Broken (Breakers Hockey Book 1)

by Elise Faber

  He didn’t let her, fingers clamping onto her hip, holding her steady, as he slowly pumped against her cheeks.

  The giggles were gone. The need to stifle them dissipating, mainly because there were moans bubbling up in her throat. That hand slid up her side, making her shiver, a groan tumbling from her lips. His fingers danced, just on the outside of her breast. Her nipples beaded into tight aching buds, practically begging for his mouth. “Well?” he asked, a slow tap-tap-tap of those digits just inches from where she wanted him.

  “What?” she breathed, hard-pressed to think of anything besides that need raging through her. His thumb grazed her nipple, and she moaned again, ass thrusting back against him.

  His groan rolled over her like hot water, his cock twitching against her cheeks. “Why were you laughing, baby?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  And she didn’t.

  Because the only thoughts in her brain were, “Get that cock inside me,” and “Now,” and then, “Please, God, now.”

  His chuckle was on her skin, damp heat that echoed what was between her thighs. He leaned a little heavier against her.

  She moaned and shifted, sweltering beneath him, the blankets, her desire swarming over her.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Hot,” she breathed.

  “Yes, you are.” She felt his smile on her skin before he pulled the covers back, the cool air gliding over her in blissful relief. She wasn’t the least bit cold, not with him against her. “Better?”

  She nodded.

  “Good,” he murmured, brushing her nipple with his thumb again, making her jerk. “So, you want to tell me what you’re doing in my bed, Lexi, baby?” His hand moved again, sliding over her breasts, down her stomach, trapping his fingers beneath her hips.

  A heartbeat later and with a slight flicker of movement, he’d found her clit.

  She gasped, moisture pooling. If she’d been wearing panties, they would be soaked, but because she was naked, she felt that wetness on her thighs, her labia swollen, her pussy empty and aching.

  Slow circles around her clit, sparks of need and desire alighting through her. His other hand curled around her front, rolling her nipple between thumb and forefinger.

  “Lexi?” he asked.

  She was on fire, and her rapid breathing was the only response she could summon.

  His mouth came to her ear, nibbling lightly at her earlobe. “Why are you in my bed?”

  Superhuman strength.

  Somehow, she found it, even despite loving the way he was touching her, fucking entranced by the weight of his hard, sexy body pinning her to the bed, she bucked up and rolled, pushing him to his back and climbing on top of him.

  “I wanted to surprise you,” she murmured, settling her naked pussy over the hard thrust of his cock.

  He was naked, too.

  And it was fucking glorious.

  She teased the head of him, rolling her hips, drawing the hard length of his cock through her wetness, loving the feel of him so close and yet not in.

  “Fuck,” Luc groaned, and he was so fucking beautiful, his head thrown back on the pillows, the tendons on his neck standing out in sharp relief. He gripped her hips on a groan, and the next moment she was on her back, him huge and hard and poised over her.

  Lungs seizing, her breaths in short gasps, her heart pounding, she spread her thighs.

  And had the pleasure of watching his expression grow even more intense.

  She hooked her leg around his hip, undulated against him.

  A warm, rough hand on her waist, pinning her to the mattress. “Teasing?” he asked, the question barely more than a growl.

  “Teasing is sometimes the best part,” she countered, ratcheting up to slant her mouth against him. “Teasing can make every sensation stronger, every touch feel better, every orgasm more intense.”

  “Every orgasm?” His brow lifted. “As in plural?”

  Considering she was ready to combust, and he was barely touching her— “Yes,” she said. “As in plural.” Her brows waggled. “Think you can handle that, Big Shot?”

  A wicked smile, his head dropping, his nose pressing to her throat as he inhaled deeply. “I like you, Lexi Hallbright.”

  She shivered. “Well, I like you, Luc Masterson.”

  He pushed off her and stood next to the side of the bed.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, frowning, suddenly feeling cold without her warm male blanket and maybe a little vulnerable with him looming over her.

