He slid one finger inside her. Two. Thrusting. Deep. Hard. Fast. Sending her over the edge again until she couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
Her senses slowly returned, along with awareness of her surroundings. The fire, burned to nothing but embers behind her. The soft blanket bunched under her knee. The rise and fall of Corbin’s chest against hers, each breath strained and harsh.
The hard length of his cock, pushing against her as she straddled his lap. The soft cotton of the sweatpants he was wearing, the only barrier keeping him from entering her.
She pressed a kiss against his neck, his collarbone. Eased off his lap and kissed her way down his chest, pausing to feel the heavy beat of his heart pounding against her mouth. Lower still, until she grabbed the waistband of his sweatpants and tugged them down.
His cock sprang free. Long and thick. Hard. Swollen with unspent desire. She dipped her head, swirled her tongue around the engorged tip, felt the rumble of his groan vibrate throughout his body. His hands tangled in her hair, gently tugging as he muttered something in French, the unknown words fanning the flames of her need.
She shook her head, leaned forward and caught him in her mouth. The taste of tangy saltiness and pure male desire exploded against her tongue. She closed her mouth more fully around him, sucking him. Back and forth, harder. Faster. Matching the rhythm of his bucking hips as he thrust his cock deeper into her mouth. She reached between them, teased the sensitive skin of his sac, heard him groan at her touch. Bolder now. Squeezing. Sucking and licking until his hands tightened in her hair, holding her in place as his hips thrust faster. Harder. Deeper.
She wrapped one arm around his hips, anchoring him as she sucked. Up and down, her own little moans matching his. Wet heat spread between her legs, her own muscles clenching. Readying herself. Close. So close.
She reached between her spread legs, ran a finger along her clit, hard and fast. Faster still as Corbin’s hips thrust again. Once. Twice. One final time as his climax exploded in her mouth. Hot and sweet. Thick. Tangy. She swallowed, felt him shudder when she eased his cock from her mouth and kissed the inside of his thigh. Strong arms came around her, lifting her, settling her onto his lap. His mouth crashed against hers, swallowing her cries when her own climax crashed over her.
Anchoring her when she would have been swept away.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sweat dripped along his spine, beneath jersey and pads and shirt, pooling near the small of his back and soaking his shorts. He ignored it, ignored the tickle between his shoulder blades and along the side of his jaw. His focus was at center ice, at the fight for the puck between the Banners and Tampa. The score was tied, had been tied since the start of the third period, when Caleb had scored a short-handed goal, high and to the right.
They needed to add another one to the board. To win. To break the fucking losing streak they couldn’t seem to shake. As long as he kept his focus on the puck, as long as the scorers did what they were supposed to, they could do it.
Today’s game was instrumental in that. Corbin knew it with every fiber of his being, felt it in his gut. If they could win this game, they could bounce back. If they didn’t—
He didn’t want to think about what might happen if they didn’t. The streak was taking a mental toll on everyone, from Coach Donovan all the way down to the equipment staff. Tempers were short, frayed as far as they could go before exploding. Some had already passed that point, like the scuffle between Hunter and Kostya Popov during the first intermission.
They didn’t need that shit. None of them did.
They needed to focus. Needed this win.
His eyes followed the puck as it moved between Hunter and the center from Tampa, his body tensing as it crossed into their defensive zone. He crouched low, his weight carefully balanced, ready to spring into action. No, not yet. Christian raced in from the side, knocking the puck loose and sending it back toward center ice. The puck hit Hunter’s blade, right on the tape, a perfect pass. He spun around, raced toward Tampa’s net, three players chasing after him.
Corbin straightened, his eyes still focused. Watching. Waiting. Hunter took a shot, the puck bouncing off the post with a loud ring Corbin could hear all the way down here. Jaxon reached for it on the rebound, missed it, swung again but not before Tampa’s winger, Walt Harrison, gained possession.
