Page 82 of Hard Check

He rolled his eyes. "Boarding call that wasn't. Kid from Springfield. Thought he was—" His voice caught as I rubbed our cocks together, "—tough."

I kissed the scar. "Was he?"

"He cried when they stitched me up. Said he didn't mean to hit me that hard."

"A gentle soul." I lowered my body onto his and kissed a nipple while I touched a thin line near Carver's ribs. "And this one?"

"Skate blade. Rookie year with the Forge. Practice accident."

"Did you cry?"

"I bled all over the ice and yelled at Mercier for saying I looked like a Red Wedding extra."

I pressed a kiss just below the scar. "Well, I think you look more like a very sexy lumberjack who survived a tragic forest fire."

He laughed. "God, you're weird."

"And you let me undress you, so what does that make you?"

"A man with questionable judgment and excellent taste."

"Exactly." I kissed my way down his stomach, slow and deliberate. His breath hitched, and his fingers tightened in the sheets. "Pike."

"What do you need?" I looked up at him as my tongue touched his shaft, cradled in my fingers when I started to lick.

"You and whatever you're about to do."

What I was about to do made him curse, laugh, moan, and go nearly cross-eyed. I teased, then soothed. Explored, then claimed. He gave back just as much—mouth, hands, and heat, all generous and open and his.

At one point, he tried to flip us over and got tangled in the sheets. We both nearly hit the floor.

I laughed hard. "We're graceful as hell."

He groaned while I swallowed his cock up to the hilt.

We found new ways to touch each other and turned curiosity into a shared sport. I discovered that if I traced slow circles along the inside of his knee with my thumb, he made a startled little noise—half gasp, half laugh—that sent shivers up my spine. He figured out that kissing the edge of my jaw just right could make me forget how to form coherent words.

Somewhere around round two—when we were already sweaty, breathless, and halfway under the covers we'd given up trying to keep in place—Carver opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out a bottle with a raised eyebrow.

"Maybe I can add some of that ambiance." It was a bottle of massage oil, and he held it up to my face like a magician revealing his final trick.

"I suppose it was either that or light a scented candle and summon our ancestors." I reached for it. "Hand it over."

I pushed until he rolled over onto his belly, and I squeezed the oil onto the small of his back, letting some of it run down between those muscular ass cheeks.

By the time we were approaching another round of orgasms, we were both so slippery it was less like foreplay and more like adult Twister. We had to pause at one point because my thigh squeaked against his side, and we both broke down laughing.

Eventually, we gave up pretending we were civilized and let everything get messy—hands everywhere, oil coating our skin, and our laughter dissolving into moans and whispered names.

By the end of it, we were tangled in a nest of kicked-off sheets, covered in glistening streaks and pools of cum, smelling like eucalyptus and victory and at least a little bit like the inside of a fancy spa that horny hockey players had ransacked.

My chest heaved. "Okay, this was at least one and a half orgasms better than a spa day."

A lazy grin spread across Carver's face. "And here I thought I'd have to start charging you by the hour."

I flopped onto my back. "Oh, puh-leeze, if this was a massage, you missed a whole bunch of pressure points. Very unprofessional."

He rolled onto his side and poked me just beneath the ribs—preciselywhere he knew I was ticklish. "You saying I need more training?"

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