Page 89 of Center Ice
“I mean, I kind of assumed you knew what a vibrator was,” Jules laughs as she reaches out for two more champagne flutes on the counter behind her.
“Knowing they exist and knowing that everyone is already using them feel like two very different things in this instance.”
“Well then,” Morgan says, “you’re about to have a whole new kind of sexual awakening.”
“I feel like we need to toast to that!” She hands me and Morgan each a flute, and then the three of them hold theirs up while Jules laughs and says, “To Audrey’s vagina!”
I shake my head, but I’m laughing as I raise my glass. And I already can’t wait to tell Drew this story when he calls after his game tonight. I hope he doesn’t care that the first thing they do is take that box out and start commenting on the size of that realistic dildo and speculating whether Drew’s is really eight inches long, or if that’s just wishful thinking.
I neither confirm nor deny their theories.
When the video call comes in, I’m already in bed, waiting to talk to him.
“Hey,” I say. “Good game. I’m sorry about the outcome.” The Rebels lost earlier tonight in Arizona, and it was a close game. Drew and the rest of the team played well, but Arizona played better. It’s their first loss of the season, and not how you want to start a series of away games.
“Thanks,” Drew says, holding the phone in front of him as he walks farther into his hotel room. He’s still wearing his game day suit, this time a dark grey with a blue shirt under it. I’d seen the video footage of the players’ arrival at the game on the team’s social media feed, and I’m not going to lie, I was thrilled that Drew was the best dressed of the bunch. I mean, Colt’s always been the fashion icon of the team, but lately, it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to hold up that reputation as much.
“You doing okay?” I ask.
“Better now that I’m talking to you.” He sets the phone down, and I imagine it’s propped up against the TV because of the way it’s tilted up at him and because I see the big king-sizebed behind him. He slides his arms out of his jacket and sets it carefully on the end of the bed.
“I got your note, by the way,” I tell him.
“Which one?”
“There’s more than one?” I ask, and Drew gives me a shrug like,Who knows?“It was stuck to my laptop and saidI hope you have a good day. I can’t wait to see you in a week.”
“Not that either of us is counting, though,” he says as he unbuttons his dress shirt.
“Oh, I’m counting, alright. I need you back here. I already miss you.” It feels both foreign and freeing to be so honest with him, but he’s never been anything but honest with me and he deserves that in return.
“I miss you too,” he says, a soft smile curling his lips as he looks at me.
“I love your shirt, by the way,” I tell him as he slips it off his shoulders.
“Thanks,” he says, tugging at the sleeves to get them down over his muscular arms. “I got it specifically because it reminded me of a certain someone’s eyes.”
I glance at myself at the corner of my screen. He’s right, it’s almost the exact color blue of my eyes.
“Did your personal shopper pick it out?” I tease.
“She did, actually. I sent her a picture of you, told her I wanted something that matched your eyes, and she came back with this shirt.”
“Why do you have a picture of me?”
“Because I found the one on the Our House social media feed,” he says as he unbuckles his belt, and I know exactly which one he means because it’s the one Morgan posted after our lunch when I told her she could take over our social media. “I think you’re at a restaurant? Anyway, it’s a beautiful photo of you, with your bright eyes and your flushed cheeks. I can’t even look atit without getting hard.” He drops his pants and stands in front of me in his briefs, and I don’t miss the way his body is already reacting.
I shift beneath the covers and the cotton sheets graze along my nipples, sending spasming need through my body. Watching Drew undress while he tells me he can’t even look at a picture of me without getting hard has me extremely turned on.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, my voice coming out breathy and needy. “Do you look at that photo often?”
“Every fucking hour.”
“Must behardto deal with the consequences of that, no? I mean, what do you do when you can’t fix that problem right away? Just suffer through it?”
“Thinking about you is hardly suffering.”
“Just seems like you could use some help getting rid of that”—I nod my chin toward my phone as I watch the bulge in his underwear grow—“problem.”
