The Mistake

by Elle Kennedy

  “Grace.” His hand lands on my shoulder, tugging me around to face him. “Talk to me,” he orders. “Why are you upset?”

  “Because…” I bite the inside of my cheek. Hesitating. Then I release an aggravated groan. “Have you slept with every girl at this school?”

  Logan looks stricken. “What?”

  “Seriously, John, what the hell? We can’t walk two feet without some girl coming up to you and fondling you and saying, ooooh, I had such a good time with you last year, you big stud, we should do that again, wink wink, nudge nudge.”

  His mouth falls open. Then understanding dawns, and a slow smile stretches his mouth. “Wait, this is about you being jealous?”

  I bristle. “No.”

  “Nuh-uh. You’re jealous.”

  My jaw sets in a tense line. “I just don’t appreciate all these girls hitting on you when I’m standing right fucking beside you. It’s rude and disrespectful and—”

  “Makes you jealous,” he finishes, and I feel like smacking that stupid grin off his face.

  “This isn’t funny.” I attempt to shrug his hand off my arm.

  But not only does he hold on tighter, he brings his other hand into play, planting both on my waist as he backs me into the wall. Then I’ve got six-feet and two-hundred-plus pounds of sexy hockey player pinning me in place.

  His lips brush mine in a soft kiss before he gazes into my eyes, earnest, amazed. “You have nothing to be jealous of,” he says in a husky voice. “All those girls who came over to us? I don’t even remember what they look like. I don’t remember half their names. You’re the only one I see tonight, the only one I see ever.” Those warm lips touch mine again, firm and reassuring. “PS? I never hooked up with Sandy.”

  “Liar,” I grumble.

  “It’s true.” He grins. “She plays for the other team.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Really?”

  “Oh yeah. She and her girlfriend came to a party at our place last semester and fooled around on the couch the entire time.”

  “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

  “Nope. It’s true. Dean thought he’d died and gone to heaven.”

  A laugh pops out. I find myself relaxing, my previously tense muscles now loose and tingly from the feel of his hard body pressed up against mine. God, I didn’t like feeling that way downstairs. Prickly and peeved, ready to fight any girl who so much as looked at Logan.

  “But this is even hotter than watching Sandy and her girl make out all night.” A seductive note thickens his voice.

  “What’s hotter?”

  “You. Jealous.” Those blue eyes go molten hot. “I’ve never been with anyone who’s gotten all possessive over me. It turns me on.”

  He’s not joking. His erection is poking into my belly, and the feel of it sends a streak of satisfaction through me. I move my hips, just enough for my pelvis to rub that hard ridge, and his eyelids grow heavy.

  “That turns me on even more,” he mumbles.

  I hide a smile. “Yeah?”

  “Oh yeah. Trust me, baby, you’re the only woman I want. The only one who gets me going.”

  Raising my eyebrows, I reach up to lock my hands around his neck. “I don’t know… I’m still jealous. I think you might need to reassure me some more.”

  Chuckling, he tips his head toward the door beside us. “Want me to make you come in the bathroom?” My thighs clench, noticeably, and he laughs again. “Is that a yes?”

  “God, no.” I lean up to nibble on his neck. “It’s a hell yes.”

  27

  Logan

  For the fourth time this week, I skate off the ice after practice wanting to pound my fist through a wall. The sheer lack of skill and common fucking sense I’m seeing from some of the other defensemen is appalling. I’m willing to cut the freshmen recruits some slack, but there’s no excuse for the way the juniors have played this week. Brodowski literally stood motionless in the defensive zone looking for someone to pass to, and Anderson lobbed pass after pass to covered forwards instead of cross-passing to me or carrying the puck so the forwards had time to get open.

  The hinge plays we ran were a disaster. The freshmen skated in slow motion. The upperclassmen made stupid mistakes. It’s becoming painfully obvious that our roster is weak. So weak that the chances of making it to the post-season are looking slimmer and slimmer—and we haven’t even played our first game yet.

