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“We’re doing this.” I say to her, in awe that she’s here. I’m here. Inside her. Feeling her muscles clench with each move as my thighs tremble below her. Fuck, I put us on the couch so I could kiss her. Why am I not kissing her?
I still have to dip my head, but she tips her chin up and then we’re pouring gasped breaths and muffled groans into each other’s mouths as she rides me in her sun-drenched apartment. My hands grip her hips and I pull forward on each downstroke, letting the base of my cock rub right against her clit. She breaks the kiss to suck in a breath, incoherent streams of words leaving her mouth. It sounds like,Oh god. There right there. Fuck Vic. Fuck. Yes. More.And I can’t hold out any more. Lava pours through my gut as every muscle in my body locks down.
I grip a tit, rolling her pretty pink nipple between my fingers. I suck her tongue into my mouth. I keep up the grinding pulse. And there. There. There it is. Her body bows and her walls clamp down so hard I see stars. And then I’m pouring everything that I am into the tight sheath of her pussy.
We lie together for long moments, catching our breaths in tandem. Then she presses a soft kiss to my mouth and shifts back to my knees. Cum drips out of her, painting my thighs, and I grimace.
“Fuck, condom. Tristan. I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“It’s okay.” She leans over the mess between us and kisses me again. “I’m on the pill. I’m clean, and I’ve seen your medical records.”
I’m pretty sure that’s some type of HIPPA violation, but I don’t care. This girl can have my blood type, my social, my account numbers. Anything. My cock twitches at the thought and I stare at him, shocked. I don’t think I had this recovery time even as a teenager. God, this woman.
“Again?” Tristan grins at me and if she keeps smiling like that, then yes, I’ll be ready in less than a minute. I nod.
“Good,” she says. “Let’s go take a shower and then I want to see what your mouth can do. Husband.”
I’ll admit that I knew things were going to change, but I didn’t realize how much. I guess I thought faking an actual relationship would be harder. Or maybe easier. Either way, the changes come fast.
We agree not to put out a formal statement. The gossip raised by our viral photos keeps the focus on us even without joint interviews or an official commentary. I guess I naively thought that would be it. We could tell the organization that we were together, that we were in love, and that would be the end. We’d live together, maybe, for a few months so the team wouldn’t get suspicious, and then file for a quiet divorce after playoffs. And maybe it would have been if we hadn’t been seen. If we hadn’t been photographed. If I hadn’t pounced on my husband like he was a wounded baby antelope and I was a starving predator.
As Madison would say, I was clearly delusional.
When Vic came home from a practice with a change of address form, I told him to put my name down and fill it out with his address. I assumed I could pick up any mail sent to Vic’s and stay at my place, but he walked through my apartment, smiling at my duck-yellow curtains, and told me he liked the space.
It took me precious moments to realize he meant he’d be listing my address. Even longer to realize he was planning to move in for real. The next day he showed up with a duffle bag full of his clothes and toiletries and it did something funny to my insides, seeing his shampoo in my shower, his razor in my bathroom cabinet, his massive shoes by my front door.
“Are you sure this is necessary?” I’d asked as I shouldered my purse for our trip to the grocery store. “Living together?” If I thought my siblings ate a lot of food, they had nothing on my new… on Vic. This was our third trip in as many days. He was covering the bill, so cost wasn’t an issue, but I didn’t have the space to store the massive quantities of dry goods and produce and lean meat that he ate.
“There are three photographers waiting in the parking lot,” he’d said with a grin, sliding on his shoes. “Act besotted.”
I heard the telltale clicks from some interestingly dressed landscapers as he handed me into the front seat of his Mercedes, pressing a panty-melting kiss to my cheek as he shut the door in my face.
“I thought you had a chef,” I said as he added a fifth box of pasta to the shopping cart he was pushing through the organic grocery store I usually avoided based on the cost alone.
“I do.” He looped an arm around the curve of my waist and pulled me into his body. “But now that I’m not living with mommy anymore, I figured you could—” He was laughing before the sentence ended, ducking my half-hearted swat to his chest.
“Kidding.” He held his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m kidding. I took the chef when the team sent him over, but I can boil water and chop veggies with the best of them. Besides.” He leaned down to press a kiss to my jaw, and I sucked in a surprised breath. “I thought we’d give the press something to talk about, even if it’s just farfalle and chicken thighs.”
I’d frowned as he ran a thumb over the jut of my chin. I knew we’d slept together, and he’d moved in, but since when were we the touchy-feely kind of couple? And then we’d rounded the corner into the dairy section, and there was a camera pointed our direction from under someone’s elbow.
Then I frowned because when did Vic get better at understanding the press than I did?
That first night in my home, he tried to take the couch. I took one look at the loveseat that could barely handleme, stretched out, and pulled back the ruffled pink comforter on my bed, patting the mattress. My little brass bed frame creaked as he settled in next to me, but I’d be lying if I hadn’t loved the way my body rolled into the dip he created in the mattress and the possessive hand that cradled my hip as he wrapped around me. Or the tongue that woke me in the morning.
If I was worried about what my siblings thought of Vic’s sudden and unavoidable presence in my life and in my apartment, I shouldn’t have bothered. The first time Hayley and Joey let themselves in unannounced, Vic asked if they wanted dinner and doubled the pasta he was boiling. He also asked if he should clear out to give us some family time. My sisters were smitten within minutes, and my husband won Max over with conversations about conditioning drills and team dynamics.
“Don’t be a dummy,” my brother said to me as he shepherded our sisters out the door. “Lock that man down for good and blow him every night.”
“I think marrying him locked him down, thanks. Always knew I could count on you for love and support,” I’d responded with an eye roll.
“This is both,” Max said, pressed a kiss to my cheek. “He could be the best thing that ever happened to you. He wants to take care of you and god knows you deserve someone to handle your wants and needs for a change. Let him.”
I’d never actually tell my baby brother, but I did exactly what he suggested and followed Vic into the shower that night, hitting my knees and gladly swallowing him down from root to tip. He moaned his appreciation into the stream of water, holding my hair back in a tight fist.
The Arctic hits the road for a five-game spread after that, and it surprises me how much I miss my… Vic… even after only a few days. I blame his size for the emptiness in my seven-hundred square foot apartment. A pair of sneakers by the front door. His team hoodie hanging in my closet. The mug he’s commandeered for coffee every morning—“Okay, so you’re a hockey player… that don’t impress me much.”—still sitting next to the sink. One of his sticks leans up against the end table next to his side of the bed.
Fun fact, Vic’s stick is taller than I am. A whole inch taller. Something that makes Palmer snort milk out of her nose when she finds out. It also leads to some interesting jokes I will forever pretend my baby siblings don’t understand.
