Page 14 of Blue Line Love

Almost.

“I can sleep in my own room,” she argues, even as her eyes start to flutter closed.

“This is your room,” I remind her.

I get the feeling that, while I’ve gotten away with bringing her here, redressing her, and tucking her in, I won’t get away with slipping into bed with her. That shit is agonizing. I want to press to her, to hold her. I want to channel the anger I still feel about that creep into showing her that I’m her protector. I will always look after her, no matter what.

But that’s a battle for a different night. Maybe one where Olivia is actually sober and willing to speak to me.

So with a weary sigh, I plop into the armchair near the window.

Over the edge of the comforter, Olivia peers at me. “You’re just going to sit over there?”

“Yup.”

“Mm.” She’s still hunting for the words to argue with, but before she can find them, sleep wins out. Her sleepy, drunken snores fill the room.

And for a while, I watch her.

The comforter rises and falls with her breaths. That feeling of wanting to be near her flares up again. Possessiveness charges through my chest like a bunch of wild bulls, snorting and snarling up a stampede.

I thought that everything in the last months before the disastrous playoffs was the most mixed-up my mind could have gotten. I was so fucking wrong. Because now, I feel like I’ve been put in a blender. I want to be so close to Olivia but the universe has other plans. It keeps putting these things in the way, trying to tear us from each other.

I can’t let that happen.

I won’t.

7

REESE

A gentle scent hits my nose. It’s familiar. Tempting.

Olivia.

I don’t remember getting into the bed, but I don’t think about it as my arm snakes around her waist, pulling her close to me. The silkiness of her hair tickles my nose.

I may have been in my house long before she came into my world, but having Olivia in my arms reminds me this place is a home when she’s here. Yeah, yeah, it’s fucking corny—the kind of shit you find in Hallmark movies.

But it’s the truth.

And I’m a hockey player, not a fuckin’ poet.

I’m not the only one that stirs. Olivia moans. The sound is soft and vulnerable and it makes a knot settle in the pit of my stomach. My cock twitches.

Olivia’s body responds as if on command, pressing back into me. Her pert, round ass rubs against my lap. When she moans again, the sound is like an electric shock rippling through me.

I forget the fact that we’re warring with each other right now. It doesn’t matter. In my half-wakened state, I wrap my arm around her and flip her over so she’s facing me. My mouth descends on hers, seeking the sweetness of her lips.

And she gives.

Her sigh whispers across my mouth before she presses to me. Eager, desperate, her arms snake around me to hold me close. My arm flexes around her, keeping her in a tight grip. I’m never going to let her go.

I delve my tongue into her mouth. We move in a hot, heady tandem. My cock, rock-hard and at full attention, strains against my boxers. The head peeks out over the waistband. I groan, rubbing against her hot center trying to get some friction relief.

I get a handful of her ass. My fingers are eager to squeeze that fullness and hoist her up to hook a leg at my hip. I want to spread her wide and push into her, claim her body as my own.

“Olivia…” Her name is a prayer on my lips. She’s mine again, isn’t she? She’s come back to me and now?—

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