Chapter 27

This woman's mouth is sin.

And heaven.

She pulls back, tongue dancing along the tip of my cock before drawing it deeply into her mouth, so deeply that I feel the back of her throat closing around me as she swallows me down, can see tears clinging to her lashes.

I want to drive deeper, to grip her hair and fuck that lush mouth.

But she's naked and blowing me after I got to eat her out on the hood of my car—giving light to a fantasy I didn't know I had.

A fantasy we're going to reenact again.

Right after?—

I give into the urge to dive my fingers into her hair, but it's to pull her off me, not drive deep. I flip her around, press her front on the hood of my car, kick her legs wide, and have just enough control to roll on the condom from my wallet before I plunge inside that tight, wet cunt.

She gasps.

I groan. "Fucking perfect," I grunt, thrusting into her. "You are. So. Fucking. Perfect."

"King!" she moans, hips pressing back against me, ass jiggling, head thrown back, mouth parted as my name dances off the tip of her tongue.

Beautiful.

Mine.

"Oh my God!" she cries out. "King. I?—"

She's close.

Damned close.

Which is good, because I'm going to come.

I grip her waist, change the angle just enough to ensure that she topples over the edge before me, and then allow her clamping pussy to drag me under.

"King," she groans, meeting me thrust for thrust as we both come down, as our movements slow and grow lazy, nuzzling my throat when I find the strength to pull out, to hold her close, to carry her up into bed.

Once we're both under the covers, the condom's taken care of, and the house is locked up (and our clothes retrieved from the garage floor), she settles her hand on my chest, just over my heart.

"You played great tonight," she whispers.

"Thanks," I whisper back, lazily tracing my hand over her skin, making random patterns. "And thanks for coming."

"Of course." Her lips press to my flesh, and for a long moment she doesn't say anything else. But then, as my eyes are drifting shut, she murmurs, "What did you mean earlier?"

You're not your father.

Fear coils at the base of my spine, but I push the voice down, ask, "What do you mean?"

It's a casual question, but she reads right through it, through me. "Earlier in the car, honey," she says. "You said you're never there at the right time, but…"

I grind my teeth together, want to slam the door closed on this discussion.

Except…she gave me so much in the car, shared so fucking much, was so fucking open and brave and vulnerable?—

How can I possibly keep my idiotic trauma to myself?

It's nothing like what she went through.

Nothing.

I open my mouth.

"Because—for me—you seem to always be there at the right time."

That jolts through me.

"Princess," but I don't finish the denial that's clinging to the back of my throat because she pushes up, those deep green eyes locking onto mine.

"Don't," she says. "I promised myself that I wouldn't push you, but fuck that." Her hands come to my cheeks. "Don't deny it or put me off. You meant what you said in the car."

"I—" But I just clamp my lips together, bite back the words.

Because what the hell can I possibly say about it?

Oh, you poor little brokenhearted boy, are you too scared to love again?

Fuck yes, I am.

And what will I look like in the eyes of this incredibly brave woman if I admit that?

A fucking coward.

Especially when she goes on, proving exactly how strong she is. "I accepted Phillip's treatment of me because I thought it was the best I could have. No," she whispers. "It was what I thought I deserved."

"Princess," I say, sitting up and drawing her against me. "You can't honestly think that you deserve?—"

"They left me," she murmurs and my arms tighten, drawing her gaze back to mine. "My mom." A breath. "My dad." Her throat works. "And my stepmom, stepsisters didn't want anything to do with me when my dad was gone. They were cruel to me. They…" A breath. "They loved to see how much they could take from me, and…I got used to giving it, used to thinking that was all I could have, all I deserved. I thought the derision, the cruelty, the ostracizing, the pulling more than my fair share of weight at home, even the stealing from me was normal. It wasn't until I really got to know Jean-Michel and Chrissy that I realized how dysfunctional my dynamic at home was and I cut contact with them. But did I use that knowledge when it came to Phillip? Nope." She tosses her hands up. "I fell into the same damned patterns."

Shit.

I draw her closer, bury my face in my hair, hating the sadness on her face, in her eyes, in those terrible words. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart," I say. "But you can't expect yourself to be perfect in every moment. To make the right choice every single time."

