37. Lola

Lola

"What are you writing?"

I blush, slapping a palm over my notebook when I feel Devon's chin on my shoulder, his stubble grazing tantalizingly against my tender skin.

"Nothing," I gasp, giggling and fidgeting against him when he reaches around and easily slips the notebook from under my hand.

"Devon!" I squeal when he turns, keeping one arm around my waist while the other holds the notebook up above his head. "That is my private intellectual property!"

"His fingers massage the inside of her thigh," Devon reads, his voice dripping with amusement, "and when he bunches her skirt around her hips—"

I manage to knock the notebook from his hand, and it goes skittering across the floor before coming to a stop next to the wall heater. I'm still giggling when he twists around so I'm under him, and he's staring down at me with those dark eyes.

It's morning. Sunlight is filtering through the windows, and traffic is weaving noisily along the road below. But Devon is here with me, pinning me to the bed. His grin is wide and infectious, and the stubble along his jaw softens his face. His soft brown hair hangs over his forehead.

"Do you need to do more research?" he asks, nosing along my collarbone. "Because I am more than happy to be your guinea pig."

"Oh my god," I gasp, burying my fingers in his hair and letting my head fall back against the pillow. "Stop, I'm going to die of embarrassment."

"Don't," he says. "Your sex scenes are good."

"Sex…scenes?" I probe, and he freezes, his lips still against my collarbone. "What are you talking about?"

His face starts turning red, and he murmurs, "Nothing."

"Devon Chambers," I say with a laugh, kicking my legs under him giddily. "Have you read my books?"

"Perhaps," he answers, smirking up at me and continuing his assault on my collarbone, this time dragging his nose along the skin there and sending sparks of desire shooting through my body. "One or two."

"Which ones?"

"The one about the prince, the one about the pilot, the one about the ballet dancers," he says and then pauses, flicking his eyes up to me playfully. "So maybe I've read a few."

"A few," I murmur, my body warming, heat pooling in my belly. For some reason, the thought of Devon reading my books is more of a turn-on than anything I've ever experienced. I think of him reading them while sitting in an armchair or in bed, and I wonder if those scenes affected him. If he thinks my "sex scenes are good," does that mean they turned him on?

Does that mean he touched himself while reading them?

Heat blossoms over my skin, and Devon smiles, his hands tightening on my body in a way I'm starting to learn means he's aroused, too. I gasp when he flips us over, orienting me so I'm sprawled out across him.

"It's insane to me that I haven't had you in every position," he murmurs, his hands coming to my hips and guiding me over him. When I sink down onto his cock, pleasure at the pressure there floods through me, and I start to grind, pressing down so my clit is rubbing against him.

More than any of the physical sensations, it's the look on his face—the way his eyes go dark, his breath comes fast, and his eyes trace up my body from my stomach to my sides to my breasts—that turns me on, spurring me to move faster.

When he reaches up, cupping one of my breasts and then gently tugging me down so he can get my nipple in his mouth, I lose it, gasping and crying out, sending him over the edge, too.

A moment later, we lie there together with me draped over him, both of us breathing heavily.

"That," Devon says hoarsely, "was much better than in the book."

***

The Stratton Syrup Stadium is positively buzzing with fans, all wearing the familiar serpent on their jerseys. That morning, we debated whether I should be seen leaving his hotel room. I argued that if Melissa or the other PR people found out, they would know we had been together. And Devon argued we could say it was a stunt for the paparazzi.

It didn't end up being important, anyway, because when I opened the door to his room and dashed across the hall, there was nobody out and about. We arrived at the airport separately, but Devon made sure to sit right next to me on the plane. When I nodded off, I may have even slept with my head on his shoulder.

"All for the cameras," he'd whispered when I woke up upon landing.

"Right," I'd whispered back, sharing a conspiratorial smile with him as the plane slowed to a stop.

Now, Ellie is squealing and tugging me along. Today, she has the stroller with her, and she checks on Clementine frequently. The little baby girl has headphones on to block out the noise from the stadium, and Ellie has a little cover to put on her stroller in case it all "gets to be too much."

I can't help it—I'm bouncing in my seat by the time the game starts. I'm wearing an Avalanche jersey, which still gets me weird looks from the others in the box, but I ignore them. It's easy to tell how far I've come from that first game.

Now, when the puck slides across the ice, I can locate it easily and assume its trajectory based on how it was hit. I also find Devon easily every time he's on the ice. I can clock his movements, how he holds his stick, and the way he glances up at me.

More than that, I can also identify all the other players on the team, their positions, ticks, weaknesses, and strengths. I feel like a real hockey aficionado.

When Devon scores the winning shot, sending the puck straight through an Avalanche player's legs and into the back of the net, I leap to my feet, screaming and clapping. I see myself on the big screen, with the words CHAMBERS' GIRLFRIEND at the bottom, and realize I look happier up there than I have in a long time.

I find him afterward and launch myself into his arms.

"All for the cameras," I whisper, burying my face in his neck while thinking this thing might just turn out okay after all.