And shit. He hated this guy. They’d played together in Winnipeg, had never gotten along. But the man had sick scoring skills, Corbin had to give him credit for that.
Not tonight. Not here. Not with him in net.
Corbin lowered into his signature crouch—knees bent, legs apart, arms back. Glove hand hovering at waist level, stick held, wrist loose. Weight slightly forward. Not much, just a bit, just enough for that extra edge when he needed it the most.
And he’d need it.
Harrison raced closer, with only Christian close enough to do anything about it. But Christian wasn’t quite close enough, not yet.
And he wouldn’t get close enough in time to stop him.
Fuck.
Corbin’s gaze narrowed in on Harrison, everything else around him fading into grayness. Nothing else mattered—just Corbin, Harrison, and the puck. He kept watching, muscles bunching in readiness under the weight of his gear, his body not moving. Watching, waiting, his eyes never leaving Harrison as he moved closer. Closer…closer—
There. Harrison’s tell. Just a small twitch of his left arm as he cut in front of the net, faking a shot high and right. Corbin didn’t move, waiting until Harrison spun around in a quick three-sixty and pulled back on his stick, sending the puck low and right.
Corbin slid to the right, batted the puck away with his stick, sent it flying toward Christian before sliding back into position. Something hit him from the side, sent him reeling against the net hard enough to knock it from the post. His helmet flew off as he stumbled and regained his balance only to be hit again. He dropped to one knee, lowered his head and turned to the side as Harrison shoved the shaft of his stick against his shoulder, knocking him over.
Fuck! What the fuck? Corbin scrambled to his knees as bedlam erupted around him. Christian lunged in front of him, his stick held out in front of him, his legs braced wide apart—shielding Corbin, protecting him.
Hunter and Jaxon were pulling at Harrison as several more players from Tampa launched into the fray. He heard a whistle, the shrill blasts almost lost in the noise of the crowd as the officials skated in to break things up.
Logan Simms got in two more punches, landing them square against the jaw of one of Tampa’s wingers before he was finally pulled off and pushed back by one of the officials.
Christian turned and grabbed his arm, helping Corbin to his feet before bending down to retrieve his helmet.
“What the hell was all that about?”
Corbin shook his head, jammed his helmet back on his head and made sure it was secure. “Fuck if I know.”
They stood there, watching as the net was put back into position, as equipment was returned. Christian tapped him on the leg with his stick then skated back to the bench. Coach Donovan looked like he was ready to launch himself over the boards, yelling at the refs and motioning with his ever-present roll of papers.
Corbin turned away and ducked his head, hiding a grin. Coach Donovan hadn’t been quite so loud last week behind the barn—although maybe it would have been better if he had been. Donovan tightly controlling his temper was a hell of a lot more intimidating—and probably ten times deadlier. Corbin still had the bruise on his cheek to prove it, even if it had faded to nothing more than a smudge.
The shrill blast of a whistle cut through the chants of the crowd. Corbin watched, listening as penalties were handed out.
The crowd went wild when the goalie interference penalty was called, along with a slashing call against Tampa. Corbin nodded and rolled his shoulders, still hiding a grin. Good. This was exactly what the Banners needed. If they could capitalize on the fi
ve-on-three, if they could focus and do what they did best, they could put this one in the win-column.
And break that fucking losing streak that had been weighing them down.
Corbin glanced at the clock. Three minutes, twenty seconds. They could do this. He knew it. Felt it.
He rolled his head from side-to-side, crouched into position, then swung the stick in a wide arc around him, hitting each post twice. He pulled in a deep breath, released it through his nose, focused his concentration once more at center ice…and waited.
The puck dropped and a split second later, the Banners were in control. Caleb skated back, slid to the side, passed it to Brendan Hays, who took off toward the net. Shane and Caleb were right behind him, getting into position. Back and forth, nice and easy as screams of “Shoot it! Shoot it!” echoed around the arena.
