Page 80 of Shoot Your Shot

I love to blow my load on my wife’s ass, or tits, or even her face from time to time. But coming inside of her? There is nothing like it. Especially when she comes at the exact same time.

“Kolt,” she chokes out. “Fuck … Kolt.”

“Drench me, Buttercup,” I murmur, feeling a shiver run down my spine and my balls tingling inside. “But don’t you dare stop fucking me until you know my cock is spent. Understand?”

She bounces up and down faster and harder, nodding weakly through her moans. Her eyebrows pull together as she bites down on her bottom lip, and when my seed begins to spill inside her slick heat, my vision grows blurry while she continues to ride me.

Her pussy clenches around my dick so tightly, and her rocking grows slower while her nipples are harder than I’ve ever seen them. As her back arches, she throws her head back.

Moments later, when her rocking has stopped, she looks down at me with ajust fuckedgrin and huffs, “How did I do, sir? Am I puck-bunny material? And did tonight suffice for not having me in the stands?”

“Nah,” I say, and she frowns. “You’re way fucking better.” I wink, gripping her waist. “Not much beats you being at my games. But when you suck my dick or ride my cock … well, that’s right up there with you watching my games.” I smirk. “Now, get down here and rest for a while. I meant what I said … I’m taking your ass soon. And tonight might be the night.”

She looks at me with a devilish grin, and I know that whatever the fuck I want tonight … I’m going to get.

Iwalk into the house and have no idea what I’m about to find. But when I take in my wife, peeking in the oven. When she closes the door and turns toward me, sulking, I know it’s probably not good.

Thank God I went with two cake pops instead of one when I went to Starbucks today.

“Oh my God. The turkey is probably so overcooked.” Her face continues to crumple and she throws her head back. “Everyone is going to come over for Friendsgiving, expecting a good meal with a moist turkey, and instead … they’ll get dried-out turkey.”

“Ew, you said moist,” I grimace, pretending to gag. “Can you not ever say that word again?”

“Don’t be a baby,” she groans, clearly annoyed.

The thing about my wife is, she hates being under a lot of stress. When she brought the idea up to me that she wanted to host a Friendsgiving, I almost told her that it probably wasn’t the best idea because her mind gets frazzled with all the tasks and she wouldn’t let me help. But because I love her, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. So, here we are. She’s pissed at me, even though she isn’t actually pissed at me. And I’m simply trying to quietly breathe air and exist without making it worse.

“You’ve heard what Logan says about Maci. She’s afabulouscook. Like … basically Gordon Ramsay, but cuter and nicer.And Poppy can’t cook for shit—unless she learned while I was gone, which, if she did, great. But now, she’s pregnant, and she deserves a good meal. Not to mention, her childhood sucked, and she never had a proper Thanksgiving dinner, and now, she and Walker go to freaking IHOP every year—”

“They love IHOP, babe. It’s their tradition,” I say and quickly regret interrupting her when she shoots me daggers. “And if they love IHOP, they’ll sure as fuck love your cooking too,” I quickly add, reminding myself that my wife loves me and that she’s overstimulated as fuck right now.

She’s been so engrossed in the apparently dry turkey that she hasn’t even noticed the shit in my hands from when I ran to town. Her eyes find the small Starbucks bag and the iced coffee, and suddenly, it’s like the demon that was just inside of her is out. She looks up at me as her lip pokes out, and she barrels toward me.

I hold them out to her. “Nothing a nasty cake pop and overpriced coffee won’t fix, right?” I shrug, winking at her playfully.

“I’m sorry,” she squeaks, looking up at me. “I’m just stressed. And when I do things like this, I remind myself that I am not an entertainer. Or a master chef. Or a great baker. I’m just … me.”

“Baby,” rushes from my lips, and I cup her cheeks, shutting her up. “Have you looked around this house? Who else in the Sharks family decorates like this?” I pull my hand back and wave it around at the intricately placed Christmas decor.

“Umm … everyone,” she answers matter-of-factly. “Literallyeverysingle player’s house, whether married or with a girlfriend, looks like ours right now. You know why? Pinterest, Kolt. Because of Pinterest, anyone can be an interior designer.”

Well … fuck.

“You make it hard to be nice when you can’t take a compliment, woman,” I joke sharply. “Okay, well, who else canfix a person’s bad back or aching neck in a few sessions?” I test her. “That’s right. No one coming to dinner tonight because my baby is one of the top physical therapists in New England.” When she doesn’t smile, I step around her and grab the magazine I’ve kept proudly on the counter, pointing to the writing in the corner of the cover. “And if you don’t believe me, just call this magazine. They’ll fill you in.”

A few days ago, she found out she was included in a list of the best physical therapists in the New England area. She’s been downplaying the shit out of it, but it’s a huge accomplishment, and I’m so fucking proud of my girl.

“Thank you,” she whispers, a smile slowly growing on her lips. “I know I’m acting like a crazy person. Why did I think it was a good idea to host Friendsgiving? I don’t host. I mean, I hardly even like to gather with this many people, let alone be the one cooking and cleaning.”

I cup her cheeks and bring my mouth down to hers. “Everyone is going to love everything you make, baby. I promise. And if they don’t … fuck ’em.” I playfully smack my lips against hers a few times. “I love you, and it’s all going to be fine.”

She doesn’t even try to look convinced, but instead frowns. “We should have gotten takeout. Or catering. You’re a bunch of NHL players; you can afford it.” She throws her head back. “It’s going to be fine.”

Her people-pleaser self did this to be nice and helpful. And now, she’s regretting it big time. Me? I would have never offered. But that’s because I don’t really give a fuck if anyone thinks I’m nice or helpful.

But this means something to my wife, which means it means a lot to me too. So, I’m not going to let this dinner suck. I’ll make damn sure it ends up being successful because that’s what she wants for our friends.

“Paige, everything was so good!” Poppy says from the couch, snuggled up next to her husband with a hand on her belly. “I’m stuffed.”

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