Busted.Heat creeps up my cheeks, and I instinctively duck my head to hide my embarrassment from Adam.
“Don’t.” He slips a finger under my chin and tilts it upward. “Don’t get me wrong. I love it when you blush. It’s fucking adorable. But you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. I think it’s hot. No one’s ever taken the time to learn the finer points of hockey for me before.”
I turn my head so I can look him in the face. “Hot?”
“Oh, yeah. A guy who actually cares enough to want to understand one of the most important parts of my life is total turn-on. I have seriously never wanted you more.”
In one smooth move that surprises me as much as him, I push him back down onto the bed and straddle him. “Then I guess it’s a good thing my meeting’s not for a few hours.”
He uses that big, powerful hockey body to flip me over so our positions are reversed. “Not so fast. You’ve had your fun this morning. Now it’s my turn.”
“Are you saying it wasn’t fun when I jerked you off?” I purse my lips into an exaggerated pout.
“Hell, no. But I can’t always let you call the shots, can I?”
“I guess not.” I cross my arms under my head and grin up at him like a kid in a candy store, waiting for my treat. “I’m all yours, Puck Boy. Do your worst.”
He does, totally wrecking me with his hands, his lips, his teeth, his tongue. I’m so far gone that once he enters me, I only last a few strokes before I spurt all over his abs. He takes that as his cue to come too, and he lets go, shuddering and shaking until he’s spent.
When we’ve both recovered—again—we stumble to the bathroom to clean up. We shower together, telling ourselves it’s to save water. But it’s really another excuse to put our hands—and mouths—all over each other. I even serenade him with a version of Frank Ocean’s “Forrest Gump” that’s not half bad considering I’m not a musical theater major.
“Wanna grab breakfast at the Green Bean?” I ask as I leave the bathroom, one towel secured around my waist and drying my hair with another.
He zips up his jeans and bends down to retrieve his shirt, which has somehow found its way under my desk. I almost cry when he tosses it on over his head, covering up all that delicious muscle. “Do you have time before your RA thing?”
I glance at the digital clock on my nightstand and frown. Guess we spent longer in the shower than I realized.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. Every second was totally worth it, even if it means I miss out on a chai latte and chocolate croissant from the Bean.
“Probably not. I can make us some coffee. And I think I’ve got some Cocoa Puffs around here somewhere. Or blueberry Pop-Tarts. Your choice.”
“With or without frosting?” he asks.
“Without.”
He considers it for a minute, thoughtfully rubbing his stubbled jaw. If he’s going to make a habit of staying overnight, I should suggest he keep some essentials here. Like a razor. Not that I mind his morning stubble. I think it’s sexy as all get-out, and I love the way it feels when we kiss. And when he goes down on me. But he might want to start the day clean-shaven.
“Cocoa Puffs sound good,” he says finally.
“Good’s probably an overstatement.” My coffee is decent, at best. I can’t afford to spring for the fancy stuff. And there’s a fair chance the cereal is on its way to becoming stale, if it’s not there already. But at least we won’t have to starve until lunch.
I throw on jeans, a white T-shirt, and my favorite V-neck sweater and find the cereal, and he pours us two bowls while I make the coffee. We dance around each other in my small makeshift kitchen, bumping shoulders, elbows, hips. But our cramped quarters don’t bother me, and it doesn’t seem to get to him either. If anything, it makes the simple, domestic task of preparing breakfast more fun. And somehow more intimate than anything we did in my bed. Or the shower.
My throat gets thick and my rib cage squeezes tight, pushing the air out of my lungs. This is what I want. What I crave. Sure, sex is good. With the right person—like, say, Adam—it’s even great. But sharing space with another human being, being able to let my guard down and not having to pretend I’m something—someone—I’m not. Those are things I’ve never had. Not with my family. Not even with Layton.
“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” Adam asks, taking his cereal and coffee and sitting on the couch.
Fudge. I’d completely forgotten the holiday was coming up. Or purposely pushed it to the back of my brain, seeing as I have nowhere to go and no one to spend it with.
I push the trunk closer to the couch so we can use it as a table, then take my breakfast and join Adam. “I dunno. Probably sleep. Catch up on some homework. Maybe binge watch whatever’s trending on Netflix.”
“I guess the break’s too short and Utah’s too far for you to go home.”
I’ve told him where I’m from, but not much more about my family situation. It’s not something I feel like getting into now, so I take the easy way out and agree with him. “Yeah, it’s a pretty long trip for what’s essentially a long weekend.”
“I don’t suppose you’d want to—” He breaks off and goes back to shoveling Cocoa Puffs into his mouth.
“Want to what?” I rub his bare foot with mine. “If you’re going to suggest we double up on the skating lessons, the answer is no. Three times a week is all my scrawny little legs can handle.”