Not yet, not quite yet…
Corbin watched as the passing grew tighter, faster, changing directions before the three players from Tampa could react. Caleb skated behind the net, executed a perfect one-eighty as Brendan sent the puck his way—and shot it straight at the five-hole. The light flashed behind the net, the screaming crowd drowning out the horn as his teammates celebrated.
Corbin released a quick sigh, pumped his stick in the air twice, then tilted back his helmet and reached for the water bottle sitting on the net behind him. He shot a long stream into his mouth, swished it around, then spit it to the side before finally drinking. He closed his eyes, opened them, then squeezed the bottle, his gaze following the drops of water as they arced through the air in front of him.
One more time then he tossed the bottle back to the net and got into position, ready for the last two minutes of the game.
But there was nothing to be ready for. Caleb’s goal had shattered the curse and they were unstoppable for the last two minutes, even putting an insurance goal up on the boards.
Not that they needed it.
The mood heading back to the locker room was a thousand times better than it had been during the two intermissions. The tension was gone, as well as the frowns. Everyone was pounding each other on the back, yelling and shouting.
Corbin headed into the locker room behind Caleb, only to be stopped by Coach Donovan. Guilt immediately washed over him, the way it did whenever Coach had looked at him this past week, making him wonder if he knew what had happened in his family room last Saturday night.
If he knew what they had done—him and Lori. If he knew his niece had—
And fuck, he couldn’t think about that now, not with Coach watching him that way. He couldn’t take the chance of anything showing on his face—and it would, just as it did every single time he relived that moment.
And he relived it at least twenty times a day.
He schooled his face into what he hoped was a mask of casual indifference and met Coach Donovan’s steady gaze with one of his own. “Yeah, Coach?”
“Are you up for an interview?”
The question surprised him. He’d been kept away from the reporters since the incident, had been ordered not to address the media at all. The team and the attorneys would take care of everything. Had that changed?
Obviously, or Coach Donovan wouldn’t be asking him the question. Part of him wondered if it had anything to do with the picture of him that had appeared on social media on Wednesday, two days after the incident had been resolved.
It had been a picture of him flat on his ass in the dirty straw with a newborn calf partially in his lap. His shirt and pants were drenched with fluid made up of things he still didn’t want to know about. But it was the expression on his face that spoke volumes: disgust, amazement, awe…and, somehow, laughter.
And the caption with the picture simply said:
Goalie Corbin Gauthier makes another great save!
#Banners #hockey #greatsave #goalielove
The picture had been posted from the Banners’ account but Lori swore she hadn’t been behind it—and he believed her. She wasn’t the one responsible for the picture, either—the angle was all wrong. She had been standing behind him and to the side, and the picture had been taken from in front of the cow—exactly where Coach Donovan had been.
The same coach who was watching him now, waiting for his answer.
Corbin pushed the helmet back on his head and finally nodded. “Uh, yeah. Sure. I can do an interview.”
“Okay, get ready. I’ll send them your way. And if anyone asks about the incident or settlement, your answer is no comment. Got it?”
Corbin nodded, trying not to show his sudden hesitation. Would anyone ask, or would they be given instructions not to approach the subject? He hoped it was the latter—he wasn’t ready for questions. Not now, not ever. He just wanted it to go away, to pretend it had never happened. The woman had her money—let him have his peace.
He shrugged out of his jersey and pads, placed everything on the floor by his feet as he took a seat. Someone tossed him a sports drink and he cracked the lid, tilted his head back and drank greedily. Then the reporters were there, a cluster of five, most of them familiar faces.
What was his opinion on the game tonight?
How did it feel to put one in the win column?
Did he know what was behind the interference in the third period? Did he think the power play so late in the game helped energize the team?
Corbin answered the questions, smiling and nodding when expected, turning serious when needed. Someone even asked about the picture of him with the calf, and he laughingly replied that he never missed a chance to practice.
