Page 35 of Taking It To Overtime

“So,” her grin is hot, full of mischief. I might come in my pants. It’s a very real worry. “It’s okay if I tell you that I’ve been turned on since I saw you at the airport? That you still do it for me?”

“I…” words are failing me. I can’t wrap my brain around the shape or feel of them, I just know I’m supposed to saysomething.

“I like your tattoo. I’ve been thinking about doing this since I first saw it.” She leans in, dragging her hot, wet tongue up the side of my neck. Every nerve in my body is firing out of sequence. I can both feel her loop around each curve of the inked leaves, and can feel nothing.

I’m hallucinating. It’s the only explanation. That’s why this hotel room still looks the same as it did after prom. That’s why she smells the same and leans into my touch the way she used to. That’s why she’s standing in front of me, telling me she liked my kiss, because she isn’t actually in front of me.

I’m lying on the ice somewhere—probably fucking Phoenix, or Columbus—after a nasty hit, and the medical team is coming to get me. Or maybe they already did. I could be in an ambulance speeding toward the nearest ER. Maybe I’m in the ICU in a medically induced coma. Or a brain damage induced one. My mind is spinning all of my deepest fantasies—okay, maybe not the deepest ones—into a fake reality while my body tries to process the trauma of whatever I went through.

Wasn’t there some guy who went years before noticing a lamp that wasn’t quite right? Ten years. A marriage, a wife, kids. All gone in a blink, and he woke up in the hospital. How far back do my delusions go? Is Vic even married? Did I even get drafted into the NHL? Although if I wasn’t drafted, then how would I have taken this bad of a hit? Juniors? Hit by a bus? Fuck.

A cool hand cups the back of my neck.

“Hey there, mister.” The hands move to my cheeks. “Come back.”

I blink slowly, trying to bring the hotel room back into focus. Vera is crouched in front of me, her thumbs stroking the skin above my beard. Back and forth, back and forth. The same way she’s done a million times in my memories.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi.” Her smile might be my North Star. “Welcome back. Sorry. Too much?”

I mumble an apology, shifting her hands up and down on my face.

“You caught me off-guard. It’s been a long time for me,” I say, which is embarrassing to admit, but possibly less embarrassing than believing she’s a mirage.

“It’s fine. It’s been a long time since I’ve dated someone, too. I forget the rules sometimes, myself.”

She’s so sweet. Too good for the likes of me. A man who broke her heart to chase his own dream, but still can’t let go of her sixteen years later. A man who still dreams of her mouth, her tits. A man who rubs one out with her name on his lips.

I pull her hands down from my face and hope she can’t feel the way my fingers tremble. I hear the click of my swallow as if it’s a gunshot echoing in the room.

“You don’t mean dating, do you?” It’s not a question, not with the way she smiles at me, soft and warm, and understanding. “It’s been a long time since you’ve kissed someone?”

I don’t have to nod. She can read my affirmation in my face. It doesn’t matter that I know—I know—she won’t tease me. My stomach cramps up with the thought that Vera, super model Vera, now knows that even at the ripe old age of thirty-three, with a multi-million dollar NHL contract, I have very little experience. I almost don’t want to look at her, but I also can’t make myself look away.

Vera’s hands settle on my hips. She’s still crouched in front of me, and I’m trying hard not to reach for her. I want to. Her left hand slides up the front of my chest. Even through my t-shirt it feels like a brand, smoking and singeing my skin as she moves. Long fingers tangle in the hair at behind my ears, nails scraping against my skin. I shudder. The tremor moving down my spine and shaking me where I sit. I suck in a breath and all I can see is Vera’s smile.

Her lips touch mine between one heartbeat and the next, her tongue gently swiping across my bottom lip. Her taste explodes in my mouth and I pour a moan down her throat. My hands spasm on nothing and I reach for her, circling her waist and dragging her up to sit in my lap. Her thighs hug my hips and I shift back, just to avoid contact with the steel pipe in my pants, but she follows the movement, putting us in direct contact.

This time we both moan. My hands slide up to twist in her hair, cradling the back of her head, and she drags her ass back down my thighs before snugging right up to my front. Her pussy is dragging across my aching cock and I know what this is. We’ve been here before. Making out like teenagers, testing our limits while our clothes stay firmly in place.

Or maybe not so firm.

Her hand slides up under the hem of my shirt and splays across my back as she grinds against me again.

“Tell me this isn’t pity.” I pant into her mouth. “You don’t just feel sorry for the old guy who hasn’t gotten any.”

She laughs and I pull her closer, trying to drag the sound into my very soul.

“I feel sorry for anyone who doesn’t get any. Myself included.” She winks, “But it’s not pity. I meant what I said before. You turn me on. I think,” she rocks over my dick again and I choke on my own spit, “I do the same for you.” She pushes back, putting space between us. I want to haul her back, but words seem possible with the extra space between us.

“You’d be okay with that? Sex for the week?” On the one hand, I don’t know why I’m questioning her when she’s clearly initiating. I should pull her back into my space and give us both a happy ending.

“What’s a kiss or two between friends?” Vera asks as she slides off my lap. “We’re still friends, Robbie.”

“That was more than a kiss.” I frown.

“And you’re still the guy I think of when I need to get off, but I can understand if you’d rather not go there with me.”

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