Chapter 23

My body feels like I got run over by a train.

And hell, maybe it had.

It's always like that when we play the Sierra.

A tough, brutal battle.

The only benefit is that the flight is all of an hour and we don't get home horribly late.

The bad news?

Some idiot decided that we should have a home and home matchup—meaning that we played in the Sierra's arena last night, and now they're coming to play in our arena tomorrow.

Flight. Morning skate. Game. Flight. Light practice. Morning skate. Game.

That's a lot of hockey over three days.

But that's the life of a professional athlete—living and breathing the sport so that it takes over my life, determines when I eat and what I eat and when I sleep and what I do with my free time.

Who I date—or don't.

Who I enter into a fake relationship with—no matter how dumb.

I should just let Rory off the hook. She set my mom at ease, got her flying home and leaving me to my peace (and limiting her attempts at matchmaking).

I should let her go.

But when I walk through the door into the house and find her sleeping on the couch, Zeus at her side, sprawled out on his back, tiny legs flapping in the air, snoring like he swallowed a chainsaw, something tightens in my chest.

Just a little bit longer.

Then I'll turn her loose.

Plus, even though Phillip was arrested, he's out on bail and currently licking his wounds (according to Jean-Michel's security team). So, she might not be safe yet.

Which is the truth.

But also a convenient excuse that I cling to as I scoop up Zeus, taking him out for a quick potty break before tucking him into his crate in the bedroom.

And it's one that I continue to cling to as I slip my arms beneath Rory's lush body, cradle her against my chest, and bring her upstairs. I don't miss the open bottle of wine I left her, or the glass with dredges of the white next to it. I don't miss her laptop on the coffee table, her shoes tucked beneath. I don't miss that she's made herself at home, nor the relief that floods through me at the thought.

Instead, I just pretend that I'm holding her carefully because she's fragile and recovering, because she needs to be protected at all costs.

Not because she's precious to me.

Even though?—

"No," I mutter, and the word paired with my movements in lifting her from the sofa have her brows drawing together in an adorable frown, her head rolling slightly from side to side on my arm.

Shit.

But before I can somehow find a way to soothe her back to sleep, her lids peel back, sleepy green eyes coming to mine.

I tense, thinking about what Phillip did, thinking that it might be disorienting or scary to wake up with a big brute of a man holding her, manhandling her, manipulating her body without her permission.

"King," she murmurs before I can apologize, can set her onto her feet.

Crack!

I almost wince as a sharp sensation lances across my chest. Not because it's painful, necessarily, but because what I'm feeling is so raw and vulnerable and…more than a little scary.

Then her eyes slide closed again and she burrows her face into the crook of my arm and?—

She goes back to sleep.

To. Sleep.

Crack!

This time I do wince at the sharp, shuddering sensation that ricochets through my chest.

But, thankfully, she's not awake to see it.

I dream of flowers and soft, springy summer grass cushioning my body.

Sun dancing across my closed eyes and the cool wind just barely ruffling my hair.

I dream so deeply that when I wake, I have a moment of disorientation.

I'm in that dream, that peace, the vision dominating my mind.

But then…I'm awake but living that dream.

Sunlight glints in through the open shutters of the windows, streaking across the carpet, the end of the bed…

And over the woman in my arms.

I inhale, and it's flowers in my nose.

I flex my arms, and it's soft curves against me.

I look down and?—

Crack!

Rory's beautiful green eyes are open and she's looking up at me. "Hi," she whispers.

"Hi," I whisper back, everything in the world going hushed.

My mom's not here. We don't have to pretend.

But stopping myself from cupping her jaw, from tilting her face up while I bring mine down is impossible.

Our lips meet, and that fantasy, that dream becomes real life.

In the form of her soft moans, her body melting against mine. She lets me roll her onto her back, legs parting, our pelvises aligning. I can feel the heat of her cunt through the thin layers of material separating us.

But I want more.

I want everything.

I slide a hand between us, slipping it beneath the fabric of her T-shirt, finding silken skin and soft, warm flesh, gentle curves. "Okay?" I murmur when her breath hitches, eyes going wide.

Her lungs inflate on a long, slow breath, and I start to pull my hand back.

"No," she whispers, fingers wrapping around my wrist, pressing slightly, flattening my palm against her.

"Princess?"

Her throat works, but then she presses her palm against her again. "It's better than okay."

And then she's sitting up slightly, reaching for the hem of her shirt, yanking it up and over her head. It flies across the room, but I'm not tracking it. Instead, my gaze is glued to her, to those gorgeous curves and sun-kissed skin and?—

She reaches for my shirt, tugging it off before I can pounce on her, tossing it away.

Then her hands are on my bare skin, softly tracing over my body. So softly that it's almost teasing. So softly that the delicate caresses set fire to my veins, to my flesh, to my nerves.

And that's before her hand slips into the waistband of my underwear, those soft, delicate fingers wrapping around my cock and squeezing hard enough to make my vision haze.

"Fuck!"

The little minx just grins.

And starts stroking.

My brain shuts down, but I have enough control to reach down, to try to slide her hand off. Because her first.

Always her first.

"No," she says, her free hand coming to my chest, pushing me back, clambering on top of me. That hand continuing to move without hesitation. "Last time was me. This time is you?—"

The squeak she makes as I reverse our positions is adorable, and makes me smile even when all I want to do is fuck her until she can't remember her name.

"No," I say. "This time is you."

She shivers.

"And then you again."

Another shiver, her lips parting on a shaking exhale. But I see the protest flickering in those emerald eyes.

"And then you again."

More protest in beautiful green irises.

Which is why I add, "And then me."

The objection fades.

"Yes?"

Teeth working her bottom lip.

Then a nod, her cheeks coloring, her body arching beneath mine.

I come down over her. "I need the words, princess."

"Yes," she whispers.

And that's enough to splinter the last of my control.

I bend down and kiss her.

Her lips part immediately and I sweep my tongue inside, tangling it with hers, swallowing her moan. Fucking beautiful. Fucking perfect.

Perfect as I kiss her long enough until my lungs protest.

Perfect as I drag my lips over her skin, as I kiss her breasts, as I push her pajamas down and slip my fingers between her legs.

Perfect as I encounter slick heat, as I push into the tight clasp of her cunt, as she rocks against my hand, her head pressing back into the pillows, neck arched, eyes clamped closed.

Perfect as my name tumbles off her lips, as her pussy clamps around me. And again.

And again.

Perfect as I reach for the nightstand and snag a condom, as I roll it down the length of my cock.

I pause with just the tip of my cock inside her. "Princess," I say, waiting to move until her eyelids slowly peel open, until her stare locks with mine.

Then she nods again.

And I push home.

For a second, the world stands still.

Heat. Slick.

Perfect.

But then it starts moving again, or I'm moving, or?—

We're moving together, bodies and mouths and breaths in sync. I give and she takes. Slow and steady and deep.

Until slow and steady and deep isn't enough.

Until the next moment, my next breath, my next heartbeat hinges on…

Her.

"King!"

Her body convulses around me, pulsing in a hypnotic rhythm that drags me over the edge.

I thrust—once, twice, three times and?—

I'm gone.