  As I strip my gear in the locker room, I realize I’m not the only one who’s frustrated. Far too many surly faces surround me, and even Garrett is surprisingly silent. As team captain, he tries to offer encouragement after every practice, but he’s clearly starting to get discouraged by the dismal state of our team.

  The only guy who’s actually smiling is the new kid Hunter, who received so much praise from Coach for his performance today that he’s going to be shitting out lollipops and kittens for weeks to come. I have no clue how Dean managed to convince the guy to join the team—all I know is that my buddy dragged Hunter to the bar one night after tryouts, and the next morning, the kid was on board. Must’ve been some night out.

  “Logan.” Coach appears in front of me. “Come talk to me after your shower.”

  Shit. I quickly search my brain for anything I could’ve done wrong on the ice, but I’m not being arrogant when I say I played well. Dean and I were the only ones even trying out there.

  When I enter Coach’s office thirty minutes later, he’s at his desk, wearing a somber look that heightens my agitation. Fuck. Was it the dropped pass at the start of practice? No. Can’t be. Not even Gretzky himself could have held on to the puck with two hundred pounds of Mike Hollis ramming him into the boards.

  “What’s up?” I sit down, trying not to reveal how rattled I am.

  “Let’s cut right to the chase. You know I don’t like to waste time on preamble.” Coach Jensen leans back in his chair. “I spoke to a friend in the Bruins organization this morning.”

  Every muscle in my body freezes up. “Oh. Who?”

  “The assistant GM.”

  My eyes nearly bug out of their sockets. I knew Coach had connections—of course he does, he was in Pittsburg for seven seasons, for fuck’s sake—but when he said “friend” I assumed he meant a lower-level minion in the head office. Not the assistant general manager.

  “Look, it’s no secret you’ve been on the radar of every scout since your high school career. And you already know I’ve had inquiries about you before. Anyway, if you’re interested, they want you to come in and practice with the Providence Bruins.”

  Jesus Christ.

  They want me to practice with the development team for the Boston fucking Bruins?

  I can barely wrap my head around it. All I can do is stare at Coach. “They’d want me for Providence?”

  “Maybe. When they’re interested in taking a look at you, they don’t usually put you on the ice with the big boys. They test you out with the minor team first, see how you do.” His voice rings with intensity I rarely hear off the ice. “You’re good, John. You’re really fucking good. Even if they choose to develop you in Providence first, it won’t be long before you’re called up and playing on the roster you deserve to be on.”

  Christ. This can’t be happening. I’m in the Garden of fucking Eden, salivating over that goddamn apple. The temptation is so strong I can taste the victory. This isn’t just a pro team holding out the apple—it’s the team. The one I grew up rooting for, the one I’ve fantasized about playing for since I was seven years old.

  Coach studies my face. “With that said, I wanted to check if you’ve reconsidered your plans after graduation.”

  My throat goes drier than dust. My heart races. I want to shout Yes! I’ve reconsidered! But I can’t. I made a promise to my brother. And as big of an opportunity as this is, it’s not big enough. Jeff won’t be impressed if I announce I’m going to be playing for a farm team. Nothing short of a plum contract with the Bruins will convince him to l
et me have this, and even then, he’d probably still balk.

  “No, I haven’t.” It kills me to say it. It kills me.

  From the frustration shadowing Coach’s eyes, I can tell he senses that. “Look. John.” He speaks in a measured tone. “I understand why you didn’t opt in. I really do.”

  Other than my brother, and now Garrett, Coach is the only other person who knows I didn’t enter the draft. In that first eligible year, I pretended I’d missed the deadline to declare, which led to Coach dragging me into this very office and screaming at me for forty-five minutes about what an irresponsible idiot I am and how I’m wasting my God given talents. Once he calmed down, he started muttering about calling in favors to try to make me eligible, at which point I had no choice but to tell him the truth. Well, some of the truth. I told him about my dad’s accident, but not the drinking.

  Since then, he hasn’t harassed me about it—until now.

