by Lia Riley
“Fuck, girl.” His hands grabbed her hips, dragged her down deeper. “How is your pussy such a perfect fit?”
“I was made for you.” She panted, breasts bouncing as she slammed her shoulder blades together, raised her hands to the back of her head. His smoldering gaze drenched her pussy as she rolled her hips. The sound of smacking flesh and uneven breaths filled the room.
She was getting the chance to ride Jed West, and such an event meant two things:
One: She wouldn’t be able to walk straight for a week.
Two: She wanted to leave his world rocked.
Oh, hell yeah, she did. Someday, when his memories drifted to the one woman who blew his mind, ruined him for all others, she was bound and determined that it would be her name on his lips.
But despite her resolve, her attention to detail wavered. Too hard to remain focused when every inch of her body, down to a cellular level, seethed with hot, blissful fire. She struck against him, flint to his steel, flame to his kindling. Even as she rode ever harder, it became more and more obvious that he never intended to be a passive stallion. His powerful hips pumped and rolled, and at this angle he sank deeper and deeper, the sweet pierce of his cock so thickly overwhelming that it almost made her pussy quake from pain, except for the fact that it never left the side of pleasure.
He grunted, palming her breasts, her nipples puckering against the rough calluses on his palms. With an urgent jerk, he rose up, nuzzling her cleavage, sucking in her aching tips with such beautifully tortuous pulses as invisible flames began to lick at her core. She had to bite her lip to keep from screaming.
At the first sign of her inner contractions, he halted his sweet assault, grabbing her ass, his fingers squeezing in a warning. “Not yet, Vixen.” He tilted back his neck, the corded muscle in his neck straining. “Not. Fucking. Yet.”
She fashioned her mouth in a pout. “Why?”
“Because you’re going to wait until I say so,” he grated as if this was a common statement of fact, like naming the capital of Rhode Island or the second column on the periodic table. This alpha dirty talk got her in the game. Front and center. White heat scorched her spine. She took and took and took, until her skin was too sensitive, her need cutting like a blade. This feeling was going to devour her, swallow her whole. And at last, finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. It was too much. Too him. Too them. Too damn perfect. She practically purred.
A surge of intense warmth filled her as he reached up with one of his big hands to cup her jaw. She jerked her chin down, took the tip of his thumb into her mouth, sucked it hard.
“Now.” His groan came from deep in his throat. His eyes burned. “I want you. I want all of you.” Each word was punctuated by an urgent thrust. The headboard knocked the wall.
“Don’t stop,” she gasped, pulsing deep between her legs. “Jed.”
“That’s right, tell me who’s giving it to you,” he ground out.
“Jed.” She gasped, angling her hips. It didn’t seem possible and yet, nothing had been truer in her entire life. “Jed.”
“Spread those legs wider, give it all to me. You hear that sound, you hear how soaked you are?”
“Take it,” she cried out. “Take everything, just don’t stop.”
“I’m not stopping.” He circled his pelvis over her clit until she writhed. “You were made for me, made for me to fuck you good.”
“Yes. The best.” Her entire body went taut, the powerful muscles in his chest bunching. In another few seconds she’d snap into a million pieces, never to be put back together. “Oh God, faster. Please.”
He buried himself to the root, his balls slamming the bottom of her pussy, his rhythm getting as ragged and wild as her breath. “Tonight I own this sweet pussy.”
“It’s yours,” she gasped as he found her mouth, slanting his lips to hers. She moaned as his tongue stroked over her teeth to tangle with hers. The peak made her dizzy. She couldn’t hold on. His powerful thrust gave way to uncontrolled bucking and she gave in, falling.
“That’s right, take it.” He strained, bearing down, filling her to the brim. His chest heaved. His jaw clenched. “Take everything I’m giving.” He was at his end and she was there, ready.
Afterward, they collapsed against each other, sweat slick and panting. He opened his arms and she burrowed in, giving his pec a teasing bite, right over the heart and murmured, “That was amazing.”
