Backhand (Gold Hockey)

by Elise Faber

  “Problem?” he asked, rubbing his bare chest and yawning.

  “Nope.” Sara blew a strand of hair out of her face and hello, morning breath.

  Toilet then toothbrush. STAT.

  She flipped over, stood, and would have been in the bathroom if a hand on the back of her shirt hadn’t caught and held her in place.

  “Not running?”

  “Nope.” She crossed her legs, almost dancing in place.

  “What happened to the girl who liked mornings?”

  “She needs to pee.” A pause, a huffed-out breath. “And to brush her teeth.”

  The blankets rustled, and she felt herself being reeled back toward the bed. “I really need—”

  “Shh.” He turned her around, sitting up and positioning her between his thighs.

  Brown eyes met hers. “You good?”

  Her head dropped back, she sighed. “Mike—”

  “You’re good.” His hands slid down and spanned her waist. Then they slid lower, beneath the hem of his t-shirt she’d commandeered in an effort to not have a repeat of their last morning after, and gripped her ass.

  “Stop.” She slapped his hands away. “Unless you’re into something a lot more X-rated.”

  He smirked.

  “And I don’t mean bondage. I’m thinking more along the lines of golden showers—”

  “Go.” A tap to her bottom sent her on her way.

  She hightailed it to the bathroom and closed the door. After using the facilities, she flushed and started to search the drawers for a spare toothbrush.

  They’d crashed after Rebecca and company had left the night before, though not before bingeing a couple more episodes of Game of Thrones.

  She might not completely understand the appeal of a fantasy world, but Khal Drogo, whew. That was a man she could stare at all day.

  Not finding a toothbrush in any of the vanity drawers, Sara turned to the linen closet set along the opposite wall.

  “Crazy girlfriend antics already?”

  Sara jumped, almost banging her head on the shelf she was bending over to peer at. “Do you not have a single spare toothbrush in here?” she asked, not taking the bait.

  “Here.” He opened a cabinet — which she’d skipped, because who kept spare toothbrushes beneath a sink? — and pulled out a pack. “Pink or green?”

  “Green.”

  His breath caught as she snagged the brush and topped it with the toothpaste she’d found earlier.

  “What?” she asked, though it sounded a lot more like “Shmut?”

  He finished brushing his own teeth before straightening and leaning back against the vanity. “I just remembered that emeralds were your favorite.”

  She spit and rinsed in the sink then smiled at him. “Yes. They still are, in fact. I can’t believe you remember that.” Her brows pulled down when he didn’t smile back. “What is it?”

  He was frozen, every muscle locked.

  “Hey, Hot Shot.” She touched his chest, and that ice around him melted. He moved abruptly, opening a drawer and tearing open a box of condoms then slipping away to turn on the shower. He pulled a stack of towels out from the linen closet. “Are—”

  His boxer briefs dropped to the floor.

  Her tongue stopped working.

  “Come here.”

  An order. All male and tempting, kind of like that especially hard part of his anatomy bobbing her way.

  But it wasn’t his body that made her feet move.

  His eyes.

  Heat and desire and need. For her. If he’d looked at her like that earlier, she would never have been able to get out of bed, risk of golden shower or not.

  Melted dark chocolate, his gaze dripped over her, warming her limbs, sticking to her insides, sliding down her inner thighs and making her knees tremble.

  But she didn’t need to worry about falling.

  The moment she wavered, Mike was there, pulling her flush against his body and slamming his mouth down onto hers.

  Sparks flew along her spine, spurred her into motion.

  She kissed him back with everything she had, lips parting and tongue diving into his mouth.

  The man made her insane.

  He hitched her body up, grabbing her legs and wrapping them around his waist. His cock was hard between her thighs, making her desperate to shift her hips, to guide him deep inside.

  But he wouldn’t let her move.

  His hands clamped on to her ass, and he turned them both.

  Hot water cascaded down her back. It soaked into her hair, rolled down her arms, pooled between her breasts.