  “Plural,” he said, as though that were an explanation, his hands coming to her thighs. She gasped when he yanked her to the edge of the mattress. “You said plural.” He dropped to his knees. “So, I need to get working on all that—”

  “Don’t say plural again—”

  He pressed his mouth to her.

  “Oh, fuck,” she moaned, the bristles on his jaw, the hot dart of his tongue, the softness of his lips, the sharp bite of his teeth.

  It was . . . perfect and amazing and—

  “Oh fuck,” she moaned again.

  “So that’s the spot,” he murmured, barely lifting his mouth, the words a whole new type of heated caress, one that fueled her need, one that had more curses tumbling from her lips, tangling with his name, with pleas to do it again. And when he did it again, to not stop. Ever.

  Lucky for her, he didn’t stop.

  He continued stroking that spot with complete and total focus, winding her tighter, desire ramping higher and higher until . . . she exploded, wave after wave of pleasure flowing through her. Her nerves went taut and then relaxed millimeter by millimeter as her orgasm slowly waned. Eventually, she emerged from the fog of bliss, feeling his hands on her thighs, his mouth moving gently, his tongue oh so gentle.

  Then he was shifting her back onto the bed.

  Okay, less shifting and more tossing.

  She bounced. He cursed.

  “Fuck,” he rasped. “You have the sexiest fucking tits I’ve ever seen.”

  Laughter bubbled in her throat . . . at least, until he pulled a condom out of the nightstand and set it on the bed next to her. At least, until he didn’t make any move to tear it open or roll it on. Instead, he settled over her, heavy body on top of hers, trapping her against the mattress in the best possible way.

  Then he put his gorgeous fucking mouth to good use, all over again.

  And plural became a prayer. A benediction.

  Plural became the best fucking night of her life.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Luc

  She tasted sweet with a hint of salt and mint. Toothpaste and woman. Flowers and Lexi.

  The woman he loved.

  The woman he was on fire for.

  She was amazing.

  Everywhere he touched her, she seemed to fall to pieces, trembling and moaning, her hips jerking, her limbs wrapping tight around him. He kissed her luscious mouth, tasting her until she broke away for air, but he was possessed, he didn’t need oxygen in his bloodstream. He could inhale Lexi, survive on her alone, as he dragged his mouth across her jaw, down her throat, along her collarbones.

  And then finally onto her breasts.

  Tasting the silken skin of those plush globes, trailing his lips toward the tight furls of her nipples. A flick of his tongue had her groaning, clawing at his back, and she was so damned sensitive that he knew he had to move carefully, move slow and steady and easy. Exactly as he’d done when he’d been between her thighs.

  His rewards were her moans, her nails digging into his skin, her hips bucking against him.

  A hand down her side, slipping in between her thighs, finding that spot again and exploiting it until her breathing hitched in the back of her throat, until her lips were plump and red, until her fingers were tight in his hair, until she made that soft little noise that he recognized as her being close to the edge.

  Then . . . redoubling his efforts.

  Not stopping. Not ever.

  No
t a chance in fucking hell.

  She went stiff, her hands gripped tighter, her moans rolled over him like the waves on a shoreline, over and over and over again until . . .

  Tsunami.

  “Luc,” she gasped. Her head thrashed on the pillow, her mouth was wide, his name tumbling off her tongue repeatedly.

  Until she finally went still, her chest heaving. “Plural,” she gasped, pressing her hand to her chest. “Holy fucking shit.”

  He was grinning.

  Like a cocky fucking bastard.

  But he didn’t give a shit if it was arrogant. Making this woman come had just become his new favorite pastime, especially when she dropped a limp hand to the side, fingers fumbling for the condom he’d placed there.

  She slapped it against his chest. “Put this on and get inside me,” she snapped, though her eyes were twinkling.

  His fingers were still between her thighs, and he fluttered them gently. “I still need to prove I can do plural.”

  She jumped, another moan in the air. “You’ve proved it—”

  “Hmm,” he nuzzled her throat. “I’m not so sure about that.”

