He slides a hand between my legs, slowly moving up my inner thigh. “Don’t I know it.”
Oh God… if Nash is a robot, someone implanted the road map to a woman’s pleasure zones because he knows exactly what he is doing. His hand is down there for not more than two minutes and I am rolling my hips and panting his name. “Fuck Nash. Oh God…”
“Do I keep going?” he whispers against my ear. “Do I get you off like this? Tell me what you want.”
I manage to reach down and touch the tip of his cut cock with my fingertips. “I want what you want.”
His fingers keep moving and stars start to flicker behind my closed eyes. I am so close… “I want to fuck my wife.”
I wrap all my fingers around his shaft and gently squeeze, feeling the weight and the girth of it. He moans deep in the back of his throat. And then his fingers are gone and he's reaching for the nightstand drawer. He fumbles around in there. "I'm covered."
Our eyes meet. “What?”
"I'm taking birth control. I haven't had sex in almost two years, and I'm tested every year for everything in my annual physical," I explain. My eyes shift away from his because this is slightly intimate, emotionally, not physically, and that wasn't on my bingo card with Nash. I don’t tell him that I’ve never had sex without a condom, but if I’m going to do it, it might as well be with him. Because for some incomprehensible reason, I trust Nash. I don’t like him but I trust him.
“I’m tested every?—”
“Six months. Like every other hockey player I know.”
“More… I test more. Every three.”
“Of course you do. Classic overacheiver.”
He slots back into place over me. As his lips find mine again, I push my legs apart and he fits himself into the space between. His hips move and his right hand slips around my knee and he bends it. Inch by inch he works his way inside me and my eyes flutter closed at the fullness and pleasure of it.
We start to move together. It’s slow, delicious, but it isn’t long until I want more. And he does too, I see the look of worried concentration knitting his brow in between kisses. I bend my other knee, wrap my arms around his neck, and rake my fingers into his hair.
“Don’t hold back.” His hips roll, I feel him everywhere and arch my back. “Nash.”
He keeps moving. It’s nice. More than nice. It’s amazing but… it’s not everything.
“Nash…”
“What the hell do I have to do to shut you up?” He growls, curling his head into my neck and biting the sensitive skin there as he drives himself into me again, a little quicker and harder this time.
I tug on the ends of his thick hair between my fingers. “Fuck me like you hate me. It shouldn’t be hard.”
He pauses and I tug on his hair again. The next thing I know he’s grabbed both my wrists. My arms are bent above my head, his wide right hand holding them together, pressing them into the pillow, and Nash’s body is bottoming out with every snap of his hips. My body temperature rises as if I’m suddenly on a bed of coals.
I don’t hold back. I couldn’t if I wanted to. I writhe and swear and whimper in ecstasy under him, fighting the swelling wave of pleasure as long as I can. And then, when it finally overtakes me, I willingly, blissfully drown in my orgasm. I think I praise him, telling him he’s incredible, but I’d rather die than admit that…
He keeps going, but I'm so numb and boneless, that it takes everything in me to keep up. I owe him the same euphoric release and I intend to pay up. Moments later, with my left leg repositioned over his shoulder and my lips sucking hungrily on his neck, Nash comes. I can feel his release pulse into me and I shiver with satisfaction. The score is even, just how I like it with him. And this is a game I can't wait to play again.
I wake up when the morning sun is slicing its way through the corners of the blinds covering his windows. Nash is the only hockey player I know who doesn’t have blackout blinds. I’ve been meaning to ask him why that is, but as I roll over now, he is nowhere to be found. I sit up, holding the sheet to my chest, and look around. The loft is so quiet I know he’s not home. His clothes from last night are gone off the floor and mine, including my underwear, are neatly folded on the chair I was sitting on last night.
“Of course,” I mutter and try not to smile at Nash’s predictable politeness. I don’t bother to get dressed. I jump in the shower and then carry my clothes down to my makeshift room in nothing but a towel. My phone, which is charging on the bookshelf where I left it last night, says it’s almost ten in the morning. Nash and I both passed out in his bed after sex, but I expected to wake up before dawn and sneak back down to my room. I slept like a log. I guess he didn’t because I think he’s been gone a while.
It’s probably best this way, I think as I go about throwing on clothes, drying my hair, and applying some basic makeup. I don't know what to say to Nash in the light of day when the lust has flamed out and he's back to being the robot version of himself. I should get the heck out of here before he gets back. Today is an off-day for him and the Quake. They'll have a light practice and team meeting at some point, but they don't play again until tomorrow.
I've been invited by Fisher to the editing studio today, which is both annoying and exciting. It's my docu-series, I shouldn't need an invite to the editing studio, but I do because I'm not the director. Still, it will be exciting to see all the footage they've filmed that I wasn't there to see. I grab my purse to head out but decide to make a to-go coffee to take with me. I am already running late and don't want to have to make a pit stop at a coffee shop. On top of that, Nash has this very fancy, very good coffee machine and I swear it's better than any store.
I stop dead in front of it because there is a note taped to the stainless steel front, by the milk frother handle, and a box sitting on the grill part where you place a mug. It’s a blue box. A blue ring box. My eyes go back to the note.
Hey. If we’re going to keep doing this, you need this. If it doesn’t fit, I can size it. N
Is this… What I think it is? The box is old, and the blue coloring scuffed off the corners of the lid. Inside, on a bed of cotton batting, is an engagement ring, exactly as he described in the bar, with sapphires that match my eyes. "Holy crap…"
I pluck it from the box but hold it like it's a predatory item that might bite me. A beautiful, stunning, perfect, and perfectly terrifying item. I shudder. "Oh fuck, do I have to wear this?"