"Maybe not," she says. "But doesn't the same go for you?"

I freeze.

"Why do you hold yourself to a different standard?"

Because what's tangling through my mind is nothing compared to what she endured.

And I need to get the hell over it.

She leans back. "I'm starting to come to terms with that little girl inside me, learning to wrap my arms around her and give her a hug, tell her that what she thinks isn't true. Because of Jean-Michel and Chrissy. Because of Rome and Cam. Even because of your mom and how she accepted me with open arms without really knowing me." A breath, her hand on my cheek again. "But mostly, I'm starting to realize all of this because of you."

That hits like an actual blow to the abdomen, stealing my breath. "Princess, I didn't do anything."

"Except you did." She shakes her head. "You've really?—"

Another blow, just a different variety.

"—helped me understand how this—how a relationship—can be. How a man can treat a woman. What I deserve." She laughs, but it's not amused, not really.

It's sad again, and I fucking hate it when she's sad.

"I was engaged," I blurt.

Because this moment, what we're building—it doesn't feel fake.

It's fucking…

Something.

She stills, those green eyes befuddled and beautiful and I just want to kiss her again, to fuck her until we're both senseless so I don't have to feel what I'm feeling. But, Christ, after everything, I owe her honestly.

"I was engaged," I say again.

She stills.

"No one knew," I admit. "Not my siblings. Or friends. Not even my mom. I…" I shake my head. "Rose didn't want me to tell anyone because she didn't think it was going to last."

That stillness becomes somehow even more still.

And fuck, I want to retreat, to get the hell out of this room and away from her eyes that are seeing far too much.

"She said I wasn't enough to make up for being gone all the time, that I'm not my dad, able to keep a family together even though he wasn't always physically there." I sigh. "She wouldn't wear the ring. Wouldn't come to my games. Wouldn't?—"

My throat closes up.

Because I can't do this.

I fucking can't.

It's too fucking pathetic.

"King, honey," Rory begins and that sits like barbed wire on my bare skin, digging in, hurting me despite the fact that I should have been over this bullshit years ago.

I shrug, even though it feels like very non-shruggable series of events. "It doesn't matter," I whisper. "It was all a mindfuck. She was cheating on me the whole time and when she found a teammate with more money, more fame, she was gone." I shrug again. "Like I said, it doesn't matter. I'm over it."

Which is a lie.

Something I can see she knows even though she's too nice to call me on it.

"Right," she murmurs, running her fingers over my cheek, her nails through the strands of my beard. "Right," she says again, starting to shift out of my hold. Giving me space. Not pushing. "I mean that seems like a lot." Her throat works. "But you know yourself?—"

Do I?

Because this shit between us is supposed to be fake.

And it feels like anything but that.

"I just…" Her throat works again. "I'm here."

I touch her cheek. "Thank you."

Emerald eyes drifting back to mine, disappointment swimming in their depths.

And…that feels like shit.

But I can't give her the rest.

Not right now.

"What happened to my Prickle Princess?" I tease, capturing her hand, keeping her in my arms, desperate to see her eyes fill with anything but that disappointment.

"Excuse me?" she whispers, brows pulling together in an adorable furrow.

"The Cactus Queen wouldn't let my bullshit excuses slide," I say lightly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, brushing my thumb over that tiny v between her brows, wanting to smooth out the confusion, the hurt, the sadness.

Hell, who am I kidding?

I just want to touch her and keep her close and safe and…mine.

Before that thought sends panic snaking up my throat, stealing my ability to breathe, one half of her mouth quirks up, and she says, "The Cactus Queen will let that bullshit slide when it's late and we've both had a long couple of weeks." Her hand comes back to my jaw, fingers pressing lightly into my skin, and she sighs softly. "And because you don't owe me an explanation, King. God knows you've done more than enough for me already."

Something that feels even more wrong.

That she thinks I wouldn't give her more.

That she thinks I wouldn't give her this.

That she thinks I wouldn't give her the world.

"It's really not a big deal," I say, hating the sympathy that creeps into her eyes, hating the way it makes me feel. "Plenty of other people have dealt with a shitty breakup and come through unscathed."