“No.” He stared at her with wonder as his arm snaked around her waist. “You’re what’s amazing, Breezy Angel.”
Chapter Twelve
Sunlight warmed Jed’s cheek, slowly returning him to consciousness. What the hell time was it? He never slept in. He opened his eyes and jolted. Two wide silver-blue eyes stared inches from his own.
“This a habit of yours?” he asked in a sleep-husky voice, scrubbing his face. “Early morning spying?”
“From what I’ve observed, you’re a fascinating sleeper.” Breezy grinned, rising onto one elbow. “First off, you get this little twitch right here.” She pointed at a spot next to his left eye. “And second, you’re a total pillow hugger.”
“Hey, been a while since I’ve had a pretty woman to hold.” He gathered her closer, breathed in her coconut oil scent. “Had to make do.”
Her face went expressionless as she absorbed his statement. “See, I don’t get it. You could score with most of the available women in this town. Any other guy would cash in on that sort of sexual gold mine. Get laid every night of the week. Twice on Saturday. The puck bunnies alone must be hopping after you all the time.”
“It feels wrong going after a fan.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Too easy, like I’m taking advantage and besides, I prefer a challenge.”
“Hey.” She nibbled the corner of her lower lip, as if debating something. “About that . . . you know how I mentioned that my family are hockey fans?”
“Yeah.” He tucked the blankets in further around them. “But I’m not sleeping with your family.” He didn’t want to talk about fans. Or hockey. Just them. Just be in this moment.
“Right, ha ha, funny guy.” She squeezed his hand. “It’s just that . . . I’d never want you to think that I was using you.”
“You don’t want to use me?” He raised the back of her hand to his mouth, the tip of his tongue licking between two of her fingers, a small, intimate gesture she felt all the way between her legs. “Gotta say, that’s the worst news I’ve heard all morning. And here I was going to be a nice guy and feed you Belgian waffles in bed.”
“Feeding me?” Her brow furrowed as she glanced around the room. “But you haven’t—”
He stopped her with a finger to her lips. “Yet.”
She nipped him. “Ready to fire up your fancy mixer?”
“Better believe it.” He snuggled her closer, his gaze losing focus as he stared at her mouth. “Hope you’re hungry.”
“I am, but food always tastes best when you’re ravenous, right?” She hiked the sheet over their heads, the distracted look on her face fading. “Help me work up that appetite.”
And after forty-five sweaty minutes, after a round of old-fashioned missionary that felt anything but, they collapsed, sated and glowing. Her belly audibly rumbled against his abs. Her eyes went wide. “Oops.”
“Back in a flash, Vixen.” He kissed her quick, grabbed the sweats next to his bed and yanked them on before striding out of the room with a whistle.
The grin didn’t leave his face until he dropped a dollop of butter into the waffle iron, listening to the hiss and splutter. He chopped strawberries into thin slices, walked to the fridge and grabbed the carton of heavy whipping cream. The muffled sound of humming floated out from his bedroom. He grinned to himself. He hadn’t known what to call the out-of-sorts, aimless feeling that had gripped him of late, but he knew the name now.
Loneliness.
He beat the cream, adding a few tablespoons of sugar. This could be the start of something big. When he first saw Bre
ezy stumble out of the library bathroom in that ridiculous superhero suit, he had no idea that he was about to encounter the most intriguing woman he’d met . . . maybe ever.
He cocked his head. What the hell was she singing? Madonna? “Like a Virgin” Madonna? Her voice cracked hitting a high note. He chuckled as the waffles sizzled in the press. Christ. What she lacked in skills, she made up for in enthusiasm. Hell, he felt like singing too. His head felt clear. His fucking dick too. The pipes cleared out.
His phone buzzed on the counter—a Hellions news alert from The Post. He glanced at the headline, the article conjecturing over the chances of a lockout next season. Negotiations were breaking down at the highest levels. His heart sank when he spied the byline.
Neve Angel.
