt there—but he never makes a move to orchestrate the situation.
Right now, I think he really just needs release.
So I stop playing and in concert with my fingers grazing his prostate, I work on his orgasm.
I can always tell when he’s about ready.
There’s a moment when his second hand looks for somewhere to anchor him and he gasps.
It’s a good ten seconds from then that he loses it.
So when his other hand joins his first in my hair and then immediately slaps against the wall, I know it’s coming. I make a more concentrated effort on his nerve bundle and suck him like a Hoover.
His grunt is first and then he groans, his hips rocking slightly. It always amazes me how still he’s usually able to keep himself. Right up until he actually orgasms. Then he moves, as if he can’t help himself.
The salty brine on my tongue drips down my throat. I bring him to the back of my mouth and swallow again, letting the contraction of my mouth squish his dick.
“Zak,” he breathes, his voice a deep, sexy growl. I shiver as I look up at him. His eyebrows are knitted together, his lips parted as he watches me with a completely dazed expression.
A thrill rushes me. I gave him that look. I put that there.
Pressing incessantly on his prostate for another minute, I make sure he’s well and truly milked before I back off. Owen sags against the wall, breathing heavily and watching me through slitted eyes. I smile as I get to my feet and press my mouth to his.
With as tired as he is, his kiss is hungry. Always voracious and consuming.
“Ready for your surprise now?” I ask.
Owen nods. “If it’s another orgasm, I might need a minute.”
He doesn’t. Owen responds remarkably well to my touch.
I smile and kiss him again, turning the water off.
“It’s not. That’s for dessert. This requires us to get dressed.
” I wrap a towel around him and reconsider.
“Well, I guess you don’t have to get dressed if you don’t want to. We’re not leaving the condo.”
His gaze never leaves me. I feel his eyes the entire time I move around the bathroom. Drying. Brushing my teeth. Dressing again. He’s slow to follow my lead, but he does. Until finally, I have him sitting at the counter in the kitchen.
Pulling down two wine glasses, I pour him a glass of red. I’m not a fan of wine, though I’ve tried, so I add grape juice to my glass. It gives the appearance of wine. Kind of. Owen grins when I hand him his glass and set mine down. I had the foresight to set out silverware and napkins already.
I kind of want to present him with a prepared plate, but that’s not possible if he’s sitting there watching me. I try to hide what I’m doing as best I can. My hands are nearly shaking as I arrange every component of our meal on the dishes. It’s all warm. Not hot anymore, but it’ll still be good.
Probably.
Hopefully.
With two prepared plates, I bring them to the counter. Setting them in their places, one in front of Owen and the other where I will sit, I keep my attention on them while I climb onto the chair beside his. The same place I always sit since the very first time I was here, to his left.
“Did you make this?” Owen asks.
Biting my lip, I nod as I bring the napkin to my lap. “It was hot before we took a shower. I’m going to give you that disclaimer. But it’s all still acceptably warm. I hope it’s good.”
His fingers grip my chin and he pulls my face to his. “When did you learn to cook?”
Valid question. My cheeks heat. “When your season started, I signed up for one of those meal kit subscriptions for the days you’re not here, so I could teach myself to cook in private. Last month, I started attempting to cook without the kits and just using recipes.”
I can’t translate how he’s looking at me. Seconds pass and I’m about to remind him that the food is already not hot. We should eat it before it’s cold.
“You didn’t have to do that. You don’t need to cook.”
“I know. But I wanted to cook for you.”
“You learned to cook for me?”
I bite my lip and wonder if that was the wrong answer. But I nod. Because it’s the truth. I wanted to be able to cook for my man.
His stare is intense. I can’t look away. Then Owen’s mouth is on mine, and I nearly lose the ability to breathe. “If it wasn’t for the food, I’d fuck you over this counter right now. You’re incredible, Zak.”
My cheeks burn. “You haven’t tried it yet,” I whisper. “It could be shit. It might taste like your hands smell when you come home from hockey.”
His eyelids hood and I try like hell not to laugh at the look he’s giving me.
Owen lets me go and turns to his plate. I watch as he cuts a piece of chicken and brings it to his mouth. I don’t speak and barely breathe as he samples all four components. Then he looks at me and I nearly swallow my tongue.
“Fan-fucking-tastic.”
Since I can’t decide if I can believe him, I turn to my plate and take a bite. It could definitely use a quick reheat, but yeah… it’s actually very good. I’m pleased with this meal. I’d make it again.
I sag in relief. Thank fuck it’s good.
His lips brush my ear as he pulls my chair closer to his. “I’m so damn proud of you, Zak Ashland. You can never understand just how fucking proud I am.”
Tears sting my eyes and I lean into him. If I could express just how much his pride means to me, I would put it into a sonnet. But all I can manage to say is, “I love you, Owen.” It’s inadequate. Not nearly enough. But it’s all I have.
I’ll give him my love until my very last breath.