Page 167 of Fake As Puck
“Better than winning?”
“I am winning.”
He kisses me then, hard and desperate and full of adrenaline that’s still coursing through his system from the game.
“I love you,” he says, his hands finding the hem of the jersey. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too. My hat trick hero.”
“Your hat trick hero?” He raises his brow.
I laugh. “My everything hero.”
“That’s better.”
We fall onto the bed in a tangle of hockey jersey and lingering adrenaline, and I can taste the victory on his lips, feel the satisfaction in the way he touches me.
“You were incredible tonight,” I tell him as he trails kisses down my neck.
“You were incredible every night.”
I chuckle. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Nothing makes sense when you’re wearing my jersey.”
“Good thing I plan to wear it a lot.”
“How much is a lot?”
“Every game. Every practice. Every time you want to remember that you’re mine.”
“I never forget that I’m yours.”
What happens next is playful and intense and everything I hoped it would be. He’s gentle with the skates, careful not to hurt me, but there’s something about the whole scenario that drives him completely wild.
“This is crazy,” he says, laughing as he tries to navigate around the hockey equipment.
“Good crazy or bad crazy?” I ask.
“The best crazy.”
“I thought you might like it.”
He slides in and out of me, pushing my knees to my chest. “I love it. I love you. I love everything about this.”
I look at the skates, moaning, “Even the skates?”
“They’re perfect.”
“You’re perfect.”
“We’re perfect.”
“We really are.”
He picks up his pace and then turns me over. He kisses my shoulders, moaning and sliding back in. “We really are…”
Afterward, we lie tangled together, the jersey pushed up around my waist, his hands tracing lazy patterns on my skin.
