Page 83 of Hot Puck
But I can’t keep doing that. This is our life. I need to be all in or get out.
And I’m not going anywhere unless she asks me to.
Scanning the shelves, I think about her request. If Gem wants a bottle of wine, she isn’t planning to return to the office today and I’ve already gotten in a workout this morning and don’t have to return to the arena until later to pick up Candace.
It’s rare that none of the girls are around and if we’re both free of responsibilities for the rest of the day, I’m going to take advantage of the time and use it to connect with my wife.
If she’ll let me.
Grabbing a bottle, I don’t bother looking at the label, I won’t know if it’s good or not anyway, but I’m assuming if Gem has it on the shelf, she likes it.
Passing through the kitchen, I collect a stemless wineglass from the cupboard before I do something I’ve never done before.
I walk down the short hallway and let myself into Gem’s rooms.
She’s in the bathroom. I can hear the shower running. I hope she’s taken a change of clothes in there with her because I’m about to make myself at home on her bed.
Placing the bottle and glass on her bedside table I kick off my shoes, and sit on the bed, position my back against the wooden headboard.
Her room is plain. There are no pictures or artwork on the walls, or books cluttering surfaces waiting to be read. It’s almost hotel-like in its plainness.
The only color in the room is the bed cover. It’s a dark burgundy, the pillowcases a slightly lighter shade.
I’m not sure what I expected, to me she’s soft and welcoming—well before I fucked things up she was—and I guess I thought her space would reflect that.
But this is so bare of personality it could be anyone’s room, and while there is some color, it doesn’t scream Gem.
“Oh good. You brought the wine.” Her voice has my head snapping around and I all but swallow my tongue. “Is it a screw top or cork?”
I haven’t a clue. I didn’t even look at it. Not that I can say that. Not with my tongue tied in a knot and no air in my lungs.
She’s wearing a pair of…workout shorts? Is that what they are? Whatever they are, they hug her body like paint. And they’re short. Like barely below her pussy short.
“You don’t want some? Wait. Of course you don’t. You don’t drink during the season.” She undoes the bottle cap and pours herself a full glass. “Not that you drink anyway. God, you’re barely old enough to do it legally.”
I hardly register her words because I’m too busy checking her out and my brain isn’t exactly functioning right now, what with all the blood rushing to my dick.
Which is standing at attention, tenting my running shorts like the center pole of a circus tent. And I’m too lust fogged to think to do anything about covering up.
It’s no surprise when Gem turns toward me and her eyes skim over my groin that she bobbles her glass and spills wine down her chin.
I don’t like wine. But I’ll be dammed if I don’t want to jump up and lick every drop off her skin.
We’re caught in this weird, stunned silence for what feels like hours and the whole time my brain is spinning scenarios of how this might be different. Howwemight be different.
How if she were my wife for real, I’d pull her down on top of me and ravage her mouth, fill my hands with her ass, and yank her against the part of me that’s throbbing with a beat so hard and fast it borders on painful.
“Chase.”
She says my name like a whispered prayer and I’m powerless to stop from reaching out and running a fingertip down her flat belly.
Her skin is soft and warm against my callused finger, and I wonder how it would feel against my lips.
I’m not a virgin. Although I haven’t been with many women—girls really—I’m not new to sex despite the nervous jittery sensation filling my gut.
“Chase,” she says my name again, louder this time, and I bring my gaze up to meet hers.
“Yeah?”