  Laughter and irritation when he lifted his gaze to meet hers, and he knew what she was going to do, even before she moved. Because he knew this woman, because he maybe knew her better than she knew herself. So, when she put her hands against his chest and pushed, he wrapped an arm around her waist and rolled with her.

  She frowned. “You let me do that.”

  A shrug. “So?” He brought his hands to her hips, brought her flush against him. “Maybe I like the view.” Then dragged his palms up, cupping her breasts. Fuck, this angle was incredible, the pouty, glorious way they hung. Heavy and round, the hardened tips so fucking tempting.

  Her lips parted, a breath shuddering out. “I like the way you look at me.”

  He dragged his thumb over one nipple then the other with a featherlight touch that she liked. “Are we doing more teasing?” he asked, repeating the motion. “Or are we moving to the getting inside part?”

  More shaky exhales. More moisture pooling on top of his naked cock.

  More desire in her golden-brown eyes.

  “Oh yeah,” she murmured and tore open the condom with her teeth. “I want to do that.”

  Then she was rolling the latex down his cock, her fingers bringing it down at what seemed like a snail’s pace, even though the movements were deft without fumbling.

  He wanted to flip her over, to thrust into her.

  But . . . patience.

  He’d had two and a half years to dream about this day.

  She’d had—

  She pushed up, began to lower herself onto him.

  Now, he was the one to say, “Oh fuck!”

  She was hot and tight, a fucking vise clamping down on him, her breath hissing out, her eyes heavy-lidded and scorching on his as she slowly bottomed out.

  “Too fucking big,” she whispered.

  “Words a man dreams to hear,” he said, somehow finding some strength to joke, even when he was in real danger of exploding without even one thrust.

  She leaned forward, rested her hands on his chest, slowly raising and lowering her hips, sliding up and down his length, and he’d been right about the danger of coming. He was close, too fucking close, especially when he’d wanted to feel her orgasm around him, her pussy clenching on his cock.

  Reaching between them, he flicked his fingers over her clit, used the other to cup her breast, to tease her nipple, drew her close to taste her.

  She tightened around him, broke away to moan, her breath hitching.

  Thank fuck for that breath and that hitching.

  Because she was close, and he wouldn’t have to hold out for much longer. He thrust up, going deeper, probably too deep, but she didn’t stop moving against him, bearing down, grinding against him.

  “Luc,” she whispered, her eyes sliding closed as she moved faster.

  He kept his fingers moving, his hips pistoning up. “Come for me, baby,” he murmured. “Come on my cock.”

  Please, God, come. Before he lost it.

  “I—” She faltered, jerking against him, starting to lose her rhythm, and she groaned, her eyes flying open, her teeth biting into her lower lip.

  Not waiting for her to lose her tempo completely, he flipped them, started stroking in deep and fast and hard. Because he couldn’t move any differently. Because any semblance of his control had snapped. Because . . . he’d lost it, and her pussy was his fucking salvation and—

  She went stiff, a moan filling the air, and then, thank God, thank fuck, she was coming, all that tight, wet heat convulsing around his cock, the pulsing of her orgasm catapulting him over the edge.

  He came and came, unable to see straight, unable to stop moving.

  Just thrusting until he could hardly feel anything, until his balls were empty, his body felt like an empty husk.

  He collapsed on her, his arms shaking from the effort not to crush her.

  His lungs burned, sweat sheened his body, and he somehow found the strength to roll them to their sides, tugging her against his chest, and just breathing in her scent.

  She yawned, snuggled closer. “That was . . .” Her words trailed off, another yawn taking the place of any adjective she might have summoned.

  “Incredible,” he finished, holding on to her for one more moment before he slipped out of her embrace and went to the bathroom to clean up.

  Then he slid under the covers, her naked body not a surprise this time.

  And it was still the best fucking thing ever, having Lexi there in his bed.

  In his arms.

  The fucking best.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Lexi

  She was being romanced.

  She shouldn’t have been surprised.

