by RJ Scott
They’d be lovers if he had any say in it. Partners.
And he’d have to tell Loki. They’d both have to tell Loki.
Panic pushed up by anticipation, and he tensed where he was. This was bigger than just fucking some puck bunny, or even having a short-term fling in the summer break. This was important and real, and the enormity of that hit him.
What if she turned around and laughed in his face? Not that she’d laugh—that wasn’t Kat—but she could just as easily explain that he was a friend and nothing more. Or they could revert to their default setting, which was snipping and arguing and that whole brother-sister lying thing they had going on.
And shit, what would Loki say?
How many times had Loki said that if any hockey player even looked at his sister, they’d be dead?
Loki was his best friend; would that give Ryan a pass?
Panic and resignation curled inside him, and those were emotions familiar to him. He could imagine Loki’s response, the team’s reaction; he could imagine Kat and him a few months down the road, breaking up, and Loki hating him, and everything being for nothing. The team would be fucked due to the rift between two of its starting players, and the Dragons wouldn’t take any time at all in shipping him off to the Colts for the remainder of his contract. No one fucked with Loki, their star winger, not even a contracted defender. Ryan only had one more year for certain, and he desperately wanted to see out his time in the NHL with this one team. Maybe seeing it all the way up to the moment he retired. Staying with the Dragons.
Home. Playing with Loki.
“I’ll just talk to Loki first,” he murmured to himself. That was the best thing. Ask Loki’s permission even, cajole his best friend into thinking that dating Kat was a good thing.
He was scared enough at acting on whatever this thing was between Kat and him. He needed advice, so he pulled out his phone and thumbed through his contacts, indecisive and unsure. He stopped at Loki’s number.
Who else would he call? Loki was his go-to when he had shit to work through.
But Loki wouldn’t understand.
Finally, he threw the cell onto the passenger seat. It bounced and ended up in the footwell, and he cursed his stupidity as he leaned over to pick it up.
When he sat upright, about to start the car and back away before he did something stupid, he saw her. She was standing there, in her doorway, arms crossed over her chest. His anger died, his worry vanished, and in its place, lust and awareness battled for dominance.
Without any more thought, he grabbed the shirt, exited the car, and strode up to her front step. And then he stopped.
“Your brother will kill me,” he half whispered. “They’ll never find my body.”
She nodded and then moved inside. He followed and toed off his sneakers, clenching his fist around the material of the jersey he’d brought for her. He pushed the door shut and waited. She hadn’t moved.
“What are we doing?” she asked.
“What do you want to do?” he countered.
He could be the gentleman; he needed to know what she wanted from him. He knew what he wanted from her, knew what he wanted to do to her—to kiss her, and make love to her, and to hold her. But what did she want from him?
“I asked first.” She still had her arms crossed over her chest, her body language defensive, and she couldn’t quite look him in the eye.
“Shit, Kat, I don’t know.”
“We argue, we shout, we don’t do this.” She sounded bewildered, as blown away as he was.
He thrust the jersey forward. “I got you something.”
He hadn’t felt this nervous since the draft, Where he’d been so worried that he’d be overlooked, and that he wasn’t half the skater of everyone else there. This time it was that she would take the jersey and ask him to leave.
Instead she relaxed a little, held out a hand, took the jersey, and held it up, turning it this way and that, focusing on the name and number. “Your number,” she said.
“Yeah. Thought you could replace the Sundin shirt, y’know. Stop supporting the Maple Leafs and a man who’s retired, and maybe support the team your brother plays for.”
The team I play for….
She held the jersey in one hand, tucked her hair behind her ear, and looked up at him with a hundred questions on her face.
“What does this…?” She held up the jersey and shook it a little. “After all this time… what does this mean?”
“We’re friends,” he began, because that was the only frame of reference he had to start this.
She nodded, disappointment or fear in her eyes—he couldn’t tell. Why was it now that he stood there in front of her, he couldn’t understand a single thing about her? They’d known each other for so many years, so why was this so hard?
And there it was, maybe it was this hard because they had all those moments between them: the sibling fights he’d broken up, the teasing he and Loki had inflicted on her, the things he’d seen her do—graduation, Christmases, everything. All the little details that made her what she was. The arguments they had, the fights over her staying out late, when he would back up her brother, the warnings the two of them gave to any boy who wanted to be with her. He was like a big brother, but right then he couldn’t handle the idea of that concept.
Because when he’d kissed her at the hotel, everything had shifted.
“Friends. Okay,” she said, and dropped the jersey to the kitchen counter. “Coffee?”
She turned to the machine and he was struck dumb. Big strong Flynn, number seventeen, with not a word in his head. As sure as he’d been responsible for getting Loki hurt, he’d fucked up here.
He picked up the shirt. “Can you try it on?” He nudged at it.
“Later.” She measured out coffee.
“Now? Please.” He pushed it very deliberately, right up close to her.
“It looks like it fits,” she said, as if she was completely unaware of what this meant to him.