  Moaning, she arched back, letting the drops drip lower.

  “God, you’re so fucking beautiful.” Mike tucked one hand between her shoulders and adjusted her position so he could reach her nipple.

  And fuck, that was good.

  She hissed out a breath, then a groan, then a curse.

  He switched to the other breast, repeated the circling of his tongue, the tease of his teeth. His scruff abraded her skin, but it was a good hurt, and she was so… very… close…

  He tilted his hips, rubbed his cock up, against her clit and—

  “Mike!”

  She plummeted over the edge, stars exploding behind her eyes, pleasure spreading outward from her center.

  And he rode her orgasm out with her, rubbing against her wetness, eliciting little aftershocks of pleasure with each up and down movement.

  Sara could barely stand when he gently lowered her legs to the shower floor.

  “Christ, I have to have you.” She watched through lidded eyes as he reached for the condom he’d grabbed earlier and tore the wrapper open with his teeth.

  Watching Mike fist his erection and stroke it from base to tip was just about the sexiest thing she’d ever seen. The laxness that had invaded her limbs evaporated, and she wanted it to be her hands there, needed his hard cock inside her.

  “Hurry,” she chanted. “Hurry. Hurry.”

  His fingers fumbled, and he dropped the condom. “Fuck, Sara. You’re not helping. I’ve imagined you in my shower about a million times, and now you’re in my life, and we’re—”

  And then it wasn’t just about pleasure. It was about this man and how much he meant to her, about her past and present colliding and moving forward.

  Her eyes burned, but she blinked the tears back, not wanting to ruin what was supposed to be a happy moment. “I’m here, Mike. Finally, I’m here.”

  “Beautiful.” He leaned in and kissed her. “Amazing.” Pulled back and cupped her cheek. “The only woman I’ve ever wanted.”

  His words stole her breath, and he didn’t give her time to get it back.

  “The only woman,” he said again then bent and retrieved the condom, sliding it on with suddenly sure fingers.

  “Mike—”

  He kissed the words from her lips. Hands hauled her up, spreading her thighs, and guiding her down… and, good God. Yes, she needed him right there.

  Deep. Hard. Stretching her to capacity.

  And pausing, her back pressed against the cold tile wall.

  Why was he pausing?

  “Look at me,” he ordered.

  She groaned, flexed her hips. He had to move. Right then or—

  “Sara girl, look at me.”

  Her eyes opened, and the intensity in his gaze took her breath away. Or what little of it was left.

  “You’re mine.” He pulled out. Slammed back in. Swiveled his hips and made her cry out. This was so much more than simple sensation. He made her ache with need and feel completely whole all in the same vein.

  And she wanted more.

  Out. In. Out. In. More—

  “Say it.”

  She didn’t need to ask what. She knew. It was the same truth she’d held close for more than a decade. She would always be his.

  “I’m yours.”

  His eyes slid closed. “Mine,” he said.

  “Yours.” She grabbed his shoulders, yanked
herself upright to growl in his ear. “And you’re mine.”

  He chuckled, hot breath mixing with the water to raise goose bumps on her skin.

  “Never been anyone else’s.”

  The words spread through her, heightening the pleasure he was raising to a frantic peak.

  “I’m going to—”

  “Come for me, sweetheart.”

  As if her body would betray him. She exploded again, inner muscles clenching tightly against his cock and decimating his self-control.

  He was a frenzy of movement, mouth on her breasts, her throat, her jaw, hips pounding into her. And then he was groaning against her neck as he climaxed, and she was wrapping her arms around him.

  They stayed pressed together, not a molecule of air separating their bodies, as their breathing slowed, their pulses steadied.

  He remained close as she washed her hair, rubbed a loofah gently across her back when it was time to soap up.

  As the water began to cool, Mike turned if off and wrapped her in a towel.

