They moved in counterpoint with slow and deep thrusts, driving me to the edge with every passing second. My breath caught in my throat. My heart pounded, my pulse hammering so loudly, I would have been surprised if they couldn’t hear it. I drew my knees up and pushed down, needing everything all at once.
Their hands tightened on my hips, and they lost some of the iron-clad control they were holding onto. Their timing faltered, both driving up into me at once, hard and deep.
I screamed, shattering in their arms. My pussy clenched, my ass gripping Spencer’s cock so tightly, I saw stars. They fucked me through my orgasm, renewing it every time it started to flag. They didn’t give me a chance to catch my breath, never slowing. They didn’t ease up either. I was dizzy with lust, every nerve ending alight.
Brayden did a half crunch, and his ab muscles contracted under me. My clit rubbed against it as he pumped his hips. When his mouth closed around my nipple, I was gone. I shattered again and dragged them with me. Their cocks pulsed and their moans and shouts vibrated through me. The hot splashes of their cum painted my walls, my whole body throbbing in time to the pulses. My nerve endings were electrified.
My arms gave out, and I collapsed on Brayden. Their lips on me were soothing while I floated in a post-orgasmic haze, their softening cocks still buried inside me.
Spencer collapsed to the side, dragging me with him, and we laid there, our limbs tangled and their cum leaking from me. Brayden’s cock twitched, and I sighed. “Give me a few minutes. Not ready for another round just yet.”
“Maybe next time, you can fuck me,” he teased.
I opened my eyes and saw his cheeky grin firmly in place. “Yeah?” He nodded his response, and I added, “Okay. Next time. Now shush. We need some sleep.”
Brayden hummed, and Spencer pressed another kiss to my shoulder. “Good boy,” I murmured, sleep already taking me.
seventeen
Spencer
Bray took the shift change. He was on the ice for barely a minute at a time, but he came off gassed. They were moving so fast, I could barely keep up. The Seals were down, chasing the win. But it was still the first half of the season—we were only a couple of months in—and they’d been on a streak.
The Florida Fireballs were out for blood, though, and they were cocky. Their center had a big mouth. It was water off a duck’s back for Gauthier—that bloke was as cool as a fuckin’ cucumber—but Bray loved the taunt. I watched his lips move as he mouthed off to the bloke and winced as the Fireballs’ center grew redder and his lip curled in disgust. Someone was going to throw down gloves, and I doubted it would be Bray loosing the first punch.
The fights were a rude shock when I’d watched my first NHL game. I’d grown up with rugby. It was known for its brute strength and speed. The Gold Coast team I supported back home was one of the best—Liam Masters and Bryce Flaharty, the captain and vice captain, were at the top of their game and had been for years. Their tackles left your ears ringing with thethunderclap. Then they dusted themselves off and went for the football again. We used to say “Bring back the biff,” but that’s because there were few fights now, unlike hockey. These damn hockey players were like a bunch of testosterone-fueled children who couldn’t keep their tempers in check. And I’d married the biggest instigator of all.
I’d seen plenty of fights when Bray was with the Blizzards—they were happy to dish out a bit of their own justice. I never got used to seeing it then, and I’d never get used to seeing it now, especially because I’d let my guard down with the Seals. They were more about finesse than brute force, and that suited me fine.
Bray subbed off again, and I could breathe once more. The third line jumped the boards, and Kunetsov flew right into the mix. He skated through it, expertly playing keepaway with the puck.Yes!
I whistled and cheered, the fans around me doing the same. The atmosphere of home ice was electric. The stadium floor literally vibrated with the screams of the crowd, and my ears rang for hours after each game. But the best part was the upswelling of support for Bray since he’d started following Keeley’s directions. Number sixty-nine jerseys were popping up everywhere, and I’d even seen one in the window of the whole foods grocer we shopped at for my food.
I hadn’t known about the NHL’s unspoken rule that sixty-nine wasn’t an approved number, but they’d let it go for Bray. He’d worn number six when he’d first started playing, and then in college wore a nine for his two favorite players—I couldn’t remember their names—but the NHL had thought it was sentimental.
I smirked. They didn’t know my husband like I did.
But I loved that my guy was starting to see this kind of fan support.
I was so grateful for Keeley—she’d singlehandedly rescued his fuckin’ career. But my Texas wasn’t doing it for recognition. He was doing it to make Keels happy. He was completely arse over tit for her.
So was I.
Bray clambered over the boards again with the rest of his linemates and drove straight through the melee for the puck. Sticks clacked, and Minns crunched one of the Fireballs against the boards. He opened up a minute gap for Bray to squeeze through.
He was in front of Florida’s goalie, in the Seals’ attack zone.
They were setting up to score. But if I could see it, so could the Fireballs.
The puck flew between our guys. Hux, Gauthier, Minns, Mironov, and Bray, all passing and defending, interchanging their roles so fluidly that the Fireballs looked like amateurs.
I held my breath as Bray deked it out with one of Florida’s players. He passed.
I scanned the ice.
There.
Gauthier had it.
