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24

brODY

T he drive back to our complex is quiet, the adrenaline of the evening finally giving way to exhaustion. My jaw throbs dully, a reminder of impulsive actions and their consequences. But when I glance over at Elliot—tired but relaxed, still wrapped in my jersey—I can’t bring myself to regret a thing.

“Coming in for coffee?” she asks as we park in front of our townhouses. “Real coffee this time.”

“Are you sure?” I kill the engine, turning to face her. “It’s been an intense night.”

“Exactly why I could use the company.” She meets my eyes directly. “Unless your face hurts too much for conversation.”

“I’m pretty sure I could manage a conversation while actively on fire if you were the one talking to me.”

She rolls her eyes, but I catch the slight curve of her lips. “Dramatic as always. Come on, I’ll get you some ice.”

Inside her townhouse, everything feels different than the last time I was here. Less frantic, more intentional. She gestures for me to sit on the couch while she disappears into the kitchen, returning moments later with an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel.

“Here.” She hands it to me, then settles on the other end of the couch. “So, that was my first hockey game in three years.”

“Quite a reintroduction,” I say, gingerly applying the ice to my jaw. “Sorry it got so... dramatic.”

“Are you? Really?” There’s a knowing glint in her eye.

“Maybe not entirely,” I confess. “The look on Jason’s face when my fist connected was pretty satisfying.”

“I bet.” She draws her legs up beneath her, a surprisingly casual posture for someone usually so composed. “Sarah couldn’t stop laughing. Said it was better than pay-per-view.”

“Sarah would think that.” I shift the ice pack, wincing slightly. “Your friend has a bit of a bloodthirsty streak.”

“You have no idea.” Elliot smiles fondly. “She once threatened to put laxatives in Jason’s protein shakes after we filed for divorce.”

“I’m officially terrified of your best friend.”

“As you should be.” She studies me for a moment. “You know, when you sent the jersey, my first instinct was to be annoyed at the presumption.”

I wince, this time not from physical pain. “I figured that might be the case. I almost didn’t send it.”

“But then I thought about what it would mean. To wear it, to be seen in it.” She worries the hem between her fingers. “It felt like taking control of the narrative. My choice, my statement.”

“That’s exactly how I hoped you’d see it,” I say, relief evident in my voice. “Not me claiming you, but offering a way for you to make your own declaration.”

She laughs softly, then grows more serious. “Jason won’t let this go easily, you know. He hates losing more than anything, and tonight he lost on multiple fronts.”

“I’m not worried about Jason,” I say with more confidence than I perhaps feel.

“Maybe you should be.” Her expression darkens slightly. “He’s vindictive when his ego is bruised, and you just bruised it in front of thousands of people while I watched wearing your name on my back. He’ll look for ways to retaliate.”

“Let him try.” I set the ice pack down, leaning forward slightly. “I meant what I said earlier, Elliot. I’m not hiding how I feel about you, not from Jason, not from the team, not from anyone.”

She holds my gaze for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. Then, with a decisiveness that takes my breath away, she moves across the couch and kisses me.

Unlike our previous kisses—the heated urgency on her couch after the gala, the sweet goodnight after our date—this is something else entirely. Deliberate, thorough, a statement in itself. Her hands frame my face carefully, mindful of my injuries, as she explores my mouth with a thoroughness that makes my head spin.

When she finally pulls back, she’s slightly breathless, a flush spreading across her cheeks. “I’m not hiding either,” she says softly. “Not anymore.”

I stare at her, stunned and elated in equal measure. “Does this mean we’re officially dating? Because I’d really like clarification on this point for future reference.”

She laughs, the sound warming me from the inside out. “Yes, Brody. We’re officially dating. Though God knows why I’m getting involved with another hockey player.”

“Because this one remembers what books you like,” I suggest, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “And makes a decent omelet. And thinks you’re the most fascinating woman he’s ever met.”

“Decent criteria,” she acknowledges with a small smile. “Though the jury’s still out on your omelet skills. I’ve only had one sample.”

“I’m happy to provide more evidence for consideration,” I offer. “Breakfast tomorrow?”

“Are you inviting yourself to stay the night, Carter?” Her eyebrow arches in that way that simultaneously challenges and entrances me.

“Absolutely not,” I say with mock seriousness. “I was planning to go home, set my alarm for 5 AM, then sneak back over here to cook breakfast before you wake up. Much more respectable than simply staying.”

A laugh escapes her, the sound warming something deep in my chest. “That’s quite the commitment to breakfast service.”

“What can I say?” I lean closer, lowering my voice. “I’m very dedicated to customer satisfaction.”

