Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
The reporters surrounding me start tapping away furiously, probably live tweeting and googling the players’ stats and entire careers.
Sorensen and Healy by the names on their jerseys. I open Google, but Ollie beats me to it. “Caleb Sorensen and Kip Healy.”
The home crowd roars with cheers, presumably because the enemy is fighting between themselves.
“What’s their deal?” I ask.
“I have no idea. I’ve faced Healy a few times, and he can be a bit of a dick, but not any more than the usual trash-talking shit that goes on or the sneaky penalties we all try to pull off. Not sure about Soren. He was traded from the West Coast last season.”
Other players from New Jersey pull their teammates apart, and when they skate back to the bench, their coach sends both players off.
“That’s weird, right?” Granted, I’m new to hockey, but I don’t think I’ve heard of teammates fighting during a game before.
“Fights break out all the time during practice,” Ollie says, “but we’re always told to leave that shit off the ice. Maybe their egos are too big for their helmets. Apparently, us hockey players are known for that. Who knew, right?”
The squabble between teammates is quickly forgotten when Boston gets the breakaway and flies down the ice. Tommy lands a slap shot to the top right of the net, and from that first goal, all the way through to the third period, Boston doesn’t let up. New Jersey puts up a strong fight, but the thirst Boston’s had all season doesn’t waver.
I’d think Ollie would be distracted, watching his old team kick ass, but he’s more interested in distracting me.
While the game seems close, and both teams take about the same amount of shots on goal, Boston dominates, sinking three of them. Boston’s goalie is on point, not letting a single shot through.
I don’t see New Jersey turning this around.
While the after-game press conferences drone on and on, all I can think about is Ollie in my hotel room waiting for me. I sent him with my room key as soon as the game finished so we wouldn’t be seen together, and as promised, as soon as I get back to my hotel room, Ollie greets me with no words but his mouth on mine, his fingers working my shirt buttons, and an obvious mission to fulfill his annoyingly hot promises he kept hinting at throughout the game.
“Please tell me you got your article written and sent off,” he says breathlessly.
“I purposefully stayed back to get it done.”
“Good. Because I need your ass again.”
“I’ve created a monster.” Not that I can hate that.
“Nope. I just like having a new toy, so I’m gonna play with it as much as possible.”
I snort. “My ass is your new toy. I’m sure that’s supposed to sound wrong somehow, but right now, I can’t think of why.”
And speaking of my ass, he grabs my cheeks over my suit pants and brings me closer to him.
“Warning you now,” he whispers. “This isn’t going to be like last night. I’m gonna take you hard and fast, because all I’ve wanted all day was to be back inside you, and I don’t have the fucking patience for you edging me.”
I try to say “Same here” or “Hurry up” or some other affirmative, but all that comes out are mumbling sounds that make no sense.
It’s obvious he understands anyway when he strips off the remainder of my clothes and pushes me on the bed on my hands and knees.
In a daze of want and need, I don’t know where the lube comes from, and I don’t care. When one of Ollie’s fingers breaches my hole, there’s no exploring like last night. No going slow. He aims for my prostate and immediately starts pegging it.
My cock goes from happily interested to achingly desperate.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I hiss.
My ass clenches around his finger as if trying to trap it inside me.
“Not yet,” he says playfully, but I get the feeling he’s gritting his teeth as he says it. “As much as I said hard and fast, I’m not going to make it painful for you.”
“A little pain is good. I need … just need more …”
He adds a second finger, the sting of stretching a welcome ache. Last night, we went so slow, and Ollie was so cautious, I barely felt it this morning. After tonight, I want to ache for days. I’m going to leave for game three and four in New Jersey, and I doubt Ollie’s coming with me, so I want to feel him until I see him again for game five.
Ollie gives me exactly what I want. He somehow manages to get himself sheathed one-handed while his fingers continue to prep me and turn me into a quivering mess.
My forehead falls onto the mattress as I rock back and forth onto his fingers. “You need to hurry up before I come already.”