Page 48 of Slapshot
“Cian.”
“Will you let me in bare? I want to see your hole dripping with my cum. I’ll fuck you awake in the morning and send you to work with panties dripping in my seed.” He groaned, rolling his hips underneath me, letting me feel how hard he was.
Laughter interrupted the growing lust between us. Wyatt Whitney, our fourth line winger, grabbed a curvy girl with a blonde ponytail who looked familiar—maybe from the stadium?—and kissed her soundly. She whispered something to him, and I barely heard him reply, “That’s all I want. You and me. Happy.” They grinned at each other like there was no one else in the room, and the way they both jumped when someone cleared their throat confirmed the suspicion. Love surrounded the pair like a cloak of protection and my eyes felt misty as Cian’s hand rubbed over my stomach. Would I ever find something like that?
His fingers danced along the inseam of my jeans, and I decided there was enough time for what-ifs later. For now, I had to get my ownit’s complicatedrelationship safely home.
“Come on, big man. Time to go.”
He was only too happy to comply, pasting himself, and his erection, to my back as we negotiated the crowd and made it outside to his truck.
“Keys, please.”
The fact he handed them over was a surprise.
“Thanks, Duckie. You’re so good to me.” He settled in his seat as I adjusted everything on my side so I could reach the pedals.
“Damn long legs,” I bitched as I slid all the way forward.
The drive home was the longest of my life, everything seeming tiny before the giant wheels of the truck. I felt like the king of the road. I chose to take us to my apartment for convenience—a much shorter drive and less likelihood I’d mess up his truck—but Cian had already fallen asleep by the time we pulled in. Between the adrenaline crash after the game and the beers he’d drank, it wasn’t a surprise, but I wouldn’t let him sleep here and potentially wake up sore.
“We’re home.” I shook him gently. When he didn’t move, because he was one hundred and eighty pounds of pure muscle, I shook harder.
“Love you, Duckie,” he murmured, shifting around until his head rested against the window.
I froze, hand raised to shake him again as I ran through a series of reinterpretations.
Because there is no way that drunk, sleepy Cian O’Leary had just said he loved me.
Maybe he had a plush animal he’d loved as a kid.
The excuse barely held water, but it was enough for me to shake off the shock and punch his shoulder.
“Wake up.”
“Hey,” he rumbled, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Oh, we’re home. Did I fall asleep?”
Instead of answering, I jumped out of the truck, belatedly remembering I should have moved the seat back for him. Oh well, he’d deal with it later.
My skin felt itchy as I stalked across the parking lot, and an irrational titration settled in as I waited for him to join me. I hit the central locking system to ensure his truck would still be there in the morning and climbed the stairs behind him to my apartment.
Once inside, I made myself busy in the kitchen, pouring him water and retrieving a bottle of Tylenol from the back of the cupboard.
“I didn’t have that much to drink,” he protested, though he drank all the water down in a gulp and helped himself to a second glass from the tap.
“I didn’t say you did.”
“What’s wrong?” He cornered me against the counter, forcing eye contact as his bulky arms caged me in.
“Nothing. I’m just tired. Long day.”
He tilted his head, studying me in a way that made me think he hadn’t been as drunk as I thought. The implications of that were too much for me to handle at that moment, so I tilted my chin up and dared him to challenge me.
“Do you want me to go home?”
“No.”
He nodded, as if wanting his presence was enough for now. Maybe it was. Exhaustion stole over me, giving truth to my excuse as I dragged myself down to the bedroom.