Her eyes darken slightly at my tone, and something shifts in her expression—a decision being made, caution giving way to desire.

“In that case,” she says, her voice dropping to match mine, “it would be more... efficient if you stayed.”

“Efficiency is important,” I agree, my heart racing as she shifts closer on the couch. “I’m all about maximizing productivity.”

“Are you now?” There’s a new boldness in her gaze that I haven’t seen before—a confidence that makes my mouth go dry.

“Elliot,” I start, wanting to be sure, “we don’t have to?—”

She cuts me off with a kiss that erases any doubt about what she wants. This is intention, decision, desire. Her hands frame my face, holding me exactly where she wants me as she takes control of the kiss.

I respond immediately, my arms circling her waist, drawing her closer. When she pulls back slightly, her lips still brushing mine, I can feel her smile.

“I thought hockey players were supposed to have quick reflexes,” she murmurs.

“Give me a second to catch up,” I breathe. “I’m still processing the fact that Elliot Waltman is taking the initiative.”

“Too much?” Uncertainty flickers across her face, and I rush to erase it.

“God, no. I’ve been thinking about this since I saw you in the stands,” I murmur against her lips, hands sliding beneath the jersey to find warm skin. “Wearing my name.”

My jersey. On her. In public. The memory of how she looked in the stands, proudly wearing my name while Jason glared from the ice, sends a surge of possessive heat through me.

Something shifts in her expression—a decision made, hesitation replaced with determination. She rises from her spot beside me, and for a heart-stopping moment I think she’s ending this, stepping away. Instead, she moves with deliberate grace to stand directly in front of me.

“Show me,” she says simply.

I reach for her hand, ready to pull her back down beside me, but she has other ideas. With a confidence that steals my breath, she places one knee on the couch beside my thigh, then the other, settling herself directly on my lap, facing me.

“Is this okay?” she asks, a hint of vulnerability breaking through her boldness.

The new position puts us eye to eye, her weight settled perfectly where I want her most.

Her weight on my lap, the subtle scent of her perfume, the closeness of her—it’s overwhelming in the best possible way. When she leans down to kiss me again, I meet her halfway, one hand sliding up her back to tangle in her hair.

The kiss deepens immediately, her tongue brushing against mine, drawing a groan from somewhere deep in my chest. Her hands aren’t idle either—they move from my shoulders to my chest, exploring with a curiosity that makes it hard to think straight.

“I like this,” she murmurs against my lips. “Being able to control the angle.”

“I like everything about this,” I reply honestly, my voice rougher than I expected.

I capture her mouth again, unable to resist the pull between us any longer. My hands slide down her back, tracing the curve of her spine, learning the shape of her. When I reach her hips, I hesitate, not wanting to push too far.

She makes a small sound of frustration against my lips, then takes my wrist and deliberately places my hand on the curve of her ass.

“You don’t have to be so careful with me,” she says, her breath warm against my ear. “I’m not going to break.”

“Noted,” I manage, giving her a gentle squeeze that makes her breath catch. “But I am going to be sure. Every step. Because you matter, Elliot. This matters.”

I trail kisses along her jaw, down the elegant line of her neck, finding a spot that makes her gasp and arch against me. The movement brings our bodies into closer alignment, and I can’t suppress a groan at the contact.

“You like that spot,” I murmur against her skin, not really a question.

“Apparently,” she breathes, her fingers tightening in my hair, keeping me where she wants me.

When she rocks against me deliberately, a small, satisfied smile playing at her lips at my reaction, I realize I’ve underestimated her. For all her caution and overthinking, Elliot Waltman knows exactly what she’s doing to me. And she’s enjoying it.

“Two can play that game,” I warn, sliding my hands up under the jersey, pushing it up to reveal the thin tank top beneath. Her skin is impossibly soft, warming under my touch as I trace the curve of her waist, the delicate line of her ribs, the swell of her breast.

She tugs at my shirt impatiently, and I break the kiss just long enough to pull it over my head. Her eyes darken as she takes in my bare chest, her hands immediately exploring, learning the contours of muscle and the texture of skin.

“Your turn.”

She raises her arms in silent permission, and I pull it off in one smooth motion, dropping it beside us on the couch. Her tank top follows, leaving her in a black lace bra that knocks the breath from my lungs.

“Christ, Elliot,” I manage, taking in the sight of her.

A flush spreads across her skin as I stare, but there’s no hesitation in her eyes, no retreat into overthinking. Just desire, and a confidence I haven’t seen before.

“Like what you see, Carter?” She asks, voice teasing even as her fingers trail down my chest.

