“So…now…I can keep reassuring you how sexy you are,” Conor says playfully, “or I can give you an orgasm. Choose wisely.”
Anticipation shudders through me. “Orgasm,” I blurt out. “I choose orgasm.”
He chuckles. “Good call.”
I bite my lip when he slips a finger inside me. Not too deep, just a knuckle or two. Just enough to cause my entire body to clench around him.
A dirty smile curves his lips. He plays with me until I can’t stand it any longer and push against his fingers, silently begging for more.
Breathing hard, he slides down my body until he’s gazing up at me from between my thighs. Conor run his hands up my calves, over my knees, his lips grazing my inner thighs. He kisses his way to my pussy, sweeps his tongue over my clit, and I cry out from the bolt of pleasure he generates inside me. I grab fistfuls of the blanket and press my ass into the bed to stop from squirming.
“Feel good?” he asks, then resumes his wicked ministrations without waiting for an answer.
It’s the greatest feeling in the world, his warm, wet mouth exploring my sensitive, aching body. Breathy sounds and low whimpers fill the hotel room, and it takes a while to realize they’re coming from me. I’m lost in a haze, completely caught up in the pleasure he’s bringing. I rock against his eager mouth, then cry in disappointment when the heat of it disappears.
“Fucking hell, hold on,” he chokes out.
I feel the mattress shift, hear what sounds like a zipper. My eyelids flutter open in time to see Conor slipping one hand inside his boxers. Just as it registers that he’s stroking himself, his mouth returns to my pussy and short circuits my brain again.
With his tongue and fingers, he coaxes me to the edge again, while his free hand works his cock. I want to be the one helping him do that. I want his dick in my mouth. I want to taste him. I want to make him lose control the way he’s doing to me.
Conor suddenly groans against my pussy, his hips moving quicker. He sucks on my clit, panting hard, breathing out, “I’m coming.”
And that’s all it takes for the thread of tension inside me to snap. An orgasm, one with a level of intensity I’ve never experienced, shudders through my muscles. Even my toes go numb as I gasp through the pulsating heat that captures my every nerve ending.
Conor Fucking Edwards.
The Wednesday after our loss in Buffalo, the team holds a meeting at the Briar arena. Our season’s over, and for some of the seniors that means shifting their focus to the NHL teams that drafted them and getting in the best shape of their lives for summer training camp. For others, last weekend was likely the final time they’ll ever suit up. Today, however, we’re here for Coach Jensen.
Hunter stands in the center of the ice where we’ve gathered for a little ceremony of sorts. Coach, sensing something’s up, lingers just outside our circle with a suspicious look on his face. It’s an expression I’ve seen Brenna don on more than one occasion. It’s almost scary how alike Coach and his bitchy daughter are.
“So,” Hunter starts, “we brought you here today pretty much because we wanted to say thank you, Coach. This bunch of degenerates and hooligans wouldn’t have made it as far as we did without you, and even though we couldn’t bring home the big trophy for you, you made all of us better. Not just better hockey players, but better people. And we all owe you a lot.”
“Like bail money, right, Captain?” Bucky pipes up, getting a laugh from the guys.
“Thanks, Buck.” Hunter flips him off. “So anyway, thank you, from all of us. We got you a little something to show our appreciation.”
Gavin and Matt all but drag Coach into the center of our circle so Hunter can present him with the custom-engraved Rolex everyone on the team chipped in to buy. Which is to say, our parents did. Mom sent me a blank check with my stepdad’s name on it and I told Hunter to just write in the amount. I’d rather not know.
“Man, I, uh…” Coach admires the watch, at a loss for words. “This is real nice, guys. I, umm…” He sniffs, rubbing his face. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was about to cry. “This is a special group. I mean it when I say I’ve never had a better bunch of guys.”
“Better than the years Garrett Graham and John Logan were on the roster?” Foster demands, naming two of Briar’s most famous alumni. Graham and Logan both play for the Bruins these days.
“Let’s not be crazy now,” Coach replies, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes. “You all worked hard for each other, and that’s all I can ever ask. So thank you. This is great.”
Foster brings out a cooler of beers from the bench and passes out bottles while we all take one last chance to appreciate being on this ice together. I have no doubt next year we’ll be a strong team. But it’ll never be this one again.
Eight months ago, I showed up on this campus with a sudden pang of regret, wondering if I’d made a rash and ill-considered decision to ship my life nearly three thousand miles across the country to start over. I feared I’d never fit in with the ivy-covered legacies of this place, that I’d choke on the Ralph Lauren polos and inbred poshness of it all. And then I met these idiots.
I couldn’t have asked for better friends.
And Taylor. I’ve known her less than a month, yet I count her among the short list of people I trust. She makes me want to be a better person. With her, I feel like I can finally get something right, like maybe I can actually have a real relationship based on friendship rather than lust. Even if some of my friends are having a hard time believing that.
“All I’m saying is,” Foster babbles in the Jeep on the ride home, “Con didn’t come back to our room Saturday night. So unless he hopped in bed with you and Demi, Captain, I’ve got a good idea what he was up to.”
“Dude, jealousy is not a good look on you,” I drawl.
“For real, though.” Hunter leans forward from the backseat, where he’s sitting with Matt. “What’s up with you two?”
Hell if I know.
I mean, I like Taylor. A lot. But I’m also pretty sure that if I bring up the matter of renegotiating the terms of our relationship, I’ll scare her away. I don’t think she’s convinced yet that I’m reformed, and to be honest, no one is more surprised by my recent turn in favor of monogamy than I am. For the moment, though, I’m enjoying myself.
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” I respond.
Foster snorts. “So then what’s your excuse?”
“Con, you should make Foster pay rent if he’s gonna stay on your dick this much,” Hunter says with a grin.
I’m starting to have sympathy for the hell we gave Hunter over Demi and the ridiculous celibacy pact he made at the beginning of the semester. This shit’s annoying. The guys are like dogs with a bone, and I can only imagine it’ll get worse now that the season’s over and they’ve got nothing else to do than hound my ass.
So when Hunter corners me when we stop to pick up some lunch at the diner, my newfound sympathy has me being a bit more forthcoming with him.