  They didn’t speak. Words weren’t necessary when their movements spoke volumes. A brush of his towel across her back, dabbing the scar there gently and soaking up the drops of water dotting her skin.

  Her fingers combed through his hair, settling it just the way he liked it.

  A thumb swiped beneath her eye to catch an errant tear.

  Laced hands moved downstairs together. Two sets of lungs not breathing as they turned on the news. A stroke of his palm across her cheek when their pictures were the lead story.

  “You’re coming to the game tonight,” he said after the anchor cut to commercial.

  Sara nodded. “Okay.”

  “You’re not alone anymore.”

  She forced her eyes from the screen when a picture of her on that podium, gold medal around her neck, came on. “I know.”

  “Jumping Bean.” His tone was a warning.

  “You know you only really use that nickname when you’re getting all growly with me.”

  His face relaxed. “You like growly.”

  “Sometimes.” She bumped her shoulder with his. “I’m also okay. You’re here. That makes everything so much better.”

  He grinned. “Of course it does.”

  Her stomach growled, and she flicked off the TV. “What’s for breakfast?” she asked before she caught the clock. “Or, I guess, lunch at this point.”

  Mike’s nose wrinkled. “Chicken, rice, and greens with protein powder.” He shuddered. “The team’s nutritionist is strict as hell.”

  “She’d have to be to keep you boys in check.”

  “Hey!” he said, going to the freezer and opening the drawer. “Brit’s the worst of the bunch.”

  “I’ve seen her body in real life. There’s no way that’s true.”

  He grinned. “Okay, it’s a lie.” He plunked a container of Phish Food on the counter. “But I also have this for you.”

  “An appetizer,” she said, snatching the carton and opening a drawer to grab a spoon. “Perfect size for one.”

  He made to steal it from her, and she squeaked, but then he nodded at her sketchpad. “Want to go on the patio and draw for a bit?” He pulled a Tupperware from the fridge. “I’ll heat some of this up for us.”

  This man.

  Her vision went slightly blurry around the edges, and her heart went all Grinch-like, feeling as though it had expanded by three sizes. “I like you, Mike Stewart.”

  “It’s because I’m so likeable.” He grinned then caught a glimpse of her eyes and sobered. “Together, remember?”

  Blinking, she nodded. “Believe me, I remember.” This time would be different. She’d wouldn’t cave, and no way would she let it get as bad as it had been before. With a sigh, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.

  “Get to work, Hot Shot. I’m hungry.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  MIKE SLIPPED OUT onto the patio, two plates of suitably healthy food in hand. Sunlight peeked through the clouds, creating pockets of gold around the deck. Sara’s hair, the metal of the screws holding the boards in place, a reflection off—

  A camera lens?

  His neck crawled.

  “Sara,” he said.

  “Mmm?” she asked, head still bent over the page.

  He set the plates on the table and crossed the deck to kneel by her side, careful to keep his back to the place he’d seen the glare. “Jumping Bean.”

  She blinked, gaze sliding up to focus on his for a brief moment. He saw the urge in their depths, the desire to flick right back down to the sketch she was working on. “What’s the matter?”

  “I think I saw a camera.”

  Though her shoulders went ramrod stiff, Sara didn’t lose her composure. “Where?”

  “To the east, behind that big oak toward the back of the property.”

  Blue eyes searched the space behind him before returning back to his. “I think you’re right.”

  God, she was amazing. Given her history, she should be a blubbering mess right now. Instead she sat there, regal as a queen, face calm, words calmer still.

  “So, the question is,” she said, her tone surprisingly light, “do we give them their shot? Or keep the masses frenzied and waiting?”

  He leaned close and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “We only give what we’re willing.”

  Standing, he reached for her hand, tugged her to her feet. “Now, let’s go inside and have lunch away from the prying eyes.”

  He was also going to make some calls and see about getting security for his property. A gate had always been enough of a deterrent for anyone before. That had obviously changed.

  “Eating from inside a fishbowl isn’t relaxing before your game?” she teased.

