Page 43 of Body Check
She slips two fingers inside of herself, thrusting them and twisting them as she drills herself again and again.
“You liked the way I filled you up? Is that what you’re remembering?” I ask, my voice betraying the fact that I’m righton the fucking edge. I’m jacking myself mercilessly, loving the rough feel of my palm against the hard length of my dick. “It felt so good to take you from behind, to hammer into your soft body. Fuck. You’re gonna make me come just thinking about the way your body tightened around my cock when you let go.”
She withdraws her fingers and returns them to her clit, rubbing that tight little bud just right. Fuck, I want to be there right now, in her bedroom, on her bed.
“Dutton,” she pants, and I’ve never loved the sound of my name more than I do at this moment.
“Give it to me, Dove. Let me watch you shatter. I’m so fucking close just from hearing and seeing you take such damn good care of that body I love so much.”
My eyes are glued to my phone screen as I watch her orgasm crash over her like a tidal wave. It’s all-consuming. And it’s fucking glorious. I can’t hold back my own release, and when jets of cum paint my abs, I let the camera catch every second of it. We’re both spent and sated, worked up and worked over.
“So, the answer is yes?” she asks, her voice breathy.
“The answer is hell yes, I touch my cock when I think about you, especially when you’re so damn far away.” There’s no point in hiding it. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. And I don’t. I don’t want any secrets between us. Bridgette turns me on. She turns me inside out. She makes me want to be the best version of myself, and I want her to know that.
The problem is, I want everyone else to know it, too.
It’s a good fucking day. The sun is blindingly bright through the windows of the hotel restaurant, breakfast is on the way, and we board a plane back to Bainbridge in a couple hours.
And I get to see Bridgette right after we land. She’s got a study group in the library this afternoon, and I’ll pretend to have one, too, but instead, I’ll head back to her place when she’s done so we can do in-person what we did on the phone last night. Fucking hell, that was hot. I could get hard right now just thinking about it, but that’s a pretty bad idea, since half my team is sitting down to breakfast with me. To be fair, they might not notice since most of them are tired, hungover, or both, and they’re doing their best to hide it because Coach should be here any minute.
Blue groans beside me as his meal is delivered. His plate is heaped with thick slices of stuffed French toast, about half a pound of bacon, and greasy home fries with peppers and onions. There’s so much powdered sugar on his French toast that it looks like it was covered in snow. And, of course, he automatically drenches it in syrup. It’s his favorite food, but he looks like he never wants to eat again. The poor guy’s a puker when he drinks, and yet, that never stops him from sucking alcohol down like he’s majoring in it. But I’m not going to bring that up because it would be a dick move, and I am in a really good mood today.
I’m halfway through my ham and cheese omelet when Mickey bursts through the doors of the restaurant, bouncing like a freaking basketball. But again, I’m not gonna say shit. Not today. My mood is too damn good to spoil, and I need to stop fucking with Mickey, anyway. I’m not a relationship expert, but it's probably shitty of me to keep antagonizing a guy I’ll probably be related to in the future. Not to mention, my antics won’t fly with Bridgette. She always tells me how protective Mickey is, how much he looks out for her, and if I’m being completely honest, I can see it. But I hope they both see that she’s equally protective of him, too. She doesn’t hesitate to call me out when I make a rude comment, so I’ve started cleaning up my act. I can’t see us ever being friends, friends, but we’re no longer enemies,at least, not as far as I’m concerned. I just need to get him on the same page. Once he’s convinced I mean no harm and we’ve really called a truce, then we can let him know about us.
It’s a solid plan. And it’s one I can start setting in motion today.
Blue moans again, and his skin has kind of a green cast to it, so when he gets up from the table, I know exactly where he’s headed, poor bastard.
Mickey’s so full of excitement that he slides right into Blue’s chair without realizing there's a full plate on the table or that I’m his seatmate. And to my credit, I keep my mouth shut. Well, I stuff it with a bite of eggs, but that’s basically the same thing.
“Jesus, Mick,” Jenksy whines. “What the fuck has you all hyped up? You were as fucked up as the rest of us last night and now you’re damn near shitting rainbows.”
See? I don’t even have to be an asshole. Jenksy’s doing it for me.
“It’s a good day, Jenks,” Mickey says, grinning ear to ear and grabbing my freshly-poured cup of coffee, and taking a healthy gulp. But do I say anything? No, I do not. I’m the picture of restraint. I should get a reward for this. He makes a face when he tastes the bitter brew, but instead of realizing his mistake, he just pours a shit-ton of sugar and creamer into the cup. It’s a crime against coffee beans, but I don’t say a word.
“It’s not a good day, Mick,” Jensky grunts. “My head’s fucking pounding and in a couple hours, I’m gonna be shoved into a tin can in the sky with two hundred other people, and probably twenty screaming babies. And my eggs are cold.”
Jenksy keeps grumbling as he pushes food around his plate, but Mickey just ignores him.
There's a moment of silence, and with Mickey, it won’t last long, so I seize the opportunity to strike up some friendlyconversation. And, yeah, it’s a little out of my comfort zone, but this is important. “I agree, Mick. It is a pretty good day.”
He stares at me like he’s just smelled ten-day-old garbage. The look on his face is both suspicious and dismissive. I guess I can’t really blame him for giving me the facial equivalent of fuck you, because we’ve never been friendly with each other. The first time we ever met on the ice, he checked me harder than necessary. It’s his job, so there were no hard feelings, but I still tripped him a few minutes later. The ref never noticed, and I figured that was the end of it. It’s all part of the game. But not for this guy. Number forty-four was pissed. He kept sputtering and making digs, and something about his face turning the color of a tomato brought me an overwhelming sense of joy. It’s shitty, but it’s true. I saw a chink in the armor of the great Bainbridge Wolves, and I exploited the hell out of it. Mickey’s easily rattled, and my special skill is instigating shit and skating away like I’ve got nothing to do with it. And that only pissed him off more.
So, in the two years we’ve known each other, there’s only ever been animosity between us. But now there’s Bridgette, even though he still doesn’t know she and I are together. If I ever want to call a truce with him, and for the sake of my relationship with his sister, I really do, then I’ve gotta suck it up and keep trying.
“What’s got you in such a good mood?” I ask, polishing off my omelet and taking a sip of water.
He shoots me another garbage look, like he’s wondering why the hell I’m talking to him, and if it’s a trap to set him up for an insult. He’s right to be guarded, but I’ve got to keep pushing. I can just imagine telling Bridgette tonight that I had an actual conversation with her brother, one that didn’t involve fists.
She’s gonna be so proud.
“What did you guys do after Ollie and I left last night?” I ask, pretty damn proud of myself for coming up with such sparkling conversation.
“Who the fuck are you even talking to?” Mickey asks with his stink-eye look.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say I’m talking to him and trying to have a normal conversation, but I can take a hint. The table’s filling up and everybody’s talking, and I guess now isn’t the time for me to play twenty questions. I can deal with that. I’m a patient guy.