  Probably, she’d nuked all of his careful plans by slipping into his bed the night before. Totally worth it—their middle of the night shenanigans before passing out for a couple of hours—even if Luc had still woken her at the crack of dawn, pressing a kiss to her lips . . . then tugging the blankets off her, leaving her naked and chilled as he’d walked across the bedroom.

  Equally as naked.

  But not chilled, apparently, based on the erection he was sporting.

  Still, when she’d pushed out of bed and trailed him into the bathroom, intending to jump his bones, she found a candle lit, the shower on, soft music playing from the speakers.

  And a sexy man hanging towels over the glass of the shower.

  Her brows rose then her lips curved into a smile.

  He turned to face her, eyes warm. “Hey, love,” he murmured. “How are you?”

  “Chilled,” she mock grumbled, flattening her smile as he prowled toward her, making her pulse leap, her lips part, pleasure and joy flutter through her like the breeze ruffling the leaves on a tree.

  A stirring, gentle but with the possibility of so much more.

  The backs of his knuckles slid over her cheek, down her throat, between her breasts. “Are you okay?” he whispered, and the real concern in his eyes had her dropping her faux disapproval and stepping into his arms.

  “I’m perfect,” she murmured, squeezing him tight.

  “Promise?”

  A nod.

  “Lex,” he warned, his breath in her hair, and she knew he wanted the word, knew there was power in words.

  “I promise, I’ll tell you if I’m not perfect, okay?” She leaned back, stared into his forest green eyes. “So long as you’ll do the same for me.”

  He nodded.

  “Luc,” she warned this time.

  A grin. “I promise.” He hefted her up, made her squeak, her hands flying up to grasp his shoulders, her legs wrapping around his hips. He carried her into the shower, tucked her under the stream of water, the warm liquid sloshing over her shoulders, down her body, forming little hot pools between them. “Since we’re going to be late for our hike”—he groaned good-naturedly—“we
should make sure to conserve water.”

  “Is that what this is?”

  She hadn’t missed the condom on the built-in shelf, nor did she miss the way he tilted the showerhead toward the tile, warming it before he pressed her back to it, his hard cock between them.

  He ignored her question, nuzzling her throat, nipping just behind her ear. The spot was beyond sensitive and made her shiver, even in the warmth of the shower.

  Then his lips found hers, one hand slipped between them to tease all the spots he’d discovered just hours before, displacing any thought of answers or water conservation or hiking, wrapping them into proverbial concrete and dropping them offshore. She watched them sink down, down into the dark depths.

  But not sad or scary. Just buried by the weight of the moment, by this man who made her feel so much.

  Who made her feel right.

  She embraced the deep, the dark . . . because this man had led her out of it.

  Her hair was wet and dripping down her shoulders, the shower’s water streamed between them. His hands were gentle, considering their exploits earlier, but not any less skilled as they swept her into a whirlwind of need, of shaking, all-consuming need.

  But never taking her over the edge.

  Right up to the precipice, but never over.

  Frustration and demand had her clipping out his name, arching against him. He smiled at her, a wolfish grin on his face.

  She was torn between wanting to be relieved and wanting to throttle him. But he saved himself from the latter when he finally reached for the condom, somehow rolled it on without dropping her. The man had magical superhero abilities or . . . maybe just skills. Either way, the condom was on, his cock was pressing against her folds and then pushing inside.

  Her lips parted on a groan, her tender insides spasming in pleasure-pain, and then he was in deep, his hips flush to hers, pinning her to the tile, one hand cupping her ass, his other propped on the wall by her head.

  He moved, thrusting hard and fast, sending her up that mountain, propelling her over the other side much more rapidly than she’d anticipated.

  She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t do anything but hold on to his shoulders and brace herself for the ride he was giving her, embrace the burning in her lungs when wave after wave of pleasure rolled through her. He thrust several more times, sending aftershocks of ecstasy through her before he groaned her name, pressed deep, and stilled against her, his forehead on her collarbone, breaths coming in rapid succession.