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“That’s it, baby.” But he slows. I wrap my hands around to take big handfuls of his ass and try to urge him into moving faster. “Shh. We’re going to go nice and slow. Let it all build.”
“I’m already fucking built, Beck. Please!”
“Are you begging me, Sloan?”
“You bet your ass I am.” I try to move him again, but this guy is twice my body weight and as strong as an ox. No way am I moving him unless he wants to move. “Please, Beck. Please.”
His hips buck involuntarily as I clench the muscles in my pussy. “Oh, you little vixen you. I know what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?”
“Making that pussy tighter, trying to squeeze the cum out of my dick.” He leans forward and kisses me then pulls back. “You’re so sweet and wet and tight for me.”
His dirty talk is almost enough to push me over the edge all on its own.
I try to raise my hips, but he pulls back. “Please, Beck.” My voice strains to the breaking point, just like the rest of me. “Please. Please. Please…”
Finally, when I’m desperate and needy, my body alive with electricity and desperation, he moves, bucks his hips. Slow at first, but deep and hard. Then, gradually, he gives more. Faster. Harder. Deeper.
I’m one breath from implosion.
He’s not just inside my body now; he’s in my heart. My blood.
And as I come, it occurs to me that I don’t want it any other way.
47
BECK
People always say love makes sex better. That used to sound like bullshit to me.
Not anymore.
Loving Sloan while fucking her is the most transcendent shit I’ve ever had the privilege of experiencing. I can’t get enough of it. I’m like a teenager again, ready to go at the drop of a hat.
This time, we’re in the training room and she’s on the table with her legs wrapped around my ass and her shirt pushed up so her tits are hanging out.
I’m hitting my stride when Sloan cries out, “Beck!” so I know she’s close.
I increase the pace—but then she screams again, yanks her shirts down, and jerks her body away from mine, scrambling to hide behind the table.
“Beck!” She uses her head to motion toward the door. I turn to the doorway—and see someone standing there, gawking.
It’s that fucking Arizona shooter—Cole Jeter. The pompous pick thinks he’s big time, but he’s all mouth. All sizzle, no steak.
He looks around me at Sloan. “Nice tits, babe.”
I would lunge for him but my dick’s still hanging out and my pants are around my ankles. “Get the fuck out!” I bellow.
With a smirk as his parting shot, he leaves.
I look at Sloan. Her skin is flaming red and not in the good way. She looks horrified as she gulps. “He just stood there watching us.” She rubs her hands up and down her arms as I pull up my pants and fasten them. “Fucking creep.”
She is breathing low and deep. I think if she could lace up her skates and throw a full-body check at that little shit, she would.
She can’t… butIcan. And I sure as hell will. I’m already plotting how to maim that fuck and make it look like an accident on the ice.
When I move toward her, she waves me off. “You should go get ready to warm up. Coach is going to be looking for you.”