"But not you." She nibbles at her lip. "Or not you in this situation."

You're not your dad.

God, I've heard that so many times over the years.

Too many fucking times.

And not just from Rose.

She just…somehow made that feeling stick.

"Not me," I agree. "I…well, I fucked it up. She deserved better and I couldn't do enough for her and?—"

Christ.

My voice cracks. My eyes sting.

Over a decade old breakup.

I really am pathetic.

"She deserved better?" There are embers of fury in Rory's green eyes now.

"I—"

Fuck. Why did I open this shitshow up for discussion?

But before I can pull back, Rory asks quietly, "How didn't you do enough for her?"

I freeze, force myself to meet her eyes. Thankfully, there's no sign of pity in the emerald depths and that means I'm able to take a breath, to let the words come.

"I'm away half the year," I remind her. "And most of the other months are dominated by me training or at practice or watching tape or getting ready to play. Even when I'm here, I'm busy and unavailable."

Her brows pull together, the embers sparking into a tiny inferno in deep green irises. "Because you have a job?"

I peel her hand from my jaw, press a kiss to her palm. "Hockey dominates my life and leaves room for little else."

"Except rescuing a pup"—she nods to Zeus sprawled out on my feet—"and keeping a schedule"—to my binder, currently sitting on my nightstand because I'd spent the morning before the game doing some planning and prep work for the next couple of weeks—"and rescuing runaway brides from the side of the road."

I inhale sharply.

Exhale.

You're not your father.

"It's not that simple."

A long pause. "Was it different before?"

I tilt my head to the side, link my fingers with hers because it feels better to touch her, to hold her. "What do you mean?"

"Did you always plan your schedule and make time for your family?"

"I—" I frown.

She reaches over me, scoops up the binder, battered from—yes—years of use. "Because this bad boy looks well-loved."

"I—"

"How long have you had it, baby?" she presses.

I fight the urge to look away.

"How long?" she asks again.

"Since I moved away from home."

"So you have a demanding job that takes you away from your family, and I see evidence of you making them a priority—something that would presumably carry over to a woman in your life." Her fingers squeeze mine. "What I don't see evidence of is you neglecting the people you love."

My throat is tight.

"Especially because you made this"—she touches her chest—"little runaway bride feel very much like a priority even though we've spent the last months bickering and circling each other because I'd taken it upon myself to be the most Prickly Princess of all time." Mouth curved, she leans down, brushes her lips over mine. "But I know it's not that easy, that just because someone says something, it doesn't heal those wounds deep inside. I just…" A breath. "I don't see that—you being neglectful and a bad partner—being a reality. I think…" Another exhale. "I think maybe she was like my stepmom and stepsisters. Just…not a good person."

Rose wasn't a good person.

I'm not so fucked up that I can't see that, but?—

You're not your father.

I exhale again, hate that it's shaky. "I'm not my dad."

Her hand convulses and I hate myself a little bit, but the rest of the words just tumble out.

"I've never been my dad, not on the ice, not off it. I'm not going to hit records or be a stabilizing presence in the locker room or coach a team to the championship year after year. I don't have it in me to make a woman feel as special as I should when I'm away for more than half the year, to balance a big family and make everyone feel loved and seen." I grind my teeth together. "But I know my limitations and I do the best with what I've been given."

It's why I'm not getting married.

Not ever.

Why I'll humor my mom.

But not with anything permanent.

Fucking liar.

Because if Rory wanted permanent, if Rory loved me, if Rory was mine, I'd?—

"So that's why you've been avoiding the matchmaking from your mom." Her hand flexes in mine. "Because you're like me."

My eyes flick up, holding hers.

"You think that you don't deserve happiness."

Those words?—

They blast through me.

My skin feels tight, embarrassment creeps out of my stomach, crawls over my flesh, leaving me itchy and uncomfortable.

"That's not it," I grind out. "We're not—" I break off because that's the panic talking.

"Alike?" she asks.

Rory's nothing like me.

"You're good, and I'm…not."

Christ. I inhale, mouth opening. Wanting to take it all back. To not ruin this.

But then Rory's expression closes down.

And she pulls her hand from mine.