Page 29 of Puck Princess

But I don’t really care. Belonging to him feels pretty damn good. I’d be lying if I said I don’t notice the jealous looks I get everywhere we go.

“You are insane.”

He kisses my fingertips again, his blue-green eyes holding mine. “Only for you.”

An hour later, we’re hardly through the front door when he tosses his keys in the bowl (and misses) because we’re too busy trying to figure out how to rip each other’s clothes off without pulling our mouths off each other. It’s a messy, hurried, frenzy of kissing and laughing and gasping and tripping over each other as we leave a trail of clothes on the way to the bedroom.

Mostly my clothes, I notice as we bounce off the hallway walls.

“Why is it that I’m completely naked and you’re just unzipped?” I ask. “Where is the justice in that?”

“I know what I want, and you’re easily distracted.” He illustrated the point by kissing and nibbling me everywhere. “I like to be able to see you. All of you.”

“I like to see you, too. You’re kind of alright looking with that hockey body and all.”

Owen tugs his shirt off in one smooth pull. “Better?”

I drag my hands down his defined abs and literally purr. “Absolutely.”

“Good. Now stop bitching and say my name.”

He drops to his knees and grips my thighs, yanking me to him. I almost fall over, but he catches me with his mouth. And I moan.

“Owen…”

“Good girl,” he murmurs into me.

After he proceeds to suck the soul from my body—a pastime that never gets old—he carries me to our bed.

“This is the only place I want to be.” The words come out breathless, timed to the movement of his hips against mine. He fills me in long, devastating strokes. “I’m always thinking about coming home to you, Callie.”

Coming home to Owen.

That’s what these last few days have been. Finally, after a lifetime of feeling like I don’t quite fit, I feel like I’m home.

I come with a sharp cry, and Owen groans against my neck. He spills into me until we’re both in a puddle of tingly nerves and satisfaction, relaxing into the bed.

But just as I think I could probably fall asleep—the second trimester seems to be the sleepy trimester—Owen hops up.

“Nope. No falling asleep. We have plans.” He kisses me before walking to the bathroom to turn on the shower.

“I can’t go another round, Owen,” I mumble into the pillow. “Not in the shower. I don’t even think I can stand. You’d have to carry me.”

His fingers trail down my bare thigh. “Fuck, Cal… Don’t tempt me. We’re already running late as it is.”

I peek one eye open. “Plans? I’m supposed to be relaxing and having fun.”

“I never said it wasn’t going to be fun. But you should probably get dressed. We’re going to have company in about—” he looks at his watch. “—twenty-five minutes.”

I bolt up. “What? Who?”

Owen just laughs, stepping into the shower. “Just a handful of people from the arena.”

“My handful or yours? Those are very different sized handfuls.”

“It’s just some friends.”

“Owen!” I rush over to the closet, hoping I have something clean to wear. After a cursory glance at the empty closet, I’m going to have to throw on leggings and one of Owen’s shirts. I’m still straddling two apartments right now—three, if you count the one I am supposed to be moving into.

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