I speed up both motions, stroking us faster while my finger pumps into him harder, nailing that spot inside him over and over. "Let go," I manage. "I've got you."
As if he's been waiting for permission, his orgasm tears through him, his whole body going rigid, back arching so hard I'm worried he'll pull a muscle. He comes hard, spilling between us, hot and wet, coating both our cocks and my hand with his cum. His ass clamps down on my finger, pulsing rhythmically, and it's about as much as I can take.
I come with a groan, adding to the mess between us, my hand still working both our cocks through the aftershocks. I keep my finger buried inside him, feeling every clench and pulse as his orgasm rolls through him.
When it finally subsides, he goes slack on the mattress, boneless and spent. I carefully withdraw my finger, and he makes a small sound of loss.
Lowering my body I lie down, half on top of him, and we stay like this for a moment, both of us breathing hard, sticky and satisfied and completely wrecked.
"How was that?" I ask, even though I know the answer from the blissed-out expression on his face.
"Fucking transcendent."
I laugh, rolling off him, reaching for the towel I keep by the bed, but before I can start cleaning us up, he shifts, starting to sit up.
"I should go. I have practice tonight."
I glance at the clock above Phillip’s bed. "Not for another hour."
"Yeah, but I need to shower and—"
"Hold that thought." I grab my phone and pull up Leila's contact, hitting call before Ace can protest.
She answers on the second ring, and I put her on speaker. "Devon? What's up?"
"Hey, hon. Quick question. Can you tell your husband that Ace will be skipping practice tonight? Doctor's orders."
There's a pause. "Doctor's orders?"
"Yep. I'm the doctor."
Ace is staring at me, somewhere between horror and amusement, his ears going pink again.
Leila laughs. "I'll let him know."
"You're the best."
"I know. Have fun, you two."
She hangs up and I toss my phone aside, grinning at Ace's expression.
He relaxes back and folds one arm under his head, amusement dancing in his post-orgasm gaze. "You're absolutely batshit crazy, you know that?"
I lean in, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, tasting salt and sweat. "And you wouldn't have it any other way. So who's the crazy one, really?"
CHAPTER 29
ACE
THE PRACTICE RINK is sweet mayhem. Tomorrow's the big day—the charity game that's consumed our lives for the past three weeks—and the energy is electric. Everyone's flying around the ice, running drills, taking shots, talking shit, and generally acting like we're about to play for the Cup instead of a fundraiser.
Becker skates past wearing one of the custom Santa hats I had made, the oversized red monstrosity perched precariously on top of his helmet. It looks absolutely ridiculous and he's absolutely thriving in it.
"Looking good, Becks!" Groover yells.
"I know!" Becker does a little spin, nearly wipes out, recovers. "Fashion icon!"
Hendrix is perched on top of the penalty box like a tiny feathered emperor surveying his domain. Every time someone misses a shot, he screeches "What the puuuck?" with perfect timing and increasing volume.