  “But this is your future we’re talking about,” he finishes gruffly. “If you pass this up, you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life, kid. I guarantee it.”

  Yeah, no guarantee needed. I know I’ll regret it. Hell, I already regret a lot of things. But family comes first, and my word means something. To me, to Jeff. I can’t go back on it now, no matter how tempting this is.

  “Thanks for letting me know, Coach. And please thank your friend for me.” I swallow a lump of despair as I slowly rise to my feet. “But my answer is no.”

  “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  Grace’s soft voice and timid expression make my chest ache. I don’t know why she bothered asking me that, because obviously this is the last thing I want to do. It’s what I have to do.

  Although I went straight to her dorm after practice and wasted no time telling her about my talk with Coach, now I’m kinda wishing I kept it to myself. I told her about my plans for the future a few days after we started dating, but even though she hasn’t said it out loud, I know she disagrees with them.

  “I didn’t want to say no,” I say roughly. “But I have to. My brother expects me to move back home the moment I graduate.”

  “What about your dad? What does he expect?”

  I lean my head against the stack of decorative pillows on her bed. They smell like her. Sweet and feminine, a soothing fragrance that relaxes some of the tension wedged in my chest.

  “He expects us to help him run his business because he can’t do it himself. That’s what family does. You pitch in when you’re needed. You take care of each other.”

  She frowns. “At the expense of your dreams?”

  “If it comes down to that, yes.” This entire conversation is too dismal, so I tug her toward me. “Come on, let’s put on the movie. I need some explosions and gunfights to distract me from my misery.”

  Grace grabs her laptop and gets the movie ready, but when she tries to place the computer between us, I shift it to my lap so there’s no barrier to keep her from snuggling beside me. I love holding her. And playing with her hair. And leaning in to kiss her neck whenever the urge strikes.

  I haven’t been in a relationship since high school, but being with Grace is different than it was with my old girlfriends. It feels…more mature, I guess. Back then we just talked about trivial bullshit, and filled in the silences by fooling around. But Grace and I actually talk. We talk about our days and our classes, our childhoods, our futures.

  Talking isn’t all we do, though. I’ve seen her almost every day since our first date, and we’ve messed around every single time. Christ, that bathroom hook-up at Beau’s party? Out of this fucking world—and she hadn’t even touched me. I’d jerked off when I was down on my knees eating her pussy, and sweet Jesus, I can’t remember ever coming that hard from my own hand.

  But we haven’t had sex yet, and I don’t even care. It used to be all about the quick gratification for me—flirt, fuck, get out. Like a game of ball hockey back in middle school, hurriedly played between the time school let out and when my mother would call me in for supper.

  With Grace, it’s like three periods of real hockey. The anticipation and excitement of the first period, the escalating buildup of the second, and then the sheer intensity of the third that results in that euphoric knowledge of having achieved something. A win, a loss, a tie. Doesn’t matter. It’s still the most powerful feeling in the world.

  If I had to identify it, I’d say we’re in the second period now. The buildup. Hot hook-up sessions that leave me aching, but none of the third-period pressure to seal the deal.

  Twenty minutes into the film, she turns to me suddenly. “Hey. Question.”

  I click the track pad to press pause. “Hit me.”

  “Am I your girlfriend?”

  I give her my creepiest leer. “I don’t know, baby, do you want to be?”

  Amusement dances in her brown eyes. “Well, now I don’t.”

  Grinning, I lean over the edge of the bed to set the laptop on the floor, then shift around and pounce on her. She squeals as I get her on her back, my body pressed to her side as I prop up on one elbow and peer down at her.

  “Liar,” I accuse. “Of course you want to be my girlfriend. And FYI? You are.”

  Her expression grows pensive for a moment, and then she nods. “I can live with that.”

  “Aw, how generous of you, baby. We should silkscreen it on matching T-shirts—‘I can live with that.’”