He liked Breezy’s sister, enjoyed her company when they sat down for interviews or she sauntered through his locker room taking zero shit. But that was all work.
This was his life.
His stomach muscles flexed in an uneasy twitch. If things continued the way they were going, Breezy would eventually find out about Travis. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of his brother’s traumatic brain injury, more that he considered himself the fierce guardian of his family’s privacy. He’d gone years without having anything from his private life shared, a damn near miracle.
Once Breezy knew, Neve would too.
It wasn’t by any means a deal breaker, but still . . . something to consider.
Not to mention his own private fears. The fact the game he loved might not be worth sacrificing his future health.
He had nothing more to prove in the sport, not to critics. Not even to his fucking father. He’d persevered until he’d won everything there was to win. But now he had a neurology appointment set for a few days from today.
And if and when he made a decision about next season, he didn’t want that moment to happen in the vicinity of the noisiest journalist in Denver.
Breezy switched gears. No more Madonna. Now she was belting out the chorus from a vaguely familiar musical.
His phone buzzed with a text. Coach.
Tor Gunnar: Beers and air hockey this afternoon?
He and Tor had been getting friendlier over the past season. They had enough in common. Two single guys. Didn’t poke into each other’s private lives. Talked strategy. Kept it easy.
It was cool, except he didn’t want easy right now.
Jed West: Busy
Tor Gunnar: Too bad. Angel’s got hold of my number and calling me on speed dial. Wants a fucking quote on the contract negotiations.
Jed West: Why not give her something?
Tor Gunnar: I need to feed a jackal like I need a third nut.
Jed smirked, turning off his phone. He didn’t want to think about a lockout. Or what Tor would say if he knew he had Neve’s sister sprawled naked in his bed.
He plated their breakfasts. The sun beamed through the kitchen window, warming the back of his neck. His shoulders relaxed. He liked this, being normal, fixing waffles for a woman, listening to her terrible singing, knowing that once they finished the meal he’d coat her luscious body with whipped cream and devour second breakfast.
This wasn’t just a bit of fun on the side. She’d slipped by his defenses and gotten under his skin in a way no woman ever had. It was a problem, but maybe a good one. To be with Breezy was to take a chance, but if he wanted something new in his life, he had to be willing to do what he’d never done.
This was the best weekend of her life. Breezy never believed the idea that hurting could also feel good, but the soreness between her legs was nothing short of delicious.
Turned out Jed had a bit of a kinky side, loved watching them in his big mirror. He’d bent her over his dresser, driving hard and fast from behind, palming her breasts with one hand while working over her slick clit with the other. It was like having an out-of-body experience, watching the scene unfold. And as she gazed at her reflection—she didn’t look pathetically grateful, or insecure. She looked . . . hot, sexy even. Mouth swollen. Eyes bright with lust.
Was that line of thinking even allowed? Could she talk that way about herself without sounding conceited? She never tried before. With a deep breath, she had let the word creep into her psyche.
Hey, I look hot. Whoa. I look fucking hot.
Her lips were swollen from kissing, skin flushed from Jed’s beard. Her hair had gone absolutely hog wild, but the look was less finger-in-a-light-socket-meets-hurricane and more bow-chica-wow-wow-honey-dip-chocolate-chip-shoop-shoop-de-doop.
God, yes. She gathered the sheets to her chest and giggled. This was as close to perfect as life could be.
“Tell me a secret.” He paused in rubbing almond oil into the soles of her feet.
“A secret?” She frowned, considering. “What kind?”
“One no one else knows.” He tickled the arch of her foot.
“Hmm.” There was one. She hadn’t even spilled the beans to Neve or Margot. Or barely even admitted it to herself. But every Sunday night, as she cleaned her cottage for the coming week, bracing herself for the tedious onslaught from Tater Tots and the fear that at last would come the announcement that funding was dried up and she was out of a job, there was a dream.
