Page 150 of Blindside Me
Drew looks at me like he’s taking in a piece of art. Full-body, focused, reverent, and hungry at the same time. He kneels at the edge of the bed, palms on my thighs, and pushes my legs wider, spreading me open with a gentle insistence that makes me arch into the touch. The rawness in his gaze wrecks me; it’s never been just about sex with him, but holy shit, does it ever start there.
He drags his thumb up my inner thigh, stopping just shy of where I want him, and huffs a laugh when my hips buck. “You’re always so impatient.”
“Pot,” I gasp, “meet kettle.”
His smile is wolfish. He leans in, breath hot against my skin, and presses a kiss to the inside of my knee, then another, working his way up until his lips hover just over my clit. The anticipation is torture, and he knows it. His tongue darts out, the first flick barely a tease, and the sound I make is embarrassing, but who cares? He licks again, this time slower, applying pressure, drawing lazy circles around the spot that already aches for him.
I thread my fingers through his hair, clinging, needing something to anchor me while my body vibrates under each flick of his tongue. He’s relentless, alternating slow, torturous licks with fast, focused ones. He’s mapping me, learning the new micro-reactions every time I twitch or gasp. Drew has always been a fast learner, but what he does to me is more than muscle memory. It’s obsession.
He pauses, glances up. His pupils are blown, his lips slick. “Hands on the headboard,” he rasps.
I scramble upright, bracing myself. He slides my hips to the edge, and his mouth returns in a rush. My thighs tremble around his head, and if he notices, he only grins harder against my skin, tongue and lips working together, bringing every nerve ending to the surface. I’m already close. Pathetic, maybe, but it’s been a day, and I’ve been watching him all morning, back muscles rippling, jaw sharp, body moving with so much purpose that it’s like foreplay in motion. I want to tell him this, but I can’t find words, just a babble of gasps and moans. Then his finger is inside, curling, finding the spot in me that cracks everything open.
“Fuck, Drew. Don’t stop,” I beg, and he doesn’t. He’s got one hand on my stomach to keep me from bucking off the bed, the other pressing deeper, matching the rhythm of his tongue until my body fractures under his mouth. The orgasm is fast and hard, a crash that starts in my core and radiates out in hot white flashes through my vision. My grip on the headboard turns my knuckles numb. I half-sob, half-laugh, shuddering while he keeps working me, never letting up until I’m wrung out and twitching, pushed so far past the threshold I don’t even recognize my own noises.
Eventually, I collapse back, panting, brain emptied like a shaken Etch-a-Sketch. Drew crawls up beside me, all cocky satisfaction and damp hair, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You want to talk about sample size? Because I really think you should let me replicate those results.”
I try to glare at him, but my body is still melting into the mattress, so the best I manage is a lazy smile. “You’re such a nerd.”
He tugs me onto his lap, straddling his hips, and his cock is already hard against my thigh. He’s still got his sweatpants on, but the waistband sags dangerously low, and the evidence of how much he wants me is impossible to miss. I palm him through the fabric, feeling him twitch and swell even more. The power in it is heady.
He pulls off his shirt in one smooth motion, then lifts me to peel the sweats away, leaving nothing between us. The way he looks at me—hungry, a little awestruck, barely contained—makes my skin fizz all over again. He runs his hands up my sides, thumbs grazing under my breasts, and it’s almost too much. Almost.
Drew flips us, so I’m on my back, pressing his weight to hold me down, but the grip is gentle. Like he knows I could throw him off if I wanted, but I never would. His hands frame my face,and he kisses me everywhere but my lips. A line along my jaw, my collarbone, and the hollow at my throat, until I’m arching up, desperate to drag his mouth to mine. He makes me wait, teeth grazing the sensitive part of my shoulder, tongue soothing the bite, and only then, when I’m squirming, does he finally kiss me, hard and deep and unapologetic.
There’s no more teasing. He’s in me on the first thrust, and it’s perfect, just that right balance of stretch and fullness, the kind that always undoes me. I lock my ankles behind his back and grind up, and he groans, the sound low and almost feral in my ear. He fucks me like he’s staking a claim. Slow at first, each stroke deliberate and then faster as he loses his composure, his control fraying with every slap of skin on skin.
I rake my nails down his spine, and he shudders. I want to mark him, leave evidence, the same way he marks me. I want every girl in the world to look at him and know he’s taken, that I’m the one who gets to see him like this, messy and undone, nothing left of the perfect hockey robot except need.
He changes angles, and the friction hits just right. I bite his shoulder to stifle the scream, and he fucks into me even harder, chasing my high until we both come undone.
We come down from the clouds, both panting and spent.
“That was…” I start, but the words are gone.”
He finishes for me. “Perfect. Even if you keep rearranging my protein powders.”
I snort, too happy to argue. “Next time I’m putting them in color order. Just to see if your head explodes.”
He grins, breathless, and fumbles for the blanket, yanking it over us. We could stay like this forever. And for the first time in my life, forever doesn’t sound like something to be afraid of. He’s tracing idle patterns on my bare back, slow and steady, when he says, “You really did it. You wrote the thing.”
“I did.”
“Proud of you,” he says, and I know he means it because that’s what Drew does. He always says what he means, exactly.
“Thanks,” I mutter, but it feels bigger than just a thank you. It’s an apology for ever doubting him.
I tuck into his side, cheek against the steady beat of his heart. The vision board catches my eye from across the room. His combine badge, pinned next to the Manhattan skyline, gleams with the promise of sold-out rinks and roaring crowds. My Paris sketch and the bookstore clipping aren’t someday-things anymore; we penciled dates in the margins. We’re both chasing big stuff, but it’s the part where we chase it together that settles me.
“New York’s gonna be chaos,” I murmur, half to myself. “You, tearing up the ice, and me, signing books and dodging paparazzi.”
He chuckles, breath warm against my hair. “Paparazzi? You’re getting ahead of yourself, bestseller.”
“Maybe.” I trace the scar on his eyebrow. “But I’m not scared of it. Not anymore. Not with you.”
He pulls me closer and kisses my hairline. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” In this blissful moment, the weight of our pasts, my mom’s absence, and his brother’s shadow are still there, but lighter. I used to think love was a finish line, something you either won or lost. But with Drew, it’s the daily choice to show up, to stay, to pin our dreams to a board, and believe they’re possible.
