Page 4 of Pucking the Grump

Sex with him just…makes me crazy.

A thing proven by the fact that I keep fucking him in the same building where my father has an office one floor down. And yes, I always make sure Dad’s long gone before texting Stone to come “see me about some paperwork,” but still…

Crazy.

Finally, after a long moment, Stone presses a kiss between my shoulder blades before pulling out. I wince slightly at the loss, then again at the slickness trickling down my inner thigh.

“Don’t worry, I gotcha,” he says, hitching his jeans and boxers up before turning me in his arms. He reaches into his back pocket for a handkerchief and gently cleans between my thighs, careful of my sex-sensitized clit.

He really is a very thoughtful man, a thing I tease him about to make sure he knows I appreciate it. No, I don’t think more than sex is a good idea for us, but I’m a big fan of thoughtful people and think they should be praised for sucking far less than the average population.

“Thank you. Always the Boy Scout,” I murmur as we pull on the rest of our clothes. Thankfully, I have a silk tee in my spare clothing stash in the coat closet that won’t look too strange with my skirt, since my dress shirt is out of commission until I ask the dry cleaner to sew the buttons back on.

I pull the tee on and wander back to the desk, catching Stone’s concerned gaze.

“Nothing boy scout about what I just did to your pussy, Bossy.” He winces a little. “Everything all right down there? I went a little harder than I meant to.”

I exhale a happy sigh as I loop my wrists together behind his neck. “Stop. I’m fine. That was a most excellent railing. Five stars, would happily get wrecked by your dick again.”

“Aw, that’s great to hear.” He bats his lashes before adding in a breathy whisper, “You say the most romantic things.”

I laugh. “You’re in the wrong place for romance, buddy. I’m way too busy.” I sigh again, a wearier sound this time. “Which reminds me, I have to hit the grocery store on the way home. I have nothing to cook for dinner.”

“You could come over to my place,” he says. “I’ve got plenty of chicken titties and zucchini. I could grill and you could rest.”

I hesitate, hating how good that sounds.

Especially considering what I need to tell him before we go…

Stone must sense the tension rising inside me, because he quickly adds, “It’s just dinner, Rem. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

“I know. It’s not that, I just…” I lean back against the edge of the desk, crossing my arms, steeling myself to make this kind, but firm.

And quick.

The only thing I hate more than disappointing someone is sticking around to marinate in the dejected afterglow.

“To be honest, with the Seattle interview coming up on top of my local coaching and work and the volunteer stuff on Sundays, I’m spread thin, Stone,” I say. “And training camp is just starting, and you need to be locked in on the new team dynamic and making the most of your last season in the NHL. So, I was thinking that maybe…”

His expression grows guarded. “Maybe what?”

“Maybe we should take a break for a while.” The words feel wrong on my tongue, but I push on, blaming the sex. I should have come clean before he softened me up with orgasms, not after. “Just until after the interview,” I hurry to add. “I need to focus, and this…” I gesture between us. “I mean, it’s great, but it’s also…distracting. You know?”

Something flickers in his eyes—disappointment? Hurt? I’m not sure, but it’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

“Sure,” he says with a shrug, shifting to lean against the desk beside me. “Whatever you need, Rem. You know I’m on your team.”

He is. That’s also part of the problem. He’s always so damn supportive, so understanding, making it nearly impossible to keep him in a neat box labeled “friends with benefits” where he belongs.

“Thanks,” I say, forcing a tight smile. “I appreciate that. I really do. And same to you.”

“Cool.” He straightens, and for a moment, I think he might say something else. Instead, he simply presses a quick kiss to my forehead. “Good luck with your busy month, Coach Lauder,” he says, his voice light. “I’ll be rooting for you. See you Monday.”

A few moments later, his gear bag is over his shoulder and he’s breezing out my office door, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of sex and his cologne in the air and a hollow feeling in my chest.

I remind myself that this was my call and it’s for the best, but the icky sensation remains.

It sticks to me like glue all the way out to my car and through a crowded Friday evening supermarket trip, lodging so deep in my craw, I can barely taste the orzo with roasted fall vegetables that I make for dinner.

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