His movements send chills through my body. Fuck. I part my legs a little farther instinctually and plant my feet firmly on the ground.
“You comfy?” I ask.
He looks up into my eyes. “Never better,” he says before popping the button on my jeans and placing a kiss on the exposed skin right above my panty line.
“I want to taste you, Mel. Is that ok?”
I brace my hands on the wall behind me and toe off my slides. Having my boyfriend go down on me in a storage closet was not on the plan when I woke up today, but I live for spontaneity. “It’s more than ok,” I tell him. He pulls my jeans and underwear down as I shimmy and step out of them.
Will takes his time with me, touching and caressing every inch of my belly, ass, and thighs. He’s not even at the very best part, has barely kissed me, and already I’m writhing. I run my hands through his hair, tugging gently on the short strands.
He’s got one hand planted firmly on my hip while the other traces the seam of my pussy. He follows with his tongue, opening me and exposing me, andgoddamn, can he kiss. He licks and touches but doesn’t rush. Sure, I’m half naked in a closet where presumably anyone could interrupt us at any moment, but my man? He’s taking his sweet time. And every time I get close, every time I start to feel my orgasm build, he pulls back, sensing my need and deliberately dragging it out.
“You’re not gonna let me come?” I ask, my voice breathless.
I see the shrug of his shoulders as he laps lazily at my entrance. Pulling back, he looks up at me, his eyes hazy and his lips glistening. “Yeah…eventually,” he says, and then he smirks, the bastard. What happened to the awkward, fumbling guy who needed dating lessons? The guy who rambled on about nothing and downed shots to cover up his nerves? The guy who nearly came in his pants the first time we fooled around together?
Because that guyis nowhere in sight. In his place is a guy who knows exactly what the hell he’s doing, who’s in complete control of my pleasure, and who’s so comfortable he could stay here for days. And as lovely as that would be, I want to come.
I must’ve said that last part aloud, because he looks up again. “You sure that’s what you want?” he asks, murmuring the words against my skin, the vibrations of his lips causing mini tremors to rush through me.
“Yes. I know that’s what I want, Will,” I practically pant the words. “I want to come. Now. On your face.”
“Fuck,” he mutters against my clit. I grip his head in my hands, pushing up with my hips, greedy for more of his mouth and fingers and tongue. He fills me with three fingers, pulsing in and out, hitting me at just the right spot, and when he flicks his tongue over my clit then sucks me into his mouth, I lose control and go right over the edge.
When my breathing has returned to normal, and Will has put me back together and used his hoodie to clean us both up, he leans in for another kiss. His mouth is salty and sweet, and I can taste myself on his tongue.
Outside in the hallway, I can hear the telltale signs of guys gathering to work out—slamming doors, shouts, and laughter. It’s clear we only have another minute or two until real life invades once again.
“So,” I say, smoothing a hand down the front of my jeans. “What brought this on, not that I’m complaining.”
Will leans against the cinderblock wall like we’ve got all the time in the world. “I’m showing you what you’re missing if you let all this get away.” He winks at me and threads his hand through mine. He turns off the light and we slip out of the room together. It’s time for us to say goodbye because he’s got practice and I’ve got work, but I don’t want to leave. And that’s the real problem. I know my future probably shouldn’t include Will Franconetti, but it’s hard to envision my life without him in it.
42
Will
We’ve been prepping for this event for weeks. Coach Hudson Baylor was a stand-out in high school and college, and played in the majors for three years until a knee injury took him off the ice permanently. It’s been almost ten years since his last game as a player, but the guy’s still got a player’s spirit. And, as he’s been telling us, there’s more to hockey than skating and scoring: there’s a business side. He says most players hate that part, which is why they have assistants who get paid so much. But, according to Coach, one vital element you can’t delegate is outreach.
At this level we need all the donor dollars we can get. Since last year’s team went all the way to the finals, they garnered a lot of attention among alumni. Not every BU grad loves hockey, but everybody loves a winning team. Coach says now is the time to capitalize on that advantage. Truthfully, I think he realizes that if he wants upgrades to the arena, now’s the time to drum up money. That’s what this whole charity gala is about. It’s a way for the wealthy and privileged alum of Bainbridge, as well as local businesspeople and benefactors, to mix and mingle with our hockey team, all while enjoying unlimited food and drink at a swanky hotel. These rich middle-aged people get to relive their own college glory days, and we get to schmooze. In exchange, they feel young and vibrant again, and we get money. Everybody wins. At least, that’s the goal.
So, that’s why Coach is trotting us all out in our game-day best. We’ve been given clear, direct instructions. We’re to mingle throughout the crowd in pairs. That way, if one of us gets stuck in small-talk hell, the other guy can bail him out. I’ve been paired with Norris, which is cool. He’s a chill guy and a hell of a goalie. He’s going stag, but a couple other guys are bringing dates, including Booker. I’m not worried about having Mel along, though, because she’s great with people. As charming as I like to think I am? She’sactuallythat charming.
We’re in the locker room getting suited up, in actual suits rather than pads and jerseys. We’re taking the team bus to the hotel, which is about ten minutes away on the waterfront in what passes for downtown in our sleepy, bayside college town.
Mel’s getting ready with Ian at her apartment, and I’m dying to see her, even though we ate lunch together earlier today. A few minutes ago, she sent me a pic of her in her dress. Well, of her leg. Her very toned, bare leg in a dress with a slit up to mid-thigh. It’s one of the ones we picked when we went shopping together, but truthfully, I barely remember the dresses she tried on. I only remember how good she looked in them and what a fucking high it was to get her off in a dressing room.
Shit, now I’m half hard.
I run stats through my head to redirect my energy and it works. I finish knotting my tie and check myself in the mirror. Not too bad.
I look around the room, and yeah, we all look the same as we do on game days, but there’s a different energy in the air tonight. I don’t know if that’s because most of the guys are nervous—hob-nobbing isn’t part of our skill set, typically, or if it’s something else.
Santos is buzzing around in his usual fashion, checking in with everyone and making sure we’re all good to go. I mean, it’s not like we’re total heathens or anything. We can act right. You wouldn’t know it if you looked at our house right now, but we can dress up and play nice for a couple hours. At least, I hope we can.
Booker’s talking to Coach Baylor and Coach Anderson. I’ve got no clue if they’re strategizing about next week’s game or tonight’s fundraiser, but they’re deep in thought.
Roscowitz is scowling at everyone, but that’s nothing new. He’s been cleared for a week but getting his game back where it used to be is proving harder than he thought. I’m not mad about it because that means more ice time for me. But as a fellow player, I get how it sucks.
