Page 5 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
But as I'm walking toward the tunnel, something makes me look back. She's still sitting there, still writing in that damn notebook, but her pen has stopped moving. She's just staring down at the ice where I was, and even from this distance, I can see the conflict written all over her face.
The locker room is mostly empty by the time I make it back, just a few stragglers packing up their gear. I grab my towel and head straight for the showers, needing the hot water to wash away the frustration of the worst practice I've had in years.
But the moment I step under the spray, my mind goes straight back to Vegas. To Tessa.
I close my eyes and I can see her so clearly it's like she's standing right here with me. The way she looked that first night at the bar, wearing that black dress that hugged every curve. How her eyes had gone wide when I'd finally gotten her naked, like she couldn't believe what she was seeing.
And fuck, what I was seeing. Perfect breasts that fit in my hands like they were made for me, nipples that peaked when I ran my tongue over them. The curve of her waist, the flare of her hips. That incredible ass that I'd gripped while I was buried deep inside her, pulling her back against me while she moaned my name.
My cock hardens at the memory, and I have to brace one hand against the shower wall. I shouldn't be doing this. Not here, not now. But I can't stop myself from wrapping my other hand around my length, stroking slowly while I remember the feel of her.
The way she'd gasped when I'd first pushed inside her, so tight and wet and perfect. How she'd arched beneath me, her nails digging into my shoulders while I moved inside her. The little sounds she'd made – not loud, but desperate. Needy.
I stroke faster, remembering how she'd looked riding me, her hair wild around her shoulders, her head thrown back in abandon. The way her body had moved, rolling her hips in a rhythm that had me seeing stars. How she'd bitten her lip when she came, her whole body trembling as she collapsed against my chest.
The water pounds against my back as I work myself harder, chasing the release that's been building for three days. Since I woke up to find her gone, leaving nothing but that fucking note and the scent of her perfume on my pillow.
I come with a groan that echoes off the shower tiles. But instead of relief, I just feel more frustrated. More empty.
Because my hand isn't her. This isn't her. And no matter how good the memory is, it's not enough.
I finish washing quickly and get dressed, pulling on jeans and a team hoodie. My hair is still damp when I head back toward the observation area, but I don't give a shit. We're going to talk, and we're going to talk now.
The guys have already cleared out, which is perfect because this conversation definitely doesn't need an audience.
I find her exactly where I expected to: still in that damn observation window, surrounded by files and notebooks like she's building a fortress of professionalism around herself. She's taken off her blazer, and the simple white blouse she's wearing underneath hugs her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
She's got her hair down now, probably without realizing it, and it falls in soft waves around her shoulders.
She looks up when I knock on the doorframe, and I watch her entire body go rigid. Those hazel eyes widen slightly before she forces her expression back into neutral territory.
"Mr. Kingston, did you need something?"
Mr. Kingston.Like we're strangers. Like she didn't scream my name while I made her come with my tongue.
"Yeah," I say, stepping into the small space and closing the door behind me. "I need to talk to my wife."
The color drains from her face, and she nearly drops the pen she's holding. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't." My voice comes out harsher than I intended, but I'm tired of this game. "Don't insult my intelligence, Tessa. We both know exactly what I'm talking about."
She stands up abruptly, moving to gather her files with shaking hands. "I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding. I'm new here, and I don't know you personally, so?—"
"Room 2447 at Caesar's Palace," I interrupt, watching as she freezes mid-motion. "The Elvis chapel on the third floor."
Her mask cracks completely, and for a moment, I see the real Tessa. The one who laughed at my jokes and traced my scars with her fingertips and told me about her mother's work ethic.
"Dax, please," she whispers, and hearing my name on her lips again does something dangerous to my chest. "This isn't... we can't..."
"Equipment room B," I say, stepping aside so she can pass. "Ten minutes. If you want to have this conversation like adults instead of playing games, that's where I'll be."
I walk away without waiting for her response
Because one way or another, we're going to talk about Vegas. About the fact that she's still wearing my ring on a chain around her neck—yeah, I noticed it when her blouse shifted.
Ten minutes.
The question is: will she show up?
