Page 56 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

Finn

I expect Sammy to be gentle and searching when he first slides inside me. I expect to have to tell him to go harder, faster, deeper—but it turns out that’s not necessary.

Maybe I’m not the only one who was expecting something different than I’m getting right now—Sammy looked surprised when he told me to beg, and shocked that I followed his instruction. I’ve never done that with a man before, but there was something about it that amplified the pleasure. Like for the first time during sex, I was able to relax. Let things go.

When he notches himself at my entrance, I’m already wet and ready from his fingers and mouth. And when he slides inside, I’m able to take him to the hilt, my hips tipping up toaccommodate him, the air exiting my lungs with a swift, all-encompassing sound.

Sammy groans, low in his chest, when he’s deep inside me, and gathers me up into his arms.

I’m not usually a fan of missionary. In Los Angeles, when I would get ambitious with dating or tired of my vibrator, I’d bring a man home. But I liked to be on top, to know I had control and the option of leaving at any moment.

But now, having this massive man looming over me, his hips driving into mine—it’s thrilling. Something inside of me relaxes. My walls come down, and I’m able to hand the control over to him.

I wonder if this is something like his own precipice—standing at the door of the plane, looking down below, throat tight as he tries to decide if he can take the jump. I want to take the jump—I want to fall and trust that he’s going to catch me.

It’s terrifying, but also sexy. And right now, I’m focusing on the former.

“Fuck, Finn,” Sammy hisses, his hands tight on my hips, “you’re so fuckingtightfor me.”

I’ve known this man for three months now. I’ve learned everything about him, from the ins and outs of his childhood to which protein levels he needs to work on raising. I watched himfumble his shot with the sweet social media manager, saw him struggle with basic flirting.

If anyone had told me that he was good at dirty talk in bed, I more than likely wouldn’t have believed them. And if they’d told me I’d be on my back, body flushed with wanting, a moan ripping out of my throat at the words falling from his mouth, I probably would have laughed in their face.

But here I am, gasping. Sobbing with need, each of his thrusts deeper than the last, this primal, seeking urge to get our bodies closer, closer,closer. I think the bed is making noise, but I can’t tear my focus from Sammy for a single second to focus on that.

His hands slide up the back of my thighs, to my knees, and he holds me like that, pushing my legs up for a better angle. He hits at something inside me—my G-spot?—and I come apart, body shaking with the release.

“Oh, fuck yeah, that’s right, Finn,” Sammy says, “come on my cock.”

With any other man, this would make me cringe. But for some reason, seeing this confidence and control come from him is different. His hands tighten on my legs, and everywhere he touches me makes the orgasm stronger, the waves coming hard and fast.

Sammy releases inside me, the warm rush of him sending a fresh aftershock of pleasure through me.

“Oh my god,” I breathe, unable to think of anything else. Sammy’s body shudders, then he drops my legs and leans forward, breathing hard. When he lifts his head to look at me, he’s smiling.

“Shit,” he says, the word coming out in a single, breathy laugh.

Shit is right. Sammy Braun just gave me the best orgasm of my life.

***

When I wake up the next morning, one of Sammy’s heavy arms draped over my torso, it’s to the view of thick, swirling white snow just outside the window. I blink, then suck in a breath, surprised at the sense of warmth in my chest.

There’s something about being pulled in close against him, knowing it’s freezing outside, that makes it more than just cuddling. Cozy, somehow. Almost domestic.

Sammy wakes up when I bolt out of the bed, breathing hard at the thought.

“Whoa,” he says, blinking hard and sitting up. I have to avert my eyes when the sheet falls away, revealing his chest. Embarrassingly, my mouth actuallywaters. I want to crawl back in bed, sit on his lap, and run a line over his chest with my tongue.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, knowing my voice sounds tight. I’m already thinking about our deal—at the end of this season, I’m going back to California. I know that. Sammy knows that. It’s fine.

“Just getting in the shower,” I tell him. “I don’t want us to miss our flight.”

But it turns out our flight is delayed, then delayed again, then canceled because of the snow. We sit in the airport lobby long enough that the sun starts to set, and I have to start pacing just to stay out of the hard, uncomfortable seats while Sammy tries to pull strings to get us on another flight.

I’m just turning around and starting my second lap around the seating area when Sammy catches me by the wrist. I feel the contact all the way down to my toes, my eyes landing on a shiny object tinkling merrily in his hand.

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