18. Sammy

Sammy

Every second that passes with Finn in my arms, I think she’s going to pull back.

I’m not sure what would happen at that point. Maybe she would wipe the back of her hand over her mouth and say something like, “That. Yes—do that with Harper.”

But don’t want to do this with Harper, I think, swallowing Finn’s gasp, relishing the feel of her body finally, finally melting in my arms. I want to do this with Finn, and I never want to stop.

Maybe she’d pull back, look me up and down, then give me five specific pointers on how to kiss her better. How to optimize the way I give her pleasure.

For some reason, that thought goes straight to my cock. The idea of Finn bossing me around, telling me exactly what to do for her—it makes me impossibly hard, and I have to fight not to press against her, to show her how excited I am for her.

Of course, another option is that she could pull back and bury her knee between my legs. There’s no doubt in my mind that Finn has taken self-defense classes, that she might be able to leverage my own body weight against me and get me on the floor.

Instead, she tips her head up, and I slip my tongue into her mouth, groaning at the sensation there, the taste of her. Kissing Finn feels like dunking my head in a chocolate fountain, eyes and mouth and nose filling up with something too sweet to bear—too rich to swallow all at once.

There are several voices in my head. One says that this is a terrible idea. Another says that I need to shut up and commit the feeling of this woman to memory. And yet another says something louder than the rest: Your key card is in your left pocket.

When the security pad on my door clicks and blinks green, Finn shifts, moving with me as I back her into my room. This is happening.

Finn is in my hands. Against my mouth. I walk her backward until she runs up against the bed, the backs of her legs hitting the mattress. We kiss there for a moment, and it’s like standing on the edge of a cliff—of course it is. Finn is all about facing your fears.

I let my hands roam her body, skating over her curves and down to her ass, which I palm readily, groaning at the swell of it in my hands. Her body is intentional, each piece exactly how she wants it, which is, incidentally, exactly how I want it, too.

My hands wander back up as I kiss her deeper, then snag on the bottom of her dress shirt, where it’s tucked into her skirt. When I tug, it comes loose, and I reveal a strip of her warm, smooth skin. Without thinking, I thrust my hands under the fabric. It’s only her stomach—only my fingers against her hot, feverish skin—but it feels like more. The way Finn groans into my mouth, it makes it feel like more.

And I want more.

It’s like my body doesn’t belong to me, and I’m dropping to my knees, lifting Finn up by her hips effortlessly and planting her on the bed. She’s wearing this little pencil skirt that’s pretty tight around her thighs, and I try to bunch it, push it out of my way.

When it doesn’t budge, I growl in frustration and turn my attention to another area in the meantime, kissing and biting the inside of her thigh. If I thought her stomach was bliss, this is different altogether. Like sneaking unbacked cookie dough. So sweet, so forbidden.

I hear the soft pull of a zipper then her skirt is loose. I waste no time pushing at it, bunching it around her hips and trailing my tongue up the inside of her thigh, to the junction of her, where she’s molten and already wet.

“Fuck,” I say, my voice coming out rough, and I realize it’s the first thing I’ve said since bringing her into my room. Instead of saying anything else, I surge forward, pressing a kiss to her against the soft, damp cotton of her panties, my cock groaning in pleasure at the sound she lets out.

I won’t say anything—I don’t want to alert her, or even my own rational brain, to the fact that what we’re doing right now shouldn’t be happening. So I say nothing. I just act.

Finn melts into the bed, her hips bucking when I roughly pull her panties to the side. I’ve been with plenty of women. As a professional athlete, it’s not hard to find someone who wants to come to bed with you. I’ve done a lot of practicing, and I’ve happily traded oral with any woman that was interested in giving me a blow job. Tit for tat. Pleasure for pleasure.

But this is not that.

I’m not about to put my mouth on Finn’s pussy because I expect anything in return. I’m going to do it because I need to. Because I might actually die if I don’t get to taste her, get to feel her squirming against my tongue. Because her on my hotel bed—her skirt around her hips and her legs on my shoulders—is the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

When I find her clit with my tongue, she lets out a noise I want to catalog. Hot, needy. Something I never would have thought cool, composed Finn Asher capable of.

Finding the rhythm she likes, I circle her clit with my tongue, keeping them tight and hard, applying just enough pressure that her legs begin to shake. Being here with her is like being on the ice. Skating, the natural rhythm of it so natural to me that I could do it with my eyes closed. So natural to me that when she makes a little noise, something wanting and deep in her chest, I already know what she’s asking for.

What she needs.

I sink my fingers into her tight pussy, cock jumping at the feeling of her warmth, her walls tightening around me. I push once, curling my fingers, and she comes undone for me, clapping her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.

Growling, I lap at her, kissing and sucking until the last whimper of pleasure is off her lips. I keep my fingers buried inside her, thinking over and over that I want to get my cock into this woman, want to feel that friction, want to bury myself so deep that she’ll have trouble finding a part of her without me.

And then she sits up, and our eyes meet.

I’m still panting, on my knees, chin slick from her lust. Her eyes are dark, unfocused, wary, and I already know what’s coming—the immediate backtrack she’s going to do.

And what the fuck am I doing?

“Holy shit,” Finn breathes.