In answer, I cup her breast through the lace, brushing my thumb over her nipple. She arches into my touch with a sharp intake of breath, her eyes fluttering closed. When I repeat the motion, she rocks against me again, the friction is almost too much.

“Bed,” she says, the word half command, half plea. “Now.”

I stand with her still wrapped around me, her legs locked at my back. The movement presses us together even more intimately, drawing a small, desperate sound from her that I immediately want to hear again.

“Hold on,” I murmur against her neck, carrying her down the hallway to her bedroom.

I lay her on the bed, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of her—flushed and wanting, hair spread across the pillow, eyes dark with desire. My jersey might be on the living room floor, but she’s still unmistakably mine.

She reaches for me, impatient, and I go willingly, covering her body with mine. The feel of her beneath me—soft curves against hard planes—is better than any fantasy I’ve had over the years of wanting her.

“Still overthinking?” I ask, nipping at her collarbone.

“Not even a little,” she admits, hands working at my belt. “Just feeling.”

I help her push my jeans down, kicking them off before returning my attention to her body.

When I reach behind her to unhook her bra, she arches to give me access, the movement pressing her more firmly against me. The lace falls away, and I take a moment just to look at her—the perfect weight of her breasts, the dusky rose of her nipples drawn tight with arousal.

“Beautiful,” I breathe, lowering my head to taste her.

She cries out as my mouth closes around her nipple, her hands clutching at my shoulders, nails digging in just enough to send a jolt of pleasure-pain down my spine. I move to her other breast, giving it the same attention, reveling in the way she writhes beneath me.

Her jeans are next to go, my hands sliding them down her legs, revealing matching black lace that makes my mouth go dry. The sight of Elliot Waltman in nothing but black lace panties, wanting me, is almost enough to undo me completely.

“You too,” she demands, tugging at my boxer briefs.

I oblige, pushing them down and kicking them aside, baring myself to her gaze. Her eyes widen slightly, a small smile playing at her lips as she takes me in.

“Impressive,” she murmurs, hand reaching out to wrap around me.

I close my eyes at her touch, fighting for control. “Elliot,” I warn, voice strained.

She smirks, pleased with her effect on me, but releases me to trail her fingers up my chest instead.

I hook my fingers in the waistband of her panties, looking up for permission. She nods, lifting her hips to help as I slide the lace down her legs.

And then she’s bare beneath me, all smooth skin and soft curves, more beautiful than I could have imagined during those years of wondering, of wanting. I settle between her legs, pressing kisses to her inner thighs, working my way higher.

When I finally taste her, her reaction is everything I hoped for—a sharp cry, her back arching off the bed, hands fisting in the sheets. I take my time, learning what she likes, what makes her gasp and what makes her moan.

“Brody,” she manages, voice breaking on my name. “Please.”

I redouble my efforts, adding fingers to my tongue, curving them just right to find the spot that makes her shatter. She comes with a cry that I immediately commit to memory, her body shaking beneath me as I work her through it.

Before she’s fully recovered, I’m moving up her body, positioning myself between her thighs. Her eyes open, dark and dazed with pleasure, to meet mine.

And then there’s nothing between us, nothing holding us back. I notch myself against her entrance, watching her face as I push forward slowly, giving her time to adjust. The feel of her—hot and tight and perfect—nearly undoes me then and there.

“Okay?” I manage, fighting for control as I seat myself fully inside her.

Her answer is to wrap her legs around my waist, pulling me deeper. “More than okay,” she breathes. “Move, Brody.”

I do, setting a rhythm that has us both gasping. Her nails score my back, her lips find my neck, my jaw, anywhere she can reach. When I shift the angle slightly, she cries out, the sound spurring me on.

“Like that?” I ask, repeating the movement.

“Yes,” she gasps. “Don’t stop.”

I have no intention of stopping, not when she’s looking at me like that, not when she feels this good around me. I drive into her harder, faster, the slick heat of her body gripping me with each thrust. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, mixing with our ragged breathing and half-formed words.

“Fuck, Elliot,” I groan, my control slipping as the pressure builds at the base of my spine. My fingers dig into her hips, pulling her against me as I bury myself deeper. “You feel too good.”

Her legs tighten around my waist, urging me on, and that’s all it takes. The tension snaps. My hips stutter against hers as I come hard, vision blurring at the edges, as the world narrows to nothing but this—her body beneath mine, around mine, pleasure tearing through me.

When I can think again, I realize my weight has collapsed onto her. I shift to the side, still breathing hard, and look at her face. Her lips are parted, her hair a wild tangle against the pillow, her skin flushed as she leans forward and kisses me deep, her tongue sliding across mine.

