Page 127 of Face Off
Her throat bobs, and her eyes blaze with desire. She rolls her hips and moans. “No one fucks you like I do, do they? That’s why you keep coming back to me. I’m the only girl you’ve ever been with more than once because you can’t get enough of me, can you?”
White-hot pleasure rips through me when she grips my cock and runs her thumb over the slit. She rubs pre-cum across the head, and I’m already seeing fucking stars.
“I can’t get enough of you,” I agree, and she strokes me all the way to the base. Up, then back down, and I’m panting like I’ve never been touched before. “I’ll never get enough of you, baby.”
“I’m sure. I’m sure, Maverick, and I want you to fuck me like I’m yours.”
Everything turns blurry after that.
Mine.
I ease Emerson onto her back and climb on top of her. I bend her legs until they press into her chest and I grip her thighs. I tease her with my cock, rubbing her clit until I’m covered in her wetness and she’s begging me to take her.
And I do.
I slide inside her, and this,this, is fucking heaven. The way she feels warm and perfect around me. How she clenches around my cock and groans when I hit the perfect spot.
It’s fucking—rough and primal and claiming in a way I’ve never claimed anyone else.
But it feels different too.
I notice it when she takes my hand in hers. When our eyes meet mid-thrust and she smiles. When I try to pull out but she asks me to come inside her, a shyness to her words that’s never been there before.
After, when we’ve cleaned up and she’s in my arms, it’s there again.
I never really felt like I had a home. But with Emmy next to me, I think home is wherever she is.
A place I’d like to stay forever.
THIRTY-FIVE
EMMY
There’sa knock on the door of the bathroom I’m getting ready in.
The Dallas Wildebeests, like every other NHL team, don’t have a female locker room in their arena. I’ve had to make do with the companion restroom in the hallway that leads out to the ice.
I hate it.
I hate that all my gear is spread out on the floor.
I hate that I don’t have a spot or an area that feels like mine.
I hate that I have to drape my jersey over the hand dryer while my teammates get eight-foot-tall cubbies where they can hang their uniforms and keep them looking nice.
I hate that it smells like pee, and I hate that I’m separated from everyone else.
“Someone is in here,” I say. I check the hair tie around my braid and make sure it’s secure. “I’ll be out in a second.”
“Emmy? It’s Piper. Can I come in?”
I unlock the door and step back so she can slip inside. “Hi.”
“Hi.” She wrings her hands together and stares at the floor. “I have to tell you something.”
My mind immediately goes to Maverick. An injury. A trade. A suspension for something stupid he said in an interview just now.
There’s a pile of bricks in my stomach, and every muscle in my body stiffens.
