Page 99 of Face Off
She smirks, kneeling on the floor in front of me. “Since about five minutes ago. Shirt off.”
My laugh’s hoarse, half disbelief, half arousal. “Bossy.”
“Efficient,” she counters, tugging at my tee until I peel it off.
The first touch of her hands makes me groan, a sharp intake of breath rattling out of me. The balm’s cool, but her palms are hot, steady, sliding in firm, deliberate circles over the sore muscle of my hip. At first, it’s careful, just pressure and relief but then her fingers linger too long, nails grazing higher, teasing over skin that has nothing to do with rehab.
“Chloe…” My voice comes out guttural, thick with warning I don’t mean.
“Mm?” She tilts her head like she’s innocent, but her eyes burn, wicked, as she shifts onto the sofa beside me. One smooth motion, she swings a leg over, settling astride me. The thin stretch of her leggings presses against my bare thighs, and suddenly I can’t think of a single reason to stop her.
Heat slams into me, sharp and fast. My hands clamp to her hips, fingers digging into the curve of her ass as though holding her still will stop the fire spreading. It doesn’t. It makes it worse.
She leans down, lips ghosting over mine once before she claims me properly. The kiss is soft for half a second, then it changes and becomes hungrier, wetter, the kind that strips me raw. The balm’s abandoned on the table, forgotten, as she grinds down against the hard line of me through my shorts.
I tear at her top, shoving it up over her head, baring smooth skin and the lace of her bra. My mouth is on her instantly, sucking hard at the swell of her breast, dragging my teeth just enough to make her gasp. Her hips roll in response, slow at first, then rougher, and I’m gone.
“Fuck,” I growl into her skin, hauling her closer. “You’re killing me.”
She only laughs, breathless, tugging at my waistband until she’s shoving my shorts down. My cock springs free, hard and aching, and she strokes me once, twice, with a grip that makes my whole body shudder.
I can’t wait. I don’t want to.
I push her leggings down, panties with them, and she lifts just enough to help before sinking back into my lap. For a heartbeat, she hovers over me, slick heat brushing the head of my cock. Then she lowers herself onto me in one long, slow slide that rips a guttural sound straight out of my chest.
“Jesus Christ,” I choke, clutching her hips. She’s tight, wet, perfect, and the moment she’s seated fully, I can’t hold still. I drive up into her, hard enough the sofa groans, her cry muffled when she crashes her mouth back onto mine.
Her nails claw down my back, her body riding me with a rhythm that has me swearing, begging. Each roll of her hips drags me deeper, and all I can do is meet her thrust for thrust, burying myself in her until nothing exists outside this.
It’s rough, desperate, everything I didn’t know I’d been holding back. Sweat slicks our skin, the sound of it obscene, the wet slap of flesh, the low grunts tearing out of me, her whimpers breaking into moans as I fuck her harder.
“Say it,” I rasp against her ear, thrusting up so deep she trembles around me. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” she gasps, nails digging into my shoulders. “All yours.”
The words snap something in me. My pace turns relentless, hips slamming up, her body arching beautifully as she cries out. I feel her tighten, quivering, and then she breaks apart around me, shuddering through her orgasm with a scream that has my own release ripping through me seconds later.
I spill into her with a growl, holding her down against me, every muscle locked as wave after wave crashes over me. It’s raw, consuming, like nothing else I’ve ever felt.
When it’s over, she collapses onto my chest, both of us breathless, soaked in sweat. My cock still throbs inside her, aftershocks twitching through us as we cling to each other.
The untouched curry is still on the table, the room smelling faintly of spice and sex. But none of that matters. The only thing I can taste is her, the only thing I can feel is the weight of her body on mine, grounding me in a way rehab, contracts, or hockey never could.
I bury my face in her hair, breathing hard, holding her like if I let go, the whole world might crash back in. For now, it’s just us.
And maybe that’s what I need to remember. Hockey matters, the contract matters, but none of it means anything without this. Without her.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHLOE
The first thing I notice when I step into the rink that morning isn’t the icy bite of the air or the familiar echo of pucks smacking against the boards. It’s the silence.
Not true silence, there’s still the chatter of players, the thud of skates on rubber matting, the distant hum of the Zamboni. But something is missing, and it takes me a moment to name it.
Murphy.
Not the man himself, he’s over by the benches, stretching his shoulders and tossing banter toward Dylan, but thesoundof him, that constant background commentary that usually drips with disdain whenever I walk in. No barbs. No digs. No exaggerated sighs.
