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He pulls from my grasp and kneels between my spread legs. I hold my breath when he lines his thick, hard cock up at my entrance. He rotates his hips a little and the head slides just inside my wet opening. My hips tilt up, greedy and ready. There’s fire pulsing through every cell of my body.
He pauses, and stares down into my eyes. “Tell me,” he says, voice rough. “Tell me you’re mine.”
I don’t even hesitate.
“I love you so much,” I breathe. “I’m yours. Forever.”
He groans, low and filthy, and then he pushes in deep filling me all the way up. “About freaking time.” He leans down, forehead pressed to mine. His breath is hot against my lips. Every muscle in my body tingles for more.
Then he kisses me, hard, swallowing my moan like he’s been dying of thirst and I’m the last drop of water on earth.
He rocks his hips forward, burying himself so deep. I cling to his shoulders, nails biting into his skin. Can’t get close enough.
He groans, the sound vibrating against my mouth. “You feel so good, baby. So fucking tight.” He presses his face in my neck, sucking and biting. “You were made for me.”
My legs lock around his waist, heels digging into him. “Harder,” I beg, because my dignity is dead and buried at this point. “Please. Don’t be gentle. I want all of you.”
He pulls out almost all the way, then thrusts back in, hard and deep and so good I actually see stars. There is nothing in the universe but this man, this moment, this pounding, relentless need.
He pins my wrists above my head with one huge hand, body caging me in. He stares down, eyes black, pupils blown, looking like he wants to devour me. I squeeze my eyes closed as pleasure pulses through me.
“Look at me,” he growls. “Want to see your face when you come on my cock.”
My eyes snap open as I groan his name. His hand slides down, thumb zeroing in on my clit, rubbing in tight, expert circles. Heat rips through me and I scream his name as an orgasm blasts through me.
He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, just grinds deeper and rougher, chasing his own release. “That’s it. Milk my cock. Take it all.”
I can barely breathe as the climax goes on and on. Then he slams into me one last time and shudders as he comes inside me, filling me even more and making my toes curl.
He collapses on top of me, trembling, but he’s still careful to keep most of his weight braced. His heart pounds against my chest, the sound wild and frantic, “I love you, Mrs. McLinden.” He breathes. “Forever.”
And just like that, everything falls into place and life is perfect.
EPILOGUE: MICK
EIGHT YEARS LATER
I walk out of the building and check my watch. Three forty-five. If I beat the afternoon rush across the bridge, I can be back at the penthouse in time to take my wife for a walk before dinner.
Eight years ago, we came home from our wedding in Vegas and settled into married life. The first major decision we made together was to wait for kids. Between Mia’s busy job and my traveling schedule, we knew it would be impossible to add a child into the mix. So we agreed to wait until I retired from hockey to add to our family.
A year ago, I hung up my skates at the end of the season and took a job as the hockey coach at Seattle Hills High School. In the NHL, my life was about chasing wins. Now it's about building the next generation. Making sure every kid who walks through that door feels like they matter, even if they can't skate fast enough for varsity. It's quieter. Better.
Because no matter what happens at the rink, Mia is waiting for me at home. I pull into the building garage, the engine of the truck cutting out with a low rumble that echoes against the concrete. I’m up the elevator in seconds, my thumb hovering over the scanner of our front door.
The apartment is quiet, but not the cold, sterile quiet it used to have before Mia moved in. It smells like the expensive candles she likes and there’s a pair of her sneakers tossed carelessly near the hallway table. I drop my backpack, planning to find her in the kitchen or maybe curled up on the sofa with one of those romance novels she devours. Instead, I hear a soft thud coming from the room at the end of the hall.
I push open the door to the nursery, and my heart doesn't just skip a beat, it slams into a dead halt in the middle of my chest when I find my wife balanced on the second-to-last step of a metal stepladder. She’s reaching upward, a framed print of a watercolor forest clutched in one hand and a level in the other. Her back is to me, her dark, wild hair pulled into a messy knot, and her maternity leggings stretched over a belly that is unmistakably eight months along.
"Mia McLinden!" The name leaves my throat like a command, the same voice I use when the bench is losing its cool in the third period. I’m across the room in three strides, my hands moving before I can even process the panic. I don't wait for her to climb down. I reach up, hooking my arms under her thighs and lifting her bodily off the metal frame. I tuck her against my chest as I bring her back to the safety of the hardwood floor.
"Mick! Put me down!" She’s protesting, her hands swatting at my shoulders, but she’s laughing too. Her laugh still hits me harder than a body check. I don't let go. I carry her out of the nursery, past the half-finished crib and the shelves of tiny clothes, and march straight for the living room sofa. I set her down on the cushions like she’s made of fine glass, even though I know she’s the toughest person I’ve ever met.
"You’re eight months pregnant," I growl, hovering over her with my hands on my hips. "What in the hell were you thinking? You can’t climb a ladder in your condition?" God. Sweat breaks rolls down my back at the thought of her slipping and falling.
She rolls her eyes, leaning back against the pillows and crossing her arms over the peak of her stomach. "I’m pregnant, Mick, not helpless." She looks up at me, those blue eyes bright and challenging, waiting for me to settle down.
I sink onto the edge of the cushions beside her, the adrenaline finally starting to drain away. I reach out, my palm landing naturally on the curve of her belly. It’s a habit now, a reflex. My hand is broad enough to cover nearly half of the space where our daughter is growing, and the heat of her skin through the fabric of her shirt calms the frantic thrumming in my chest.