She traced her tongue along the back of her front teeth. It was hard to get the words out. But come on, here she was, curled up in bed beside Jed West and even though she had started thinking about him less and less as Jed West, hockey god and more and more as just Jed, the expert Belgian waffle-making cuddler. This very act was proof positive evidence that dreams could come true.
And all those stars she’d wished upon when she was younger, the wordless pleas to be able to skate, to make her mom proud, that had all fallen on deaf cosmic ears finally made sense. The universe had been saving up its blessings to rain them down over her in one glorious torrent.
“Open a bookshop.” There. The words were out now, no take backs. “A children’s bookshop. Stock everything from picture books to young adult.”
Jed paused, considering. Nothing in his face suggested that he thought her idea was funny. “Makes sense.” He went back to rubbing her feet.
“What? That was it? That’s the sum total of your reaction,” she asked. “This is a deep, dark secret. One that I’ve never told a living soul. And look at you.”
“What about me?” He frowned, scrubbing his beard.
“You’re acting as surprised as if I’d announced that ketchup tastes good on French fries.”
“What do you want me to say?” His gaze went strangely tight. “What do you want me to say? You’re a children’s librarian.”
“So?”
“So.” His dark brows rose fractionally. “That means you like books.”
“Yes, but . . .” She didn’t know why she wanted to argue against her dream. Maybe because he made it sound too simple and straightforward. Too possible.
Grrrr.
But Jed didn’t have to stress out over making his monthly mortgage and didn’t get how scary it would be to sink further into debt. Plus there was no guarantee that the neighborhood might appreciate a good quality children’s bookstore. She hadn’t even done a full business plan. Just had a hunch she was right.
Taking a leap in life came with a risk, a better than average chance of crashing and burning, falling to Earth like a stupid Icarus. Every time she imagined moving forward, Mom’s voice piped into the back of her head. How are you planning on paying for health insurance? What about days off? Are you going to hire staff and give them health insurance? Do you know what the failure rate for small businesses is in this city? This state? This country?
Every question would underline and highlight the same fact.
Not. Good. Enough.
Same when Mom had been her skating coach.
“Penny for your thoughts.” Jed returned her back into the present. “Where’d you go?”
“Nowhere good,” she replied. “It’s like I have this voice in my head. Not a crazy one tel
ling me to go hold up a 7-Eleven or wear a tinfoil hat,” she hastily tacked on. “We all have chatter going on in our minds to some degree. But whenever I stop and listen to my thoughts, more often than not, they are sort of acting like assholes.”
Jed nodded once. “Sports psychology is big business, much of it devoted to tackling this very thing. The research is clear. Athletes that commit to practicing positive self-talk see upticks in their performance. Giving in to negativity reduces success.”
“You sound like a motivational video,” she teased.
“I shot one of those last week,” he deadpanned.
“I can’t tell if you are kidding, but then, they don’t let you have that C on your jersey for being a slouch.”
“So you want to open a children’s bookshop, but are afraid you aren’t cut out for it?” He frowned faintly. “Why?”
“Because I love books. But I don’t have the first clue about running a small business.”
“You know what people are reading. Understand the market.”
“But what if I fail?” Hearing him behave like this wasn’t a ridiculous idea made the idea more real.
Lord knew she thought about it enough. Even knew the perfect space on a tree-lined street in the Cherry Creek neighborhood, a charming brick-and-mortar building with big bright windows and hardwood floors. It was located next to a popular coffee shop and close to a toy shop and kid’s clothing store.
She even had the name picked out: Itsy Bitsy Books.
“But I don’t know anything about finance,” she blurted, although the business plan shoved in a binder on her bookshelf begged to differ.
“But. There’s that word again.” He crawled over her, kissing it away. “I happen to know a guy who knows a guy. And that guy got a degree in Finance from Stanford. And that guy knows how to negotiate contracts like nobody’s business. Here’s my secret. A few people know it, but I need you to hear it before we go any further.”
Nerves bubbled in her belly even as she forced a determined smile. What could he possibly confess that made him go dark and impenetrable? Almost as if he was cloaked in shame. “Go on.”
