Page 47 of The Hockey Pact

A small smile touched his lips. “Right.” He was surprisingly gentle as he worked the straps and eased the bulky medical boot off my foot, then my sock. His fingers lingered for a moment on my ankle, his touch surprisingly tender. “Still sore?”

“A little,” I admitted, though the throbbing had faded into the background, overshadowed by a different kind of ache now.

Layers of clothing suddenly felt like unbearable barriers. He tugged at the hem of my t-shirt, a silent question in his eyes. I nodded, my breath catching. He pulled it over my head, his gaze lingering on the simple cotton bra I wore. My jeans were next, his hands surprisingly deft with the button and zipper, and he eased them down my legs, his touch sending shivers across my skin. I felt exposed, vulnerable, but also deeply desired.

I reached for his shirt, my fingers fumbling slightly with the buttons. “Your turn,” I managed, my voice a little shaky.

He chuckled, a low, warm sound, and helped me, shrugging out of it. His chest was magnificent – broad, sculpted, a testament to years of athletic discipline. My hands itched to touch, to explore.

Soon, we were skin to skin, a jolt of pure, unadulterated sensation. His skin was warm, smooth over hard muscle, and overwhelmingly real. He murmured my name against my lips again, like a prayer, like a promise, and I felt something inside me just let go. All the caution, all the reservations I’d harbored about our arrangement, about him, seemed to dissolve in the heat of his touch.

I took his hand, my fingers lacing through his, a thrill shooting up my arm at the simple contact. I met his questioninggaze, and then, with a courage I didn’t know I possessed, I guided his head downwards, towards the heat between my thighs.

My breath caught in my throat, a mixture of acute nervousness and fierce, undeniable anticipation. His face settled between my legs, his hair brushing my inner thighs. He looked up at me, his eyes dark, asking a silent question I could only answer with a subtle nod, a complete, trembling giving of permission.

And then he began to worship my pussy.

His tongue, hot and clever, flicked against my clit, and a shockwave of pure pleasure shot through my entire body, making me gasp aloud. He teased and tasted, licking slow, deliberate strokes that made my toes curl, before drawing my pussy more fully into his mouth, his lips creating a gentle, rhythmic suction that made my hips instinctively lift.

One of his hands slid up to cup my breast, his thumb stroking my nipple through the thin lace of my bra, sending another jolt of sensation through me. The other hand explored my increasingly wet pussy, his fingers dipping into my heat, gently stretching me, learning the feel of me. He varied the pressure, the rhythm, an artist painting with pure sensation, his gaze occasionally flicking up to my face, watching my reactions, listening to my small, encouraging moans.

“Caleb. Oh, that feels…” I couldn’t form coherent words. “Incredible.”

He buried his face deeper, his tongue working its magic, finding that perfect spot, that exquisite friction, building a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. My body tensed, coiling tighter and tighter, my hips lifting off the bed, seeking more of his devastating attention. A shuddering peak washed over me,intense and all-consuming, a wave of pure, unadulterated bliss that left me trembling and gasping his name.

As the tremors slowly subsided, a profound sense of connection settled over me. He eased back up, his face flushed, his eyes soft and full of tenderness. He kissed me then, a deep, lingering kiss that tasted of us.

When we broke apart, I was breathless, sated, and yet wanting more. Eager to reciprocate the orgasm, to give him even a fraction of what he’d just so selflessly given me, I urged him onto his back. He watched me, his eyes glazed with satisfaction and a touch of surprise, as I moved over him, straddling his hips.

I trailed kisses down his chest, over the hard planes of his stomach, my tongue flicking into his navel, before my lips found his cock. He was hard and hot, pulsing with life beneath my touch. I took it into my mouth, tentatively at first, my heart hammering, then with growing confidence, my lips and tongue working skillfully.

I explored his shaft, teasing the sensitive, swollen tip, then drawing him deeper, reveling in the taste, in the low, guttural groans that rumbled from deep in his chest. My hands were not idle. One stroked the velvety skin of his shaft, feeling the throb of his pulse, the other cupping his balls, amplifying the sensations.

He arched into me, his fingers tangling in my hair, not to direct, but to hold me there, to feel every silken, adoring caress.

“Oh, God, Riley,” he whispered, his voice raw, broken.

I felt the tell-tale tensing of his body, the quickening of his breath, and I increased my efforts, wanting to bring him that same shattering release he’d given me. He groaned my name again, a deep, guttural cry, as he came into my mouth, his body convulsing with the force of his orgasm. It was a sharedmoment of profound intimacy, of mutual surrender, a silent acknowledgment that the lines of our contract had not just been blurred, but obliterated.

Later, tangled in sheets and each other, reality began to seep back in. Caleb's breathing had evened out beside me, one arm draped possessively across my waist. I stared at the ceiling, a complex mix of emotions churning inside me.

What had just happened changed everything and nothing. We were still bound by a contract with an expiration date. We still had fundamentally different careers and lives. Even if Caleb shared whatever these feelings were—which I had no real reason to believe—what future could we possibly have beyond the terms of our agreement?

I looked at him sleeping beside me, his face relaxed and vulnerable in a way it rarely was when awake. My heart constricted painfully at the realization that I was falling for my own husband—the one I'd married for money and convenience, not love.

The irony would have been amusing if it weren't so potentially devastating.

Chapter 16: Riley

I stood at Hat Trick’s kitchen window, watching fat snowflakes drift lazily from a slate-gray sky. Boston in December felt like a holiday postcard—streets lined with twinkling lights, wreaths adorning every lamppost, and the air perpetually scented with pine and cinnamon. My left foot, finally healed, mirrored the restaurant’s resurgence: After our winter-menu preview’s resounding success, tonight’s reservations were sold out, and the lunch rush was moments away as holiday shoppers flocked inside to escape the bitter cold.

But my thoughts weren't on the impending service or even the winter menu I'd finally perfected. Instead, I kept replaying moments from the past weeks with Caleb—the way his eyes sought mine across a room, the late-night conversations that extended until we were both fighting sleep just to keep talking.

Something had shifted between us since that night in the kitchen. We'd crossed a line drawn in our carefully constructed contract, and neither of us seemed interested in stepping back behind it. Yet we also hadn't discussed what it meant, both of us circling the subject with the caution of skaters testing thin ice.

The holiday season only complicated matters further. Christmas was approaching, and we hadn't discussed plans. Would we visit families separately? or together?

"Earth to Riley," Zoe's voice broke through my reverie. "The potatoes aren't going to prep themselves, and you've been staring out that window for ten minutes."

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