Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
He groans. I gasp.
He spreads my legs wider. I tug him closer.
He kisses me ravenously. I arch into his mouth.
Soon, it feels like we’re fucking again as he eats me and I rock my hips into his face. I can’t get enough of him. And he goes down on me the same way—like I’m his last meal.
It’s never been like this with other guys before. We’re that in sync. Like he wants me the same way I want him.
I have to remember we’re just getting this out of our systems.
Truly I do.
Because he touches me like he’ll never get enough.
He wraps his hands around my ass. Yanks me closer. Consumes me.
He’s so shameless in his need that I’m shameless too.
Crying out. Thrusting up. Letting go.
Until I’m shouting and falling apart once again.
Later, after he slides next to me, he says, “You better make a lot of room in your calendar for me to do that again. And again. And again.”
I smile, but there’s an ache in my chest too.
Words like calendar remind me of our eventual end.
This is designed to end. Of course it is.
Still…right now, I want to stay in the middle of it.
38
THIS IS NOT A REINDEER JACKING OFF
ROWAN
As the clock ticks off the final seconds, I crowd the Los Angeles forwards, stopping them from even trying to tie up this game. Until finally the horn blares and my favorite letter flashes on the scoreboard.
W.
I thrust my stick in the air, then high-five Wesley as he skates past me. “That’s how you do it,” he says.
“It fucking is,” I agree, but we don’t leave the ice. It’s time for another teddy bear toss. The team’s been doing them all throughout the game, starting with the first goal scored. When we nabbed that point, fans tossed toys and stuffed animals onto the ice that we picked up to donate to local toy drives. They did it again with our second point. And now, with the win, fans shower down more toys, basketballs, board games, and of course, stuffies, tossing them, carefully in some cases.
My eyes are on the brunette in the first row. She cocks her arm and launches a stuffed missile my way. It lands with a skid near my skates. I scoop it up, laughing when I realize what it is—a stuffed raccoon. I give a chin-nod her way.
She waves back and I puff out my chest as my teammates and I glide across the ice, picking up more toys. There’s just something about your woman coming to your game. Even if it’s temporary. Even if it’s fake. Pride rushes through me—she’s here, rooting for me, watching me. That feeling spurs me on as I drop toys in big buckets the ice crew pushes along the rink. Near Isla, in the first row by the players’ bench, Leighton snaps pics that’ll go up on the team’s socials.
When we’re done, I’m about to head for the gate. But fuck it. What’s a little fake-dating without a kiss with my Christmas girlfriend? I hop over the boards and beckon her to come closer. She weaves down her row, reaching the edge of the bench as I tug off my gloves.
“Good game, Bishop.”
“This will make it even better.” I tug on her red snowflake scarf and pull her close, planting a hot, possessive kiss to her lips.
Leighton whistles.
Some of my teammates shout get a room.
I flip them the bird, all while kissing my former matchmaker a little longer.
When I break the kiss, I wiggle my brows then jump back over the boards and head through the tunnel to the locker room, where I rip off my helmet and toss my jersey in the bin.
“Good job, boys,” Miles says when he comes in a few seconds later, sounding exhausted from the game—but the good kind of exhausted.
“Thanks, Dad,” Wesley teases.
Miles rolls his eyes. “I’m not even a dad.”
“But you have dad energy.”
I swing my gaze to Miles. “Can confirm.”
“Fuck off,” he mutters.
“Hey, is that any way to talk to the guy you took under your wing?” I toss back, since I can dish it out too.
Wesley clears his throat. “Speaking of,” he says, then reaches into the top cubby of his stall.
I groan. Why did I bring up dating? Why? Fucking why?
But I keep on my poker face—right as Miles pushes up from the bench and, still in full gear, strides over to me.
“If I give off dad energy, then you are my difficult child,” he says.
“And we all know the difficult ones get all the attention,” Ford puts in.
“I bet you were a perfect kid,” I say.
“Obviously,” Ford says dryly.
“And since you’re, well, not, we’re helping you again. You’re welcome,” he adds.
I brace myself for a gag gift. For the gag gift to end all gag gifts.
I swivel around to face my teammates, making a bring it on gesture with my fingers. “Give me the whoopie cushion, the Hawaiian Christmas shirt with all your faces on it, an apron with a reindeer jacking off on the bib.”