“I know, I’m sorry,” I say, watching as she stiffens, the reality of what just happened coming to her now, her face sobering up. “Shit, I’m sorry, Finn, it was—”

“—a mistake,” she finishes, her voice hard. I rock back, out of her space, wiping my chin on my sleeve and wiping my fingers—I’m almost ashamed to admit—on the hotel carpet.

“Yeah, I’m sorry—” I start.

“Stop apologizing, it was—I was—”

“—it won’t—”

“Sammy—”

“—happen again.”

With her skirt zipped up, but wrinkled, she pauses, her eyes swinging to mine. It’s impossible for me to read her expression, and it doesn’t help that I’m kneeling here, still fully erect, before her. I can smell her everywhere around me. Even the sight of her bare legs is keeping me hard.

“You won’t let it happen again,” she says, clearing her throat. “Right. Good.”

Something about this isn’t right. Something about her clipped tone doesn’t match what I know about her, but I can’t figure it out. I feel paralyzed as she gets shakily to her feet, reaching out to the bed post for stability as she starts to wobble to the door. I realize her high heels never even came off, and that thought also keeps me hard.

She’s blinking fast when she passes me, and my brain works double time, trying to figure out what to do. It’s hard to form a thought through the haze of the lust, of the total dream of what just happened.

“Finn—” I finally manage, just as she reaches the door.

“Goodnight, Sammy,” she says, cutting me off, and my next word is swallowed in the whoosh of the closing mechanism and the electronic sound of the lock.***

Later, that night, I’m half-awake, feeling sorry for myself and trying to figure out what to do while the hotel TV screen flickers, casting ghostly white light on the desk and duvet. I tried going to Finn’s door, but I couldn’t bring myself to knock. Then Brett came whistling down the hallway, and I had to pretend I was just going to get some ice before he caught on.

Now, the TV switches from news to sports. The familiar jingle plays, just barely audible, through the room, and I turn to my side, numbly taking it in.

“Welcome back to our newest segment, The Breakaway, where we’re all about hockey. I'm Dave Chen alongside Chris Martinez, and we're diving into a story I truly never thought we would cover. Chris, what the hell is going on with Sammy Braun?”

“Well, I’m not entirely sure, Dave, but I’ll tell you one thing—Coach Grey Aldine is sure as hell pretty pleased with whatever got into that kid’s drinking water. When we started this season, there were serious questions about Braun. Rumors about being traded and declining performance. With the exit of a seasoned goalie, he was set to take on the brunt of the work, and many of our analysts thought for sure Aldine was looking for an escape route. But what we're seeing now is nothing short of extraordinary.”

Was Coach looking for an escape route?

“The numbers don't lie, Chris. His save percentage has jumped from .891 last season to an impressive .934 this year. That's actually—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—elite territory.”

“And let's talk about that save against Toronto, Dave. The kind of acrobatic move we used to see from more dedicated veterans like Bennett. Speaking of Bennett, sources say he's been working with Braun!”

“What sources? I’d like to chat with them because I’m calling bullshit on that. As if Bennett doesn’t have better things to do with his retirement.”

“Alright, alright,” Chris laughs, hitting his palm against the table. “But even if Bennett isn’t involved, let’s talk about Braun’s mental transformation—remember early in the season when he'd crumble under pressure? Those breakaway situations where you could practically see the anxiety radiating off him?”

“Hard to forget that four-goal disaster against the Rangers.”

“Exactly. But now? He's stone cold in front of the net. That save percentage on breakaways has skyrocketed from 38% to nearly 75%. I don’t want to jump the gun on this one, but can we hear the whispers of the Stanley Cup, returning to the Vipers this year?”

“If you want to address the elephant in the room, Chris, we can, and it’s this: Can the Vipers really make another Cup run without Devon Chambers?”

Laughter from the studio. My eyes are burning, heavy. I feel my body starting to drift off.

“You know what?” Chris says, speaking over the noise, “I think they can. And here’s why—this isn't the same team relying on individual heroics anymore. Ratcliff has matured into a legitimate leader, the defense is more coordinated than ever, and in Braun, they've found a goalie who seems like he can stand tall in those crucial moments! I don’t want to be too simplistic, but I think a strong line and a strong goalie are the key ingredients to produce the cup.”

“ Bold prediction, Chris. Who’s to say Braun doesn’t slip back into his old performance levels?”

“I wouldn’t call it a prediction, but you know what? I'll go even bolder: If Braun maintains this trajectory, we're looking at a serious Vezina Trophy contender. The transformation reminds me of Bennett's breakout season—same age, similar statistical jump.”

“That's quite a comparison, but—what the hell—I’ll join in. Braun is starting to remind me of some other players, too. Namely the Viper’s big hole this season, Devon Chambers. I haven’t seen someone take a risk like that since Chambers was forced to cover for Ratcliff just two seasons ago.”

“Sure, Dave. I see that. I mean, you just have to look at the tape. Look at this!” A clip appears on the TV of the most recent Vipers’ game, a puck flying toward the goal. “The positioning, the reflexes, but most importantly, that confidence. He's playing like someone who knows they belong among the elite. And in this league, that mental edge makes all the difference.”

“Let’s hope, for the Vipers’ sake, that that mental edge doesn’t turn into a mental ledge.”

“Very clever.”

“After the break, tune back in for a look into this season’s college hockey…”