Dear Roomie

by Kate Meader

  Provoking him was a mistake, though her body didn’t agree. Her body thought it was the best possible result if the fizz and bubble through her veins was any indication. Body, heart, soul, mind—amazing how these intimate parts of her could all have differing opinions on the same situation.

  She didn’t have time to analyze further before Reid grasped her other wrist and brought both of them down by her sides.

  With anyone else she would have demanded to be released. With Reid, she was fascinated. What would he do next? What the hell was going on inside that brain of his?

  He watched her closely from above, his eyes flickering, a torrent of choices examined and abandoned. This must be how he played hockey. Making split second decisions to go this way and that, assess each play, shoot his shot.

  “This is harder than you thought it would be, isn’t it?” he murmured.

  She nodded, swallowed. “It’s been a while for me.”

  “How long?”

  “A couple of months.”

  He scoffed. “Talk to me when you’re four months out from your last fuck.”

  She licked her lips. His eyes blazed with a flash of threatening heat.

  “So what are we going to do about it?” That was about as blatant an invitation as she could make it. If he said “nothing,” she would be disappointed but at least she’d know where they stood. Again.

  “I realize it’s difficult for you, Kennedy. I’m here with my excellent body and my adorable dog, so you’re bound to be susceptible. Any woman would be.”

  Hold the phone. Was he implying she was the one dying for release here, and not him?

  “And I realize it’s difficult for you, Reid. Four months celibate and maybe another five—”

  “Six.”

  “Six to go. I’m here with my yoga-flexible body and my great rack and my in-your-face cheer, so you’re bound to be a little desperate. Any man would be.”

  He laughed, a deep sound from the gut that revealed hidden lines around his eyes and something shocking about herself.

  She was falling for this grumpy, serious, surprising man.

  It shouldn’t be possible. This was merely forbidden fruit, a yearning for what he wouldn’t surrender. She refused to become tangled in a man as complicated as Reid Durand.

  He still held her wrists but now he let them go, slipping his hands to her waist which he squeezed as he pulled her closer.

  There it is.

  His cock was as hard as the ice he would skate on tonight and nothing had ever felt so right against her belly. His hands coasted to her hips, his thumbs pressing into the crease of her thighs, then V’ing down lower. And all this time, those piercing eyes stayed on her face. The rare Reid laugh was no more; now he was back to that gravity which had its own delicious pull.

  “No funny business,” he murmured as his mouth drew near. His lips brushed hers. A teasing tickle.

  But she would not be satisfied with that. No funny business indeed! Realizing that her hands were finally free, she gripped his biceps for leverage and pressed her lips to his. His mouth slanted, parted, fitted, seeking the perfect angle.

  He moaned and it was glorious.

  “Kennedy, tell me what you need.”

  “Everything.” Too much. Too greedy. But she would not take it back.

  She hooked her leg around his hip—he was tall but she was flexible—and gave him a recess in which to settle. One hand stretched up to palm his neck. His hand, that large, long-fingered, artist’s hand gripped her ass, pulling her up and flush until they were slotted like the final two pieces in a too-complex-for-this-moment puzzle.

  He remained still. So still she almost wondered if this was all he wanted. A moment’s peace in the cradle of her body. A home for them both.

  Then it started.

  A slow, dirty rock of his hips against her core.

  Oh God.

  The hardest part of him found the softest part of her and set about destroying her for anyone else. Because they were playing by some weird rulebook that said this wasn’t breaking Reid’s vow of celibacy, they found their erotic, wet kicks with his mouth devouring hers, his tongue licking inside her in a way that promised unbelievable oral talents. Yet she didn’t feel like she was missing out. This was as intimate an experience as she’d ever had.

  His lips moved to her jaw, a nip of her ear, a suck of her neck. He whispered her name, which she’d never thought sounded all that special. On Reid’s lips it was poetry.

