Page 90 of Hockey Wife

Head injury care protocol had moved on in the last few years. No longer was there an expectation to wake the patient every couple of hours to make sure they hadn’t slipped into a coma. These days, uninterrupted rest was preferred. Not that he’d get any. But he was fine with watching Georgia breathe, ensuring that it was steady, even, unlabored. The tiny bandage strips over her cut were as wispy as she was.

Stripping to his briefs, he slipped under the covers, turned out the light, and lay on his back staring at the ceiling.

She placed an arm around his torso and snuggled into his good shoulder. “Go to sleep, Big Guy.”

Like this? Not likely.

He should not have kissed her in the kitchen. He’d only wanted to calm her down. She was so worried she’d upset his routine, his game, his life—and while it was true, he couldn’t let her feel like that. She needed to know she wasn’t a burden. She could never be.

She didn’t think he should have left the game. That she wasn’t worth leaving the game for. He got the impression Georgia was not used to being the center of attention. Strange, considering her upbringing and her many appearances in the media, but she’d taken a backseat to her sister for much of her life. He’d read up on it, curious about the psychological impact of being the healthy sibling of an unwell child. They even had a name for it: glass child syndrome. Overlooked, ignored, with expectations that the well sibling remain on an even keel and not rock the boat.

Tonight, she’d been anxious that no one make a fuss. Didn’t even want him to contact her parents.

Georgia needed someone to take care of her, not that she’d ever admit it. He wasn’t even sure why he was admitting it. Probably guilt over what happened.

Her soft breathing against his neck should have soothed instead of inflamed. But then that was Georgia. What should have been comfort was closer to torture. She moved her head, and he moved his, so he could brush his lips against her forehead. He remained like that, contorted like an ogre, holding onto his princess for dear life.

“You’re tense,” she whispered.

“You should be sleeping.”

“I can’t. My heart is racing.” She took his hand and placed it against her breast. “See?”

The heat and life beneath his fingertips traveled an electric current down his arm and onward. His belly. His cock.

That fucker twitched, loving the closeness. The sheer, sexy potential.

His hand flexed against her chest, and his fingers itched to cup and curve her gorgeous tit. Just as he was about to pull away, she covered his hand with hers and placed it where it needed to be.

“Georgia—”

“Please.” The tone in her voice was desperate. “Touch me, Dylan.”

His fingers tingled, his hand flexing to shape that mound of heated flesh through her camisole. Gently he massaged his thumb over the pebbled nipple. He turned to her, seeking better access, and caught her eyes striped by lights from the partially open blind. They shone bright, her lips parted and wet from the flick of her tongue.

Jesus, she was beautiful.

He needed to feel her skin, all the gorgeous heat of it. Pulling at the hem of her top, he pushed it up over her breasts. His hand found purchase again, this time without the barrier of her top, and he took a moment to explore. Her tits were small but perfectly formed, gorgeous swells in his palm.

His mouth watered with desire. Just a quick taste because he might not have the stamina for anything longer. His cock was thickening, desperate for attention.

Meanwhile these pretty tits needed his mouth on them now. Tongue first, the flat against a nipple. Her breathy gasp became a whimper when he plumped her flesh and took it between his lips. He sucked on her tit, then kissed a path between them before applying his efforts to the other one.

His dick started to leak. Not gonna last.

Mouth full and busy, he coasted his hand down her stomach over the round of her belly until he reached?—

Shocked, he withdrew his fingers. No panties.

The darkness made it seem like a secret, one that would vanish in the night shadows along with their fake marriage. He didn’t want fake.

He wanted real.

He leaned over to turn on the lamp and pulled back the covers.

His beautiful wife lay before him, her camisole pushed up above her breasts, which were tinged pink from where he’d suckled them. Otherwise, she was completely naked, wild-eyed, and panting.

“Where are your panties, Peaches?”

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