  Her laughter floats up and tickles my chin. I love her laugh. It’s so fucking genuine. Everything about her is genuine. I’ve hooked up with too many chicks who play games, who say one thing and mean another, who lie or manipulate to get what they want. But not Grace. She’s open and sincere, and when she’s pissed off or annoyed, she tells me. I appreciate that.

  I dip my head to kiss her, and when our tongues meet, a jolt of pleasure zips down to my cock, which thickens against her leg. I nudge my hips forward, and just that tiny amount of friction makes me groan. God. I want to come. She’s gotten me there twice this week. Once jacking me off, the other time using her mouth. On the nights that orgasms weren’t on the table, I jerked it in the shower, imagining I was fucking her instead of my fist, but self-gratification is nothing compared to what she’s doing right now, when she unzips my pants and wraps her fingers around me.

  My eyes roll to the top of my head at that first gentle stroke. “When is Daisy coming home?” I mumble.

  “At least not for another hour.” She rubs a slow circle around the head of my dick. Precome coats her fingers, making it easy to glide her fist up and down my shaft.

  I thrust my hips and kiss her, one hand traveling up her stomach to cup a small, firm breast. She’s not wearing a bra, and her nipples strain against the soft cotton of her tank top. I rub my palm over the tight bud, tease it with the pad of my thumb, then press down on it, drawing a breathy noise from her lips.

  I’m so hard I can’t think straight. It’s unbearable, this need for release. My breathing becomes shallow as I let go of her breast and slide my hand lower, inching toward the waistband of her yoga pants.

  She breaks the kiss, stiffening beneath my touch. “Uh…” Color stains her cheeks. “I’m closed for business tonight. It’s my moon time.”

  I choke out a laugh. “Your moon time?”

  “What?” she says defensively. “It sounds a lot more whimsical than I’m menstruating.”

  I cringe, instantly transported back to those awkward moments in sex ed class.

  “See?” she gloats. “My way is better.” Then she swats my hand away from her crotch and plants both hands on my chest, giving me a gentle shove. “Lie back. I want to tease you a little.”

  Christ. Tease me she does. She drags my shirt up and explores every inch of my chest with her mouth. Soft lips plant fleeting kisses along my collarbone, then dance over my left pec, hovering above my nipple and bringing goose bumps to my flesh. Her tongue darts out for a taste, and I feel that tiny flick on my nipple all the way down in my cock. It t
hrobs painfully, and I’m damn near squirming. I want her mouth on me again. I want her to suck on the tip, just a hint of suction and then the swirl of her tongue. I want—

  Jesus, she’s kissing her way down my stomach, giving me exactly what I want. I swear, this girl can read my mind. Her lips close around me, her tongue executing that sexy swirl I was fantasizing about.

  I must have made some kind of noise, because she peers up with a satisfied smile. “You okay up there?”

  “Fuck. Yes. I’m more than okay.”

  “Question,” she says, and now I’m smiling too, because I love it when she does that. Announces she’s about to ask a question instead of just asking it.

  I answer with my standard, “Hit me.”

  “How do you feel about your ass?”

  My brow furrows. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, if I do this—” Her finger slides over a spot I was not expecting her to touch “—are you going to freak out, or go with it?”

  She does it again, and I’m stunned when a shock of pleasure skates up my spine. “Go with it,” I croak. “Definitely go with it.”

  Grace’s eyes flicker with equal parts surprise and intrigue. Then she lowers her head and sucks me deep in her mouth, another unexpected move that blurs my vision. Sweet Jesus. I’m completely surrounded by tight, wet heat. My blunt head pokes the back of her throat, and my hips move before I can stop them, retreating an inch, two, before sliding back in.

  Her moan reverberates around me. Her finger continues to torment me. Gentle and exploratory, coaxing a strange ache of pleasure I hadn’t bargained for.

  Jesus, this is fucking intense. And it doesn’t stop. She tortures me with her tongue, licking my shaft, slowly, thoroughly, like she’s a goddamn cartographer who’s planning to map it out later. And that finger. Rubbing, teasing.