Hell, she probably was. His lack of words meant that he hadn’t explained himself. Now was the time to pull some courage from somewhere and actually say what he wanted. She would probably think it was some weird kinky shit, but just the idea of her wearing his number had him ridiculously hard, his blood rushing south. “Kat, I really want to see you with my name on your back, with my number.”
She sent him a frown and a twisted smile. “Ego, much,” she teased.
This wasn’t going right. She wasn’t getting it, and he did sound like an egotistical idiot. He had to change that, so he reached out for her arm and turned her gently toward him.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said, simple and to the point. “I want nothing more than to see you with my name there, so everyone else knows you look at me, that maybe you support me. But I couldn’t ask that, right? Because I don’t even know how you feel about my hockey, or if you like defenseman at all, or are you more of a goalie-type girl?”
“Ryan—”
“No, listen. This is me saying that all I want to do is see you wearing my number, and then to pick you up and sit you right here on this counter. And then….”
“And?” she prompted, sounding cautious.
He moved a little closer, with another soft touch to her arm. “Then I want to stand between your legs and kiss you and make you fall apart in my arms.”
He stopped, aware he’d said that whole speech in almost one breath, his chest tight. Somehow this had become less about her wearing his name and more about showing her the attraction he’d hidden for so long.
He’d laid everything out for her, and she glanced down and couldn’t fail to see, in his loose sweats, that he was hard for her.
Exposed, utterly open to her at that moment.
She looked back up at him, her clear green eyes wide, her mouth open as if she was going to say something. He reached for her again, but she stepped back.
And he’d completely fucked up.
“I’m sorry,” he s
aid softly, and even though his heart was going to break, he’d leave now. He’d pushed too far.
Still looking at him, she shook her head a little.
Then she deliberately unbuttoned the soft shirt she was wearing and shrugged it off, leaving her in a plain white sports bra. In a smooth movement, she picked up the scarlet-and-black jersey and pulled it over her head, collecting her hair where it was trapped and pulling it out so it fell in waves around her.
“There,” she said, and half turned so he could see the name with her hair just brushing its top: FLYNN.
The five letters stood out in white with scarlet edging on the black, and his number was right there, the 17 he’d used since he played Triple A as a kid.
Ryan had never given a woman his jersey before. He’d had jerseys go missing after one-night stands, but he’d never handed one over with meaning like this. “That’s—” He stopped and attempted to collect himself.
“Ryan?” The word was so uncertain.
“I want to kiss you so badly,” he said, stepping closer. Gently he turned her around and then rested his forehead on hers. “When I saw you after that attack….” He trailed away and swallowed. “I wanted to kill someone.”
“And that translates to kissing?”
“No, I didn’t mean—hell, I just want to be the one you always turn to, but I wouldn’t… I want….”
She chuckled softly. “You’re not making much sense.”
He knew that. The words were inside him, but nothing was linking into sentences. What he wanted to say was that he loved her, but he couldn’t, not yet. He didn’t want to scare her away. “Kat, it’s like something switches inside me whenever I’m near you. Protection or something.”
She gave a wry smile. “That’s your and Nicky’s default setting. ‘Keep Kat safe, wrap her up.’”
“I’m sorry, I can’t help it. It’s what I do. But, I don’t want to be that person anymore. I mean, I would, you know, squash anyone who hurt you, like a bug.”
“You’re such a romantic.” She smoothed her hands over the Dragons logo on the front of the shirt, her hands skimming her breasts and down to her belly.
Ryan let out a small sound, forced from him as her hands moved.
Then she stared right at him, worrying her lip a moment, as though she was considering what to say next. Seemingly satisfied, she nodded. “I like it when you touch me.” She smoothed her hand over her front again, pausing briefly on her breasts, sighing. “I’ve always wanted you to touch me.”
He nearly groaned out loud, watching her hands, seeing the expression on her face. She wanted him as much as he wanted her? “What will I tell Loki?” he asked as he stepped forward and into her space.
“He’s my brother, not my keeper.”
Ryan was too far gone to play those words over in his head. She was so close to him, and he could almost taste her. The scent of her shampoo, of Kat, was everywhere around him.
He stepped closer, put his hands on her hips, sliding up a little. With ease, he lifted her to the counter. “So small,” he murmured as he sat her exactly where he wanted her.
“Shut up.”
He stepped between her legs, placing his hands on the counter because he didn’t know what the hell to do next.
How many times had he picked up a puck bunny, playing on his strength, on the size of him, and put her exactly where he wanted, at the right height, or lying down, or anything where he could get off and get her off at the same time. The size kink was a thing; he could be the big guy, and the bunnies loved it when he took control.
But Kat was different. She had him by the balls, and he knew it. And oh, how much he didn’t want to hurt her.
She pressed a hand to his chest. “I have something to say.”
“Okay.”
“I want you to kiss me some more, to touch me, but we need to leave all the awkward shit at the door. When we do this, we’re just Kat and Ryan. No worrying about what Nicky thinks or whether what we’re doing is right.”
“Yes.” He could try, but he’d held love for her inside him for so long that he wasn’t sure he could do this without going out and telling the world that Kat was his. He moved in to kiss her, but she pressed the hand on his chest harder, curling it into his shirt.
