The saddest sentence followed by the absolute best one.
I don’t need to be told twice. I kiss and lick the valley between her breasts for lubrication before moving up her body, my hands on each side of her head to hold me up.
“Squeeze your breasts for me, sweetheart.”
Fuck does she ever. Her hands grip with a roughness I wouldn’t dare employ on her tender skin.
I move, my saliva and pre-cum creating heavenly slickness as I slide between her plump breasts. Each time I shove forward, the tip of my erection prods her open mouth. She sticks her tongue out, grazing the tender head of my cock. Watching my hard dick between her lush tits is a fucking wet dream.
This is a memory I could jack off to on my goddamn deathbed.
Three shoves later, heat travels down my spine and my balls tighten.
“Fuck, Ligaya,” I groan, pulling back to pump my cock. White ribbons shoot up before landing all over her breasts, her neck, her parted lips. It keeps going and going till fireworks light up behind my eyelids.
I hadn’t realized I closed my eyes through the unbelievable, long orgasm until I open them. Ligaya is using her hands to spread my spill all over her chest. She presses a thumb over each nipple and rubs them. When our gazes lock, she lifts her thumbs to her lips, one at a time, sucking them so hungrily, her cheeks hollow.
Fuck, that goes straight to the spank bank, too.
“Can’t get enough of my cock, Ligaya?”
“It’s nice enough,” she mumbles sleepily while licking each finger. Finger-licking good takes on a whole new meaning.
“Nice? Is that what you call the five orgasms I gave you in the last eight hours?” That’s a guess. I lost count at some point last night.
She wiggles out from under me to stand by the bed. Naked and glorious, with my mess spread on her chest and her breastsstill pink with flush and friction, Ligaya is the sexiest woman I have ever seen.
She walks to the bathroom with a sassy sway of her hips.
At the threshold, she looks over her shoulder and shrugs. “Six orgasms. But who’s counting?”
CHAPTER 16
TRISTAN
The boards rattle behind me as my centerman, Connor, slams a poor bastard from Toronto against the glass. I skate hard to the bench, lungs straining, thighs on fire, sucking down cold air through my mouth guard. Coach slaps my back. I slide onto the bench and resume my spot in the third line rotation.
“Good pressure on the forecheck, Tristan,” one of the assistants mutters.
There are superstars on this roster, and I don’t count myself as one of them. But I skate like I’m being chased by zombies. Fast ones. Speed is what I bring to the team. They put me on the ice to chase down a puck in the corner or to cancel an icing call when we’re in trouble. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, trying to steady my breathing before my next shift.
Inconveniently, my brain strays to Ligaya. Ten days later and I still can’t get her sleepy, gorgeous smile out of my mind. She had kissed me on the cheek when I left. Not the mouth. Not the kind of kiss that sayscall me.Next thing I knew, I was staring at a closed door.
We exchanged a couple of texts of the “how’s your day” variety. She’s got her musical this upcoming weekend. I’m bummed that I can’t make it to any of the shows.
“Line change! Let’s go!”
A tap on my back signals my shift. I jump over the boards, my legs instinctively pumping to get me back into the zone. We’re tied one-one with two minutes left, and the boys are gassed. Since I’m the new guy in an established team, I don’t get a lot of minutes. This shift needs to count.
Puck drops. Connor wins it. I explode down the left side.
My feet move, muscle memory and adrenaline doing all the thinking for me. My stick taps once, twice. Connor threads it to me. I catch it on the blade. Toronto’s top defenseman, a French-Canadian menace named LaFernier, comes at me hard. He nearly slams me against the board, but I chip the puck around him and keep my legs moving. He whacks the side of my knee—the knee that got operated on—and I slide my stick along my gloves to jab at his belly.
We both get away with mutual penalties. This is ugly, jerky hockey.Mykind of hockey.
The puck leaves my blade to skitter behind their net. I corner it, dig in, and protect the biscuit.
“Middle!” Logan barks. He’s the other winger on my line.