  Lifting her body against his, he ground his cock into the notch of damp heat between her legs. Their mouths clashed in a smash of need and want, so much so that explosion seemed to be the only possible conclusion. Dry humping her against a kitchen counter probably wasn’t the plan but this was where they’d ended up.

  There was a strange, restrained beauty in it.

  The pleasure rising in her blood had already exceeded foreplay levels. This was close to peaking. Close to coming.

  “Reid,” she whispered as the pleasure started to wind its way from where his lips and hands and eyes touched her. His erection dragged along the seam of her yoga pants, each pass ratcheting up the tension. Substituting his hand in a lusty drag between her legs, he applied his fingers to the holiest of work, massaging and pressing just right.

  She shook her head, barely able to fathom how good it felt. His breaths were pants against her lips, and oh god oh god oh god, she was flying, breaking, falling.

  She was a shaky, shuddering mess.

  He held her gaze, his stare brutal and uncompromising. A step back, and she knew, she just knew he was going to pull that monk shit.

  “Reid, don’t.”

  His eyes searched her face, as if committing it to memory for some lonely time with his hand later.

  “I should—” He thumbed over his shoulder. “Head to morning skate.”

  Damn.

  Ten hours later …

  “So, Reid, Coach put you at center tonight. How do you think that went?”

  Reid stared death into the reporter for a good ten seconds before answering. “How do you think it went?”

  The scribbler—Jim Krugman from the Trib—remained unfazed. “There’s been some talk about your unusual training regimen. Its” … checks notes … “restrictiveness. Have you considered if you should be doing something different?”

  “Such as heading to a bar and picking up someone to suck my—”

  “I think that’s all the questions we have for Reid tonight!” The Rebels PR woman whisked him away before he could say something that got the team or Reid fined.

  Or throw a punch that got him prosecuted.

  24

  The front door opened and Bucky ran to it.

  A handsome but defeated hockey player stepped inside. Still dressed in his game day suit, Reid immediately fell to his knees to greet his canine friend. Kennedy leaned by the hallway wall and watched the reunion.

  Reid kept his gaze on Bucky. “Was he okay tonight?”

  “Uh-huh. I think he even recognized you on TV. Sorry about the game.”

  The Rebels had lost 4-2 at home to the Montreal Royals. Reid had been playing at a different position than usual—though Kennedy didn’t know enough about the game to be able to say if that was a good or bad thing. He didn’t seem to get much on-ice time.

  Now she was wondering if the Kitchen Sex Diaries this morning had thrown him off his groove. It had certainly thrown her off hers. All day, she’d been out of step, stumbling around in a lust-induced haze. Missing a street turn here, blanking out on conversations there.

  Reid still hadn’t looked at her. Oh, God, he must be furious. “Has he been out?”

  “Yeah, I took him out about half an hour ago.”

  He stood and slipped off his jacket.

  Let it fall.

  This was not the typical neat-freak Reid. His gaze met hers and … oh.

  Her body went on high alert. Something about the way his eyes burned into her got her blood pumping
to all points south.

  She took a chance. “Did what happened this morning affect your play?”

  “Yes.”

  He moved forward, pulling at his tie. Tore it off. Dropped it. Started on the buttons of his shirt.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

  Still he came, Terminator Reid. “Are you?”

  That she got an amazing orgasm? Not really. That he had chosen to continue with this ridiculous self-denial? Yes, she was sorry about that. Suffering this much for your art—or sport—should not be allowed.

  He halted inches away, his shirt open, that chest of glory on display, and she couldn’t help herself.

  She reached out to touch him.

  He shuddered under her fingertips and she went a little weak. To have this impact on him …

  “Please,” she whispered.

  Lightning fast, his mouth met hers in a clash of fire and need, only for him to break off to utter, “Say you want this.” His voice sounded wretched, torn from somewhere deep.

  “I want this.” The kiss resumed, ratcheting up in heat and intensity.

  I want this. I want this. I want this.