“Ryan, I may not have your experience, but if we do this, it wouldn’t be just once. For however long it lasts—if it lasts—I won’t share you with anyone else,” she stated boldly.
“I wouldn’t do that to you—”
“You forget Nicky is my brother and I’ve been close to you guys. I’ve seen you in action: fuck one night, run the next. I’m not judging you, and I’ve seen worse, but I know hockey players.”
Ryan dipped his chin, couldn’t look her in the eyes. “I wouldn’t do that to you,” he repeated. He looked up. “Never to you. I haven’t been with anyone… for the longest time.”
“Ryan—”
“And we would never be fucking, okay? Whatever we do, whatever we say to each other, we’re making love. I’ll look after you, take care of you.”
She reared back. “No, I don’t need looking after! Jeez, Ryan.”
“I didn’t mean anything by that, Kat.”
“Ryan, I want you to hold me, and kiss me, and make me come on your fingers, and your mouth, and I want you inside me. And you have to—”
This time he cut her off, with his lips, not words. He deepened the kiss quickly, until she went from angry and demanding to melting against him, her hands gripping his arms, twisting in the material there. He couldn’t get any closer, so he placed his hands on her butt and slid her nearer to the edge of the counter. Abruptly he was as close to her heat as he could be without being inside her.
He couldn’t remember ever being this turned on.
She whimpered into the kiss, her hands moving to curl into his hair, gripping him so tight it hurt. She wasn’t letting go, but he wanted her to hold him as hard as she could. As close as she needed to.
He kneaded her butt, lifted her a little, pressed her hard to him. She broke the kiss as she ground herself closer. He dropped to kiss her throat, nibbling and sucking his way to the delicate skin of her neck, whispering what he wanted into her ear, hoping to hell she wanted to hear the words, convinced that the image he had of her, feisty and needy, was real.
“Laid out, I’ll lick and suck you until you’re coming hard, and then I’ll do it again, make you scream….” He loved the talking, wanted to hear it back, but all she did was sigh and moan and grind against him. She wasn’t quiet, but he had to learn what she liked from how she moved.
He slid his hands up under her new shirt, her bra, and finally he was cupping her breasts, his thumb unerringly locating her nipples and playing with them as he recaptured her mouth. She arched into his touch and his kiss, and abruptly he wished he hadn’t asked her to put his shirt on, because he wanted to suck her, taste her. But he didn’t want to stop to take it off. No way was he letting her have a moment to think.
He moved his hands down, pressing his thumbs into each muscle, gently tracing the lines of her. Then he slid them into the waistband of her soft yoga pants, pushing the material down as he leaned back from the kiss—“Kat?”—waiting for permission.
“Please….”
He took that as a yes, pushing his hands lower, until he could touch her. She was wet, and she whined when he pressed a finger inside her. He used his thumb for counter pressure on her when he found the sweet spot. She gasped into the kiss.
He could take her over, make her come like this, just kissing, with her eyes shut—but then it wouldn’t be real. So he eased back, even as he pressed his finger into her deeper and crooked it. “Look at me, Kat, open your eyes.”
She opened her eyes and looked right at him.
“What do you want?” he asked, another finger joining the first, his thumb sliding over her clit. She shuddered, and he was the most powerful man in the world.
Still looking right at him, she wriggled on his
fingers, and he pressed and teased and watched her every emotion, saw her lips part, heard the hitch in her breath. And then that moment when she splintered, moaning and sighing her orgasm, clenching around him, finally closing her eyes and smacking her head back against the cabinet. She whimpered as he moved his fingers, and he smiled at that. She was sensitive, and he felt like a fucking king for getting her off like that.
“You….” she said.
And that was all she said. Then she slid to the side and down to the floor. “Get up there,” she ordered.
That was the Kat he knew, the one who didn’t take shit, who literally pushed him to his knees with just a smile.
Ryan did as he was told. It didn’t make much difference in height, but it certainly meant he was sitting when, without ceremony, she pushed a hand into his sweats, and closed it around his cock. She held still, used her other hand to ease his sweats down and then travel over his muscles and skin and up to his nipples, pinching at one. She twisted her other hand in soft, slow movements on his erection.
“Jeez, Kat,” he groaned, and rested his own head back against the cabinet.
He didn’t close his eyes; he wanted to see the utter concentration in her expression, the way the tip of her tongue slicked her lower lip, at the sleepy post-orgasm glow in her eyes.
“Your turn to look at me,” she said as she leaned down.
And fuck… she closed her lips over the tip of him.
“Kat!” he shouted, his hands hovering over her shoulders, not knowing what to do, what to touch, so he curled his hands into fists and left them at the side.
With her lips stretched around him, her tongue flicking, her hand filling the gap from the base to her mouth, he was so close so fast that it was ridiculous—but still fucking hot. He gripped her shoulders when he was close, easing her up and away so he could kiss her even as she kept up her hand movements, using two now, sliding one under to cup his balls trapped in his briefs.
Game over.
He groaned his completion as he fucked up into her hand, coming hot and wet over her and curling in on himself, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close.
