Page 92 of Cheap Shot
Michele lifts her hips, her hand sliding between them as she lines my cock up with her entrance.
“This is all about you. You lead, Trouble. I’ll follow.”
My eyes remain locked on hers as she sinks onto me, my hand tightening around her waist as I let out an animalistic groan. She kisses the curve of my jaw as she lifts slightly, sinking further down onto his cock. My legs tremble, barely resisting the urge to lift my hips and bury my cock deep inside her.
“Fuck. This is…” My jaw clenches tightly as my grip tightens around her waist, helping her keep a steady pace.
This is unlike any other sexual experience I’ve had in the past. I don’t know if it’s because it’s been a while or because it’s Michele. I have a feeling it’s the latter. I almost forget how to breathe as rolls her hips, my orgasm rising and swelling like a wave. She bites down on my shoulder as the tingling sensation appears at the base of my spine a moment before she leans back and screams my name.
“Michele,” I growl, thrusting up into her two times before pure pleasure comes crashing over me, my vision turning completely white, my cock pulsating deep inside her. “You’re the best fucking thing to ever happen to me.”
I wrap my arms around her, pulling her tightly to me as I wait for my heartbeat to slow. Michele presses her ear to my chest as my fingertips run back and forth on her back. We sit there in silence, neither one of us daring to move as a soft smile spreads across my face with that knowledge that this wasn’t just sex. It’s a beginning.
ChapterTwenty-Four
Michele
Ituck my freshly stocked med kit beneath the bench before slipping into the narrow strip of shadow behind the boards. The cold air coming off the ice bites at my cheeks as I inch closer. The rink hums with sound as kids from the Big Brothers Big Sisters program move around like sugar-fueled cannonballs, the players’ skates carving across ice, pucks clattering against the boards, and shouted plays bouncing off the rafters. Everything feels crisp and alive. A shiver races down my spine as I press my palms to the Plexiglass.
I scan the ice, searching for one player in particular as they warm up for a friendly game. Thankfully, I manage to find him quickly. Number ten, Cole Hendrix. We’ve spent almost every night together since our late-night rendezvous in the training room. I thought it would have changed things between us, taken the edge off the need to be near him, but if anything, it’s made it worse.
Now, on the ice, he is something else entirely. That quiet intensity is still there, but more controlled and contained than before. My eyes track his movements as he skates backward through the neutral zone, knees bent, stick loose in his hands. Not lazy—never lazy. More lethal than anything, as he silently tracks the play. It's like he’s reading a piece of sheet music only he could hear, his movements smooth and certain, every glide loaded with quiet purpose.
God, he is beautiful. Not just physically, though watching him glide across the ice isn’t a hardship on my part, but he just exists. Completely in his element. Cole moves confidently as he cuts toward the boards with a single flick of his blade, pivoting off his inside edge to intercept the puck from a player who barely notices him coming.
The boards thrum under my fingertips as I press my palms flat against the cool glass. I want—no, need to see him up close and in his element. I kissed him goodbye at my condo door only a few hours ago, but the minute I stepped into the arena, I had to see him. I know he is busy doing his own work, skating the way he was born to do, but it doesn’t matter. I only want to catch a glimpse, and then I can head back to the training room to prepare for the physical evaluations coming this week.
“Uncle Cooper says hustle wins games,” a teenage boy says, before dropping onto the bench beside me with grace far beyond his years. “But that guy’s just vibing out there.”
I jump slightly, startled by the company beside me. “Uncle Cooper?”
The boy turns, smiling brightly at me. “Yup. His fiancée is my auntie Ramona.”
I vaguely remember something about Ramona having a son, but I could be wrong. I’ve only seen her in passing, but she is freaking gorgeous.
“Right…” My voice trails off as I try to see if I can place the boy, but I’m complete crap when it comes to putting names with faces.
His untamable curly hair sits on top of his head, pointing in every direction. The freshly cut side is tapered down almost to the skin. He has on a green Timberwolves hoodie with the team's wolf logo on it, with a thin black jacket over top.
“You have no idea who I am, do you?”
“Not a clue. I do know who Ramona and Cooper are, although I don’t know them personally.”
“Meh, they're not bad, but the person you really want to know is me.” He winks, holding his hand out in my direction. “The name is Darius King.”
“Nice to meet you, Darius.” I grip his hand tightly in mine, shaking it firmly. “I’m Michele.”
I giggle, feeling horrible that I have no idea who this kiddo is. “But I hate to break it to you, but your uncle Cooper is wrong. “Cole’s not cruising. He’s calculating.”
“Looks like he’s floating to me.” Darius stares at Cole like he hung the moon, barely able to remain in his seat as he watches Cole glide across the ice.
“Floating like a shark,” I whisper, knowing exactly how the kid feels. Maybe I can get Cole to take a picture with him or something before the end of the event.
And it is true. He prowls the ice with narrow eyes, timing his breath with each push before he explodes forward. One, two, three strides, each faster than the last, slicing through the zone like it owes him something. He dances past a defender with a toe drag so slick it draws whistles, then drops his shoulder and releases a wrist shot—the puck sings against the crossbar and disappears into the net.
The small crowd in the arena roars, Darius and I jumping to our feet, hands above our heads in celebration. Cole turns back toward center ice, the ghost of a smile brushing his mouth as he touches her lower lip. That mouth was pressed to mine a few hours before, whispering my name like it was a promise as Cole curled his body around me. And now, he is?—
What the fuck is he doing here? All the Timberwolves players on the ice drift closer to Cole, forming what seems to be a protective shield between him and the player emerging from the tunnel. A current of unease and wariness fills the arena as Jensen steps onto the ice with no helmet or gear, just a hoodie, slouched shoulders, and cocky swagger.