Then it came, the question that wasn’t supposed to be asked. He didn’t recognize the man, couldn’t see the information on the press credentials hanging from the lanyard around the man’s neck. And it didn’t matter, not when the question hung in the air around them, waiting to be answered.
“Corbin, can we get your thoughts on the settlement with Dawn Lowry?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t comment—”
“How about your feelings on the way it’s impacted the team? The Banners have been on a losing streak for the last few weeks. Do you think the incident had anything to do with that?”
“Um—” Corbin looked around, his gaze searching for help—from anyone. But everyone seemed to be busy doing something else. He cleared his throat, tried to grin when he looked back at the guy. “Yeah, we were going through a tough time. All teams do, eh? I’m still new, still adjusting to the system, but it’s coming together and we’re really working hard. As for the losing streak, well, I think we took care of that this afternoon, eh?”
“But what about the incident? Do you think it’s going to continue hanging over your head, even with the settlement? How does the team get over something like that professionally? And how do you get over something like that personally?”
Corbin stared at the small microphone, his mind spinning as he tried to come up with an answer. But then Coach was there, ushering them away, leaving Corbin alone.
It didn’t matter, not when he was still searching for the answer. Would it always be hanging over his head? Would he be able to get over it, professionally and personally?
Five minutes ago, he would have thought the answer had been yes. But now—
Now he wasn’t so sure.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Traditional Italian music played in the background, a perfect backdrop for a romantic evening out. The cozy corner table, away from the curious glances of the crowd. Gentle candlelight from the elegant taper placed in the middle of the table. A bottle of expensive red wine in a lacquer holder off to the side, uncorked and half-full.
Everything was perfect—except the man sitting across from her. Lori swirled the wine around her glass and took a delicate sip, watching him over the rim. It didn’t matter, because Corbin wasn’t even looking at her. His gaze was focused on the silverware in front of him, on the knife that he kept flipping back and forth against the linen tablecloth.
Why was he so preoccupied? He sh
ould be excited, especially after the Banners’ win this afternoon. Lori wanted to think he’d be excited about this date as well—it was the first time they had managed to go out for a real date on a Saturday night. Saturday games were generally at night, not in the afternoon like today’s game against Tampa. Not that they had been together long enough to have many Saturday nights out—or any nights out, actually. How long had it been? A little more than a month, but it felt like so much more. How was that possible, when they hadn’t spent much of that time together? And certainly not anywhere near as much as she wanted.
It didn’t matter, because she knew how she felt—realized it that first night weeks ago when she ran into him coming out of the elevator. What she felt for Corbin—it had never stopped. She had simply deluded herself into thinking it had, into thinking that what she felt all those years ago was nothing more than a teenager’s—a young woman’s—crush.
But it was so much more than that.
Because they knew each other already. Because her feelings had already been in place. It didn’t matter that eight years had passed since the last time they saw each other. It was the same thing as when you ran into a friend you hadn’t seen in years, and the bonds of friendship were so strong, you simply picked up where you left off.
That’s how it was with Corbin—only better. Back then, neither had acted on their feelings. But now…now, they were older, with none of the obstacles facing them that had been in their way all those years.
At least, she didn’t think there were obstacles in their way, not anymore. But maybe she had been wrong.
The waiter appeared with their entrees, arranging the plates of savory dishes in front of them, then asking if they needed anything else. Corbin finally looked up, offered the waiter a brief smile and shook his head.
Then simply looked down again, his gaze now focused on the steaming food in front of him instead of the knife he had been twirling back and forth.
Lori drained her glass with a sigh then reached for the bottle. Corbin stopped her, his hand gently brushing hers away as he refilled the glass for her then returned the bottle to the holder. She watched him, waiting for him to say something, anything. To at least look at her, acknowledge her in some way.
Game Misconduct: A Baltimore Banners Hockey Romance (The Baltimore Banners Book 11) Page 16
