His dark eyes meet mine. They’re so sad they make my heart ache. He bends down slowly to pick his hat up off the floor. As he stands, he chokes out, “I am so sorry.”
As he steps for the door, I put a hand on his shoulder and flick my other wrist, causing the door to fly from my hand and slam shut. “You try to control everything and when you can’t, when something knocks you on your ass unexpectedly, you give up or hide. Or expect me to hide. You’re not a saint. You’re a coward.”
His chest tightens under my hand. “I was a coward. I’ve been one my whole life, hiding behind an image, but I’ve been trying to change. I fucked up, but I’m still trying. But I need you. I need you because you make me want to be better.”
“You need me?” I repeat. God I want to believe it. I really do. I saw his interview about his clothing line. I saw the Instagram earlier today, but…I’m scared to trust him again. I know he can’t do anything else to win me back. I walked out on us, and he didn’t move on. He waited. He apologized—in words and actions. It hits me so hard I shudder—I either have to believe him or I have to let him go.
And the only thing that terrifies me more than forgiving him is not forgiving him. So I take a ragged breath and I whisper, “Prove it.”
He drops his hat, reaches up and grabs my face again. This time, I don’t fight him. His mouth lands on mine and I slip my tongue past his beautiful full lips. He holds my head with one hand, tangling his fingers in my hair and grabs my ass with the other. He squeezes so hard it’ll leave a mark and then he bends his massive thighs, wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me up. His tongue never leaves my mouth. I’ve missed this—the way he dominates me. The way he manhandles me.
I wrap my legs around his waist. He carries me into the living room, right up to the couch and then he lays me on it. Hovering above me, he reaches over his head, pulls his hoodie off and drops it on the floor as he crawls on top of me. I spread my legs to make room for him. The minute he settles between them, he dips his hips and pushes into me. His hard-on grinds up my body, rubbing my slit through my clothes.
He pushes a hand into the couch beside my head, lifting his body up just enough to stare down at me as he snakes his hand between our bodies and grabs hold of the waist of my cranberry-colored sweats. In one strong movement, without me even lifting my ass, he yanks them all the way down to my knees. His eyes, narrowed in fury, hold mine as his hand moves to the white cotton of my boy shorts and shoves inside.
I’m soaking wet. He smiles and swipes his index and middle finger through my mess before pressing them into my pussy. My back arches in pleasure.
“Avery,” I accidentally whisper his name.
“You still taste delicious?” he asks as I dig my nails into his scalp and he pulls his fingers out of me. I watch his long tongue slip from between his lips and lick my juices off the tips of his fingers. He smiles again. “God, I missed how you taste.”
I pull myself to a half sitting position and tug his pants down over his muscular butt. Our faces are inches from each other. He roughly pushes me back down into the couch and shoves my shirt up to my neck. I’m not wearing a bra, which is good because he’d probably have just bit through it. He goes right for my nipple, swirls his tongue around it twice and then nips it hard. I gasp. As he moves to assault the other nipple, his hand moves into his underwear and he frees his hard, thick cock.
My body isn’t used to his size and length anymore. But I want him so badly, I don’t care. He pushes into me and I make a sound even I can’t decipher and fight to keep my eyes open so I can watch his eyes roll back in his head and his cheeks flush. I bend my knees on either side of his hips and squeeze my pussy hard. I’m going to make him struggle more than any fucking hockey game. He whimpers. Literally fucking whimpers.
“Don’t,” he warns. “I won’t hold on.”
I squeeze down hard again as he swings hard into my hips, his balls slapping my ass. The vein in his neck throbs.
“Stephanie. Fuck. No,” he demands. He drops his whole body on me. It’s like being hit with a two-hundred-pound sand bag. The air whooshes out of my lungs. He curls his face into my neck, just below my ear. “Baby, please.”
The emotion in his plea—the fact that he’s begging at all—forces the air from my lungs again.
“I’ve missed this. I need you. Please.”
I relax my core and gently wrap my arms around his back. Holding him to me, I kiss his shoulder and slowly rock my hips under him. He exhales loudly, a mix of pleasure and relief, and matches his thrusts to my rhythm. My eyes flutter closed and I concentrate on the perfect way he fills me up. He remembers exactly how to tilt his hips on his thrust, and I remember that if I just push my left hip up…
“Again. Harder,” I demand.
He does it again. Harder. I can’t catch my breath. My pussy quivers. He’s on one elbow now and his eyes open. That dark chocolate color filled with anger and self-hate have melted into a caramel color filled with lust and love. That has to be love. Because I love him.
He looks down between us. “Let me make you come. Please. I want to make you…”
He pushes his cock deep and hard into me and grinds his pelvis into my clit. Keeping himself pressed right against me, he starts hammering me with short hard thrusts. The friction is too much and not enough. I arch my back and rub myself into his pubic bone. My fingers claw at his back as my orgasm ripples through me.
“Avery,” his name slips from my lips in a ragged whisper. “Oh God, yes.”
He pushes harder until my head bumps the arm of the couch above me. Then he pulls himself up and with one more thrust, he swears at the top of his lungs and explodes inside me. He seems to come forever, his body jerking and his hips twitching as his collapses on top of me.
Half an hour passes and we don’t move. I keep my arms around his back but snake my fingers up and trace his hairline.
“For the first time in my entire life I lost. I really lost,” he whispers finally.
“It’s not the end of your hockey career. You’ll win again,” I advise him.
He lifts his head. His eyes are confused. His brow furrowed. “I wasn’t talking about hockey. I’m talking about us.”
I take a deep breath to make room for the swell of my heart roaring back to life in my chest.