“I haven’t felt like that in forever,” she whispers against my lips.

“That wasn’t good for you,” I mutter, recognition dawning. “It was over way too fast.”

She presses her face into the curve of my neck, but not before I catch the deepening flush on her cheeks. “It was perfect,” she says, too quickly. “I got mine earlier, remember?”

I prop myself up on an elbow, cupping her chin to turn her face back to me. “Bullshit,” I say, my voice rough. “That’s not how this works.”

Before she can protest, I’m moving down her body, hands spreading her thighs wider. I can see how close she was—swollen and slick with both of us. The sight stops me for a moment, a flicker of uncertainty passing through me.

I’ve never done this before—gone down on a woman after finishing inside her. It’s messy, intimate in a way that crosses boundaries I didn’t even know I had. For a heartbeat, I hesitate, wondering if this is too much, too raw.

Then Elliot shifts beneath me, a small, unconscious movement seeking contact, and something primal awakens in my chest. The sight of her spread out before me, dripping with me, sends a shocking wave of possessive desire through my entire body. My cock twitches with renewed interest, despite having just come minutes ago.

There’s something unexpectedly erotic about this—about tasting myself on her, about cleaning up the mess I made, about showing her that her pleasure matters more than any arbitrary line of propriety. The hesitation vanishes, replaced by hunger so intense it nearly chokes me.

“Brody,” she says, half protest, half plea as she tries to close her legs. “You don’t have to do that. It’s?—”

“Shut up,” I tell her, not unkindly. I press a bite to the inside of her thigh that makes her gasp. “I want to taste you again. I want to feel you come against my tongue again. I am starving for you.”

The truth of the words surprises even me. I am starving—desperate to taste her again. It should be off-putting, but instead, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever imagined.

Her resistance evaporates at that and she lets her legs fall open, one hand fisting in the sheets while the other finds its way to my hair.

I don’t tease this time. I go straight for where she needs me most, my tongue flat against her, swiping up and sucking directly over her clit. The taste hits me immediately—saltier, muskier, undeniably us. I groan against her, the vibration makes her gasp. The knowledge that I’m tasting both of us together, that I’m cleaning up what I spilled inside her, makes my head swim.

Her hips buck up involuntarily, and I hold her in place with my forearm across her stomach. I work her with purpose, reading every twitch and gasp, every tightening of her fingers in my hair. When I slide two fingers inside her, curling them forward, she lets out a broken moan that sends heat rushing back to my groin.

I feel my own release coating my fingers, mixing with her wetness, and instead of being turned off, I’m dizzy with arousal. There’s something profoundly intimate about this, something that marks us as belonging to each other in the closest way. As if I would ever let her go now.

“That’s it,” I murmur against her, never stopping the movement of my fingers or tongue. “Let me hear you.”

Her thighs begin to shake, her breathing turning into short, desperate pants. I can feel her tightening around my fingers, so close to the edge.

“Come for me,” I demand against her sensitive flesh. “Now, Elliot.”

She breaks while crying my name, her back arching off the bed, fingers dug tight into my hair, as she comes hard against my mouth. I don’t let up, drawing out her pleasure until she’s pushing weakly at my head, oversensitive and spent.

I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand as I move up beside her, pulling her boneless body against mine. Her skin is damp with sweat, her heartbeat gradually slowing where her chest presses against me.

“Better?” I ask, my voice rough, as I brush damp strands of hair from her face.

Her hum is low and satisfied. “God yes.” She tilts her face up to kiss me, hesitating for a moment before I close the gap, letting her taste what I just devoured. “Much better.”

I tuck her under my arm, pulling her to curl back into me. “I think I just unlocked a kink I didn’t know I had.” I whisper into her hair. I should feel shame, but all I want is to do it again.

I feel laughter vibrate through her at my confession.

“Glad I could help with your sexual awakening, Carter.”

“Worth it,” I say, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Though I think you might have re-injured my jaw.”

She turns in my arms, examining the bruise forming along my jawline with gentle fingers. “Battle scars,” she says softly. “From defending my honor like some caveman.”

“Your caveman,” I correct, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm.

“My caveman,” she agrees, settling back against me with a contented sigh.

As she drifts toward sleep in my arms, I think about the game, about Jason’s face when he saw her in my jersey, about the fight that finally made me feel like I was doing something to balance the scales for the pain he caused her.

But mostly I think about this moment—Elliot Waltman in my arms, trust given and received, the beginning of something I’ve wanted for longer than I care to admit.

It was worth the wait. Worth the bruises. Worth everything.

And I’m never letting her go.