“I should have too,” I gasp, already lightheaded as I lift my hips to take him deeper. “That would have been much better than worrying about dying.”
“I can’t bear the thought of that.” He lifts up and lowersdown. We both moan. “I can’t think about a world that you’re not in.”
Before I can even process his words, he sets a faster pace that doesn’t allow me to think at all. I can only feel. Him. All of him. He keeps one arm propped by my head while the other finds my hip, holding me as he fills me again and again.
My thighs shake, barely able to stay open for him. It’s almost more than I can take.
“Yes, you can, Elliot,” he says in my ear, like he can hear every thought in my goddamn mind. Like we’re so connected I don’t even have to speak. “You’re doing so well. You take me so perfectly. You’re almost there.”
His praise gives me new life. My heels dig into the mattress, my hips lifting in perfect time with him. I feel my orgasm building and then it’s crashing all around me. Heaven.
“God, yes. That’s my girl.” Arthur pumps again and then stills, as he climaxes with me. He collapses on top of me knocking the last of the air from my lungs. I let out a breathy laugh that immediately turns into a pathetic little wheeze. He is already rolling off me, eyes wide with concern.
“Oh god. Sorry. Are you okay?”
I nod, still laughing as I drag in a deep breath, my hand finding his arm to pull him back to me. The fact that he notices so fast, that his instinct is to move, to check, to make sure I am fine, makes my pounding heart flutter. It is ridiculous how something so small can feel so big. I should be focused on catching my breath, not on the way he makes me feel looked after, but I am.
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean to crush you.”
I shove my damp hair off my forehead, chest still rising and falling. “There are worse ways to go,” I manage. “Better than a plane crash.”
“Quit it with the death jokes,” he mutters. He reaches formy discarded robe and pulls it over us like a makeshift blanket, tucking it around our bare shoulders.
“Yes, Coach,” I say, already drowsy, curling closer and fitting myself against his side like I belong there.
He sighs, long and soft, and I feel the vibration before he presses a kiss to my forehead. I can hear the smile in his voice when he murmurs, “Get some rest.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ARTHUR
“Less chirping, more scoring, Crawford.”
Austin flashes me his signature cocky grin and fires back, “You got it, Coach,” before vaulting over the boards and charging into his shift. We are down by one early in the third period, the worst kind of deficit. Close enough to taste.
My guys are pushing hard. Every shift is fast and physical, bodies crashing along the boards, sticks hacking and lifting, skates carving deep lines into the ice. Florida’s defence is locked in, clogging passing lanes and collapsing around the net like a wall.
I force myself not to look at the clock as the seconds tick by, heavy and cruel.
Suddenly, one of Florida’s forwards picks off a pass at the blue line and explodes up the ice. The crowd surges to its feet as he barrels toward our goal, alone. A clean breakaway. My pulse slams in my ears. Time stretches thin as he winds up, weight shifting, blade opening.
The shot comes.
We wait for the horn.
It never sounds.
Instead, the building erupts with the roar of eighteen thousand furious Florida fans, because Foster fucking James has just made a diving glove save that spits in the face of physics and defies logic entirely. He stretches full out, body parallel to the ice, glove snapping shut with a sharp crack that echoes through the arena.
Our bench explodes in relief. A chorus of disbelief and awe rises above the noise. “Jesus, James!” “Fozzie Bear!” Someone pounds the boards so hard the whole bench rattles.
But there is no time to celebrate. The puck is back in play. The crowd is still screaming. And despite a save that will dominate highlight reels by morning, we are still losing.
When the clock hits eight minutes remaining, I raise my hand and call a timeout.
I lean in close so my guys can hear me over the crowd, over the blood rushing in their ears.
“Alright. Eyes on me.”