  “Not exactly.” Mike smiled, but it wasn’t completely genuine. And his tone was off. Because… goddammit, he hated this. Despised that Sara even had to go through it at all.

  But she misread his frustration.

  Blue eyes clouded with sorrow, her shoulders fell a fraction of an inch. “I’m sorry you’re dealing with this.”

  He wanted to pull her close, but he didn’t want an audience for that.

  So instead, he dropped her hand, picked up their plates, and opened the French door to the kitchen, nodding at her to enter. Following after her, he bumped his elbow against a switch on the wall on his way in.

  Immediately, the windows darkened as the remote-controlled shades slid down.

  The plates were on the countertop in the next instant. “Come here,” he said, but didn’t give her the chance to respond. He crossed to her, hauled her into his chest, and wrapped his arms tight. “No apologies. Not ever. This is not your fault.”

  She snorted. “Kind of is.”

  “Yeah no. That’s bullshit, and you know it.” Mike slid one hand up and cupped her cheek, forced her to focus on him. “It’s bullshit.”

  Sara sighed. “I’m trying to feel sorry for myself here.”

  Lips twitching, he tucked her hair behind her ear. “Not happening. Not in my house.”

  “In your—” A huff. “You’re such a caveman.”

  “Aw,” he teased, tugging that strand of hair. “You’re so cute when you try to be tough.”

  “Try?” She crossed her arms and glared. “I don’t have to—”

  God, he loved her.

  It was nearly impossible to smother the urge to make the declaration, but he knew it wasn’t the right time, didn’t want the moment he finally confessed how he’d felt for the last ten years to be marred by the outside world.

  Instead, he kissed her, and just when her body melted, he took advantage of having known the girl for so long.

  Fingers slipping up, he trailed them along the sides of her breasts. She moaned, and he went in for the kill.

  Her armpits.

  Digging into the spot, her only ticklish spot, Mike had no mercy.

  She squealed, mouth breaking away, body squirming so violently that he almost lo
st his grip.

  But he was a professional athlete, and his reaction time was on point.

  “You—” she gasped “—are — so dead!”

  Her hands lurched up and gripped his hips. He turned, but not in time, and her fingers found the spot on his waist.

  “Shit!”

  “Payback,” she said, smirking as she broke free.

  One brow came up. “Payback, really?”

  Sprinting around the side of the island, she positioned herself so that it was between them.

  But the barrier was nothing.

  Still, he let her think that she was safe… for the moment.

  “You know I hate being tickled.”

  A step forward. A slide of one barstool slightly to the right.

  There. Now he had a clear shot.

  Sara leaned forward, plucked a piece of broccoli from the plate, and stuck it in her mouth.

  He waited while she chewed, didn’t want her to choke, but when she reached for another bite and said, “So, yes, payback and—” She shrieked when he launched himself over the island, and he loved the sound, loved surprising her, loved…

  Her.

  His mouth crashed down on hers, his hands slid under the hem of her shirt, and the chicken was very cold by the time they settled down to eat it.

  “REMIND ME WHY I let you talk me into this again?” Sara grumbled.

  “You’ll be fine. Remember, you’re charming, and the WAGs are nice.”

  That wasn’t a lie, thankfully, because he’d played on a few teams where the opposite was true.

  “Charming,” she muttered, slinging her purse on her shoulder. “I still can’t believe that Mitch won’t let me work.”

  “He said the store is a shit-show, and he was keeping it closed for the rest of the week because he was tired of people coming in and not buying anything except your stuff.” The three pieces she’d given to her boss had apparently sold out within an hour of opening.

  “I’m sure people are just going to burn them. Or amplify every single imperfection.” She reached for the door leading out to the garage.

  He snagged her arm. She huffed. He smiled. It was kind of their thing.

  “We need to go, Mike. Traffic—”

  “What’s going on, cranky pants?”

  “I tolerate a lot of your nicknames, but—”