  She had never wanted anything so much in her life.

  With a strength that shouldn’t have surprised her, he scooped her off the ground. Her legs naturally settled on his hips as she found another angle of pleasure, her mouth against his, her core already pulsing with need against his hard-on.

  He walked this new Reid-Kennedy combo back to his bedroom and pushed the door open. The landing on the bed was soft, which was good, because what was coming would likely be hard.

  “Lift your arms.” Dazed and lust-struck, she did as she was told. He peeled off her tee and spent a moment gazing at her breasts, still cupped by her bra. “Beautiful.”

  He placed a big hand flat in the center of her chest, his eyes burning midnight suns. “Tell me this is okay.”

  “Yes. It’s more than okay. Please just do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Touch me, Reid!”

  He chuckled, the sound dark and chocolatey and rare, an epic turn-on. Carefully and far too slowly, he peeled her yoga pants down over her hips.

  Then past her ass, taking her panties with them.

  Then clean off so she was exposed to his hot, thunderstorm gaze.

  Lying over her body, he inhaled at her neck, licked it, nuzzled some more, then sucked on her ear. Riotous sensations moved through her with a shocking speed. Yet it was also happening too slowly, perhaps a hangover from the build-up of weeks for them to get here. She needed this now.

  He still wore his clothes though his bare chest was accessible. She took advantage, moving her hands over all that unexplored territory.

  “Naked. Need to see you naked.”

  He knelt up and pulled at his shirt, so much slower than the situation called for.

  “Reeeid …”

  His lips curved in a half-smile. She was starting to live for those brief flashes, so different from his usual gravity.

  A flutter of doubt assailed her, as she remembered that look when he first got home. The crushing pain of defeat after a bad game. She needed to know there was more to this than Kennedy as consolation prize. “Are you here because you lost?”

  “I’m here because you’ve won.”

  “But nothing’s changed. If anything, what happened this morning and tonight proves that sex does indeed throw you off your game. My orgasm made you lose!”

  He scowled. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Uh, this is your crackpot theory. I’m only the messenger.”

  “Kennedy, neither you nor your orgasm made me lose. I just had a bad night.” He cupped her jaw and gave her the Reid sex stare. “I want this. I’ve wanted you forever. I’ll never not want you. D’accord?”

  “D’accord,” she whispered. Okay. Only Reid could make casual sex sound like the end of the world.

  Because it’s not casual …

  She shouldn’t go there. Better instead to go here … She went to unbutton his pants.

  Zipper scrape, pants down, cock freed.

  Oh my.

  She squirmed on the bed, trying to enjoy the hot slickness between her thighs but knowing it would be better when it coated all of that Reid girth. The man was packing.

  Hurry, hurry.

  Standing, he removed the rest and now he was back, a condom on the nightstand, his beautiful body stretched out over her.

  They spent a moment drinking each other in. She was short and curvy, he was tall and built. The admiration on both sides was clear. Even the scar tissue on her torso, the brand of the worst night of her life, couldn’t detract from the moment. Sealed in a special bubble, it was too important to let the bad memories in.

  His hand moved over her body, down, down, his middle finger parting the cleft between her thighs to the soft, wet flesh within. The tingle of the hair on his arms added another layer of thrilling sensation.

  “Look how wet and pink you are,” he murmured, his voice filled with awe.

  She looked.

  She was.

  And she had never been so aroused in her life.

  This was not how Reid imagined his evening going. Play like shit. Lose a game. Suffer through the rollicking his father had dealt him on the phone call after.

  “What the fuck was that? You’re not strong enough for that position,” Henri had said on the message when Reid didn’t answer the call. “That’s not your lane at all. You need to stick to what you’re good at. That dump in the lake has made you soft.”

  Sure, Dad. Thanks for your input.

  All he’d wanted was to come home to Bucky and Kennedy. Home to where no one cared about his plus-minus. Or his shooting percentage. Or that he was Henri Durand’s stepson.

