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She let her hand fall to her side.
“Good girl.” He pinched his three fingers together and slid them back inside her. “Fuck, you’re so hot and wet for me.” In and out he pumped his fingers, changing the angle so the heel of his palm brushed hard against her clit with each stroke. “Yeah, that’s right. You like that, don’t you?”
She bit down on her lip but didn’t make any noise as she nodded.
“You want me to keep going?” He slowed, nearly stilled with his fingers buried in her warm heat. “Or should I stop now?”
A sharp inhale of breath and a quick shake of her head was her only answer.
“Look at you. So tough, aren’t you? Little Miss Independent. You do what you want. When you want. Who you want. You’re used to taking care of yourself. But right now I’m doing it for you, and I know you love it because that pussy of yours is just clinging to me.” He kept his pace slow, half torment half heaven, finger-fucking her closer and closer to coming as she took him in. His cock ached, and the urge to push her forward, flip up her skirt, and bury himself in her so hard and so deep that perfect ass of hers would jiggle had him by the short and curlies. Right now, though, wasn’t about that. It was about making her come. “Oh, that pussy is getting tighter and tighter because you’re getting ready to come all over my hand. Such a dirty girl. You’re hiding in a kitchen pantry while the room on the other side of that door is filled with people. You have all of your clothes on because you want it too bad to take the time to get naked. You’ve got my fingers deep inside you and you can feel that orgasm building. Isn’t that right, Astrid? Tell me that’s right.”
She came hard with a low grunt that sounded a lot like yes muffled by her hand over her mouth. He tightened an arm around her waist, holding her to him as the aftershocks hit her.
After a few moments, she gently pushed his arm and put as much space between them as was possible in the tiny pantry.
Smiling at him like someone who’d woken up Christmas morning and found everything they’d asked Santa for under the tree, she smoothed her hands down over her skirt. “Now that was quite the memorable way to celebrate my victory.”
“Your victory? That moaned yes you just made says differently.” He sucked her sweetness off his fingers, relishing the taste of her as she watched, momentarily silent again with eyes darkening with desire. “You said it yourself. The first one to make a noise loses. You may have slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the sound, but you still did it.”
His logic did diddly shit to dim a single watt on that grin of hers. In fact, it got brighter. The first icy prick of what-did-I-miss marched up the back of his neck.
“So details are not your thing, huh?” She cocked her head to the side and squished up her face in an exaggerated look of sympathy. “That will definitely bite you in the ass as the team’s new goalie whisperer.”
Forget icy pricks; this was a whole hailstorm of impending fuckery. “What are you talking about?”
She lifted a finger. “I asked if we had a deal.” A second finger went up. “You agreed we had a deal.” A third finger joined them. “And then you kept talking. And talking. And talking.” She dropped her hand and made a sympathetic face that was about as sincere as the promise he’d made to his mom to take over her parents’ hog farm if the hockey stuff didn’t work out. “Yep. You had a lot of naughty things to say while I didn’t say a single thing in return.” She snagged a Hershey Kiss from a bowl on the shelf, unwrapped it while smirking at him, and then popped it in her mouth. “Mmmmm, that is almost as sweet as my win. Better luck next time.”
Way to go, Matsen. Great job. Amazing. One for the record books.
Someone didn’t get to the level of playing professional hockey with the greatest players on the planet without developing a true hatred of losing that permeated even the non-hockey parts of his life. Cal hated losing. Despised it. Loathed it with his whole being.
So he had absolutely no explanation for why he was standing in the pantry with his jeans still undone and a huge-ass smile on his face except for the fact that Astrid had said next time.
Oh yeah. That was definitely happening.
Chapter Eleven
The rest of the evening went by with one “huh” and “what was that” from Cal after another because he couldn’t stop thinking about Astrid even though she’d left a solid forty minutes ago.
He’d finished up the dishes on his own while plotting exactly what he was going to say to her next and had come up with an amazing amount of nothing. He’d figured he’d wing it. What could go wrong?
Fine. A lot could go wrong, but like every elite athlete he’d known, he was an expert at visualizing winning. So that’s what he’d do. Win. And maybe it would have worked except for one thing. He made it out in the living room in time to hear her tell everyone goodbye and that she’d see them tomorrow.
And that was it. She just left.
No side-eye smirk at him.
No teasing gotcha look.
No flirty “see ya, loser” tossed over her shoulder before closing the door behind her.
Bear walked over to the bookshelf where Cal stood. Even pushing sixty, the other man still deserved the nickname that he’d earned as a shit-talking chirper. Back in the day, he’d backed up the insults he shouted at opposing players with a glove-dropping, sweater-over-the-head-pulling, wild-eyed fight that occasionally resulted in a bench-clearing brawl. After that happened, if Bear was still allowed on the ice, he’d sit in the penalty box and laugh as if he’d just had the best day of his life. The man was a legend.
He handed Cal a beer and then turned over one of the photos. This one was of Coach also in a penalty box.
“You know he had a broken rib during that game?” Bear said. “We were in the finals—on opposite sides—and we were tied in the third. I’m having a great game, chirping at their main goal scorer and getting in his head. Then this asshole takes the ice in the middle of a shift and just beelines right at me, knocking me into the boards and shaking a tooth loose. He started it. I finished it. We both ended up in the box. Their guy scored.” He took a long draw off his beer and then shook his head. “Even when it doesn’t look like it, that guy always has a plan, and he always protects the people on his team.”
That Stanley Cup final series was legendary. Cal had watched the whole thing with his family, his mom breaking her rule of no food in the living room so they wouldn’t miss a puck drop during dinner.
