Page 9 of Lost on Ice
“I don’t know, man, are there even any hotel rooms left? Don’t get me wrong, I like you fine, but I don’t want to wake up snuggling you in a queen-sized bed.”
Carter snorts. “Like the two of us would fit on a queen-sized mattress. I think they might have been all booked out, but maybe there was a cancellation. Hold on. I’m going to call them, stay on the line.”
He starts a three-way call like we’re in fucking high school again, and when the hotel answers, he’s all business. “Yes, I’m calling regarding the room block for the Junior Thorns hockey team this weekend. Have there been any cancellations?”
There’s the faint sound of a keyboard clacking in the background before the man speaks. “Yes, and?—”
“Perfect,” Carter jumps in, too pumped up to listen to explanations about why it was cancelled or who. “Please reserve it under Williams, and go ahead and use the payment method on file for that same name.”
“It’s already done, sir.” The man on the other line speaks in a tone I can’t quite place. I guess he’s not too happy about Carter cutting him off like that.
“See?” Carter asks, ending the call to the hotel. “You’re all set, so we’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Fine.” I roll my eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
We hang up, and my head falls back, hitting the couch. Carter and I have really grown apart the last few years, ever since he retired. I used to revel in loneliness. Use it like a shield against everyone, especially the women I’d sleep with.
Until… Abbie.
Being with her was the last time I didn’t feel this way. Things with Abbie were always so easy. Friends with benefits, while somehow being more and less at the same time. She saw past my bullshit, and I never had to put on my mask with her. We had so many great times together. Laughing, joking, fucking… can’t forget about the fucking.
I can’t help but feel the tiniest twinge of guilt at the thought of Abbie and how I cut her off, but it’s not like either of us ever made any kind of commitment to each other. In fact, we both specifically avoided commitment. There’s no reason for me to feel any kind of guilt at all. And years have passed since I’ve even seen her. Why is she still always on my mind like this?
We haven’t seen or spoken to each other since Carter and Sophie’s wedding, and it’s going to stay that way. She belongs in the past, with all my other fuck-ups and mistakes, like fucking Cassandra.
Logically, I know that what Cassandra did has nothing to do with Abbie, but that didn’t stop me from cutting all contact, convinced I had gone soft for her. It’s what made me so susceptible to Cassandra in the first place. My guard was down.
Now, if I want to fuck someone, I go to clubs that serve higher-end clientele and everyone knows how to be discreet. I take the girls back to their place — because yeah, no, I’m never bringing anyone back to mine — and even that only happens after I have them sign an NDA. There’s no talking, no cuddling, and no illusion that they’re fucking special and I’ll magically fall in love with them.
It’s very damn clear that I just need something to fuck, and it doesn’t make a difference to me if it’s them or my hand. I’m not a sweet guy, and I’m nobody’s goddamn knight in shining armor.
There’s just something about Abbie that kept drawing me in and has made her impossible to forget. Scrolling through my phone, I find her name in my contact list, my thumb hoveringover the text icon. It’s a ritual I torture myself with every few months, when I debate reaching out to her. No good can come of it. Something in me craves the ease of what we had though. The way our conversations made me feel just as light as the afterglow of sex.
They weren’t deep or meaningful conversations by any means. It was the same fucking conversation I could have had with Carter, yet somehow, with Abbie, it was different.
And that’s why I had to cut things off. It took nearly getting ruined by a desperate puck bunny to realize that.
Without thinking, I open my pictures and start scrolling. Back to four years ago, when Abbie was the only one I was sleeping with.
Not a relationship.
There are a few pictures of the two of us — the “friends” side of the friends with benefits situation we were in, but as I keep scrolling, the next set of pictures reveal themselves and my cock grows impossibly hard.
Fuck me.
How could I have forgotten just how absolutelysinfulher body is? Fuck, why do I still have these nudes she sent me? I should delete them right fucking now.
But… shit.
This picture, I remember vividly, she sent to me while I was gone for an away game. She’s in nothing but a black lace thong, her deliciously juicy thighs and perfect, round tits on full display for me. Her glossy, chestnut brown hair barely covers her shoulders, and her chocolate brown eyes are filled with heat as she bites her lip, looking straight into the camera.
Immediately after sending it, she asked me if I liked the picture, then asked forproof.Of course that led to us having video chat sex while we got ourselves off.
That memory has me flipping through more nudes, each photo making me concentrate on something new. Those curves, the creamy smoothness of her skin, the memory of how fucking soft she was beneath me… this is why. This is why I had to end things. I go too soft for her.
Though my cock is anything but soft right now. Nope, it’s as hard as fucking rock, remembering how it felt to slide into her warm, wet heat.
Before I know it, I head to the bathroom and turn on the shower. I get under the hot water, palming my straining cock.