  The moment he stepped across the threshold and saw his puppy happy to see him and his roommate—his gorgeous fucking roommate—standing there, waiting, he knew.

  She would be leaving in a few weeks.

  She had no reason to stay, but maybe he needed to give her a reason. Lock her down, like Bast said. If he didn’t make a move now, then when? After she fell apart in his arms this morning, surrendering to him in the sweetest possible way, he had known this night could end in only one way.

  Inside Kennedy.

  All this pent-up need should have found an outlet on the ice, but tonight he couldn’t connect with the puck, his teammates, or his game plan. Everything was closed off, except the rush of feeling in his veins when it came to Kennedy. This woman had blasted into his life and made him question everything.

  His mind was a mess but his body knew the score. It needed the tight sheath of her body. It needed the comfort of a place to land. It needed this woman.

  He had told her he was here because she won, but that wasn’t the truth. Or the whole truth. Though he left the Rebels arena a loser, with Kennedy he felt like a champion.

  His thumbs lingered on her inner thighs, coasted up, nudging her legs apart to give him access.

  She was primed, her pussy wet with need. His mouth watered. His cock, too.

  He touched his lips to hers. After the hunger of before, this was surprisingly sweet. Kissing Kennedy was different. Revelatory. Just like the last time when he’d had a headache, it had soothed and comforted. Or at least, in this moment, he tried to take that from the melding of their lips.

  He was on fire for her.

  He cupped her sweetheart-shaped ass, dragging her thigh over his hips so he could grind into her softness.

  Keeping the thrusts slow, circular, he let his mouth pick up the slack and plunder. No more comfort, no more gentle nuzzling, the kiss took on a life of its own. He squeezed her ass, dragging a moan from her as he kneaded the supple flesh.

  Leaning back, he cupped one perfect tit—somehow her bra had vanished along the way—sucking on a peaked nipple and almost coming on the spot. Maybe his restrictive diet made her taste better than anything or anyone that had c
ome before. Sweet and necessary to his physical and mental well-being.

  Still he ground against her, relishing skin-on-skin. It was torture, but what else was new? This was the default setting with Kennedy.

  “You ready, ma belle?”

  “Y-yes!”

  She sounded frustrated. Welcome to my world. His hands shook while he rolled the condom on, and she reached out, doing the Kennedy thing, settling him while completely unraveling him.

  “This might be over too quick,” he warned as he nudged at her entrance, like a first tentative kiss. He was trying so fucking hard to slow down. Make it good for her. Make it perfect.

  But Coffee Shop Girl wasn’t in waiting mood. Her heel dug into his ass and her sweet pussy sucked him in. Mon Dieu, the feel of her was heaven and hell in one delicious plunge.

  “More,” she whispered. “Don’t stop.”

  He held her still, absorbing her heat, every shudder and shimmy of her body. As he rocked into her, she squeezed her inner walls, hugging his cock so tight he knew he would not last.

  His thrusts became faster, deeper, more rhythmic, finding spots that made her moan. There, she sounded like a kitten. There, her moan was deep and sultry. There, she begged for it harder. Each one revealed something new about her body and all the ways he could pleasure her.

  Would pleasure her.

  Because no way in hell would this be the only time. He had many filthy plans for Kennedy Clark.

  Tonight, the plan was to make her come, then make her come again.

  Just as he thought it couldn’t get any sweeter, she cupped his face and drew him toward her lips, swallowing his moan of pleasure-pain. His hand pressed between their bodies, finding her clit because damn, it needed to happen soon. She arched off the bed, her nails digging into his biceps.

  That’s right, bebe. Mark me, score me, make me yours.

  Through her orgasm, she worked his cock, imprinting her pussy on it and guaranteeing it would be no good for anyone else.

  Fine with him.

  One final thrust took her over, triggering an explosive release from him that wiped out all the shit that had happened tonight. And maybe more.