Page 76 of Branded (Breakers Hockey)

Five

Cas

Crinkle.

Frowning, I glanced down at the jeans I’d just dropped onto the floor of my closet, then bent and scooped them back up.

If there was one thing my mom was proud of instilling in me, it was the fact that I cleared my pockets before I did my laundry (of course, she’d be equally upset that my laundry typically spent most of its time on the floor near my hamper and not in it, but I couldn’t hope to meet all of her high expectations all of the time).

But that habit of clearing pockets meant that I was usually aware when I had shit in them.

And I knew that I’d taken out my cell, my wallet, that I hadn’t picked up any receipts at the bar.

Mostly because I’d been outmaneuvered when it came to paying for dinner.

Next time I’d pay.

For now, I reached into my front right pocket and?—

Cursed.

The hundred-dollar bill.

“Stubborn woman,” I muttered, crumpling the money into a ball before immediately smoothing it out again, folding it carefully and setting it on a shelf in my closet, then stripping down. I wanted to take a shower before going to bed. The hot water always settled my mind, helped me sleep.

Not that it would happen easily.

Because Jules returning my money?

Them’s was fighting words.

Well, I was going to fight back, going to make her accept this money.

Fuck knew she’d more than earned it with the hustle she showed on a regular basis.

Plus, I knew exactly how far a hundred dollars could go when things were tight.

They weren’t for me any longer—tight, that was.

I made enough and was smart with saving and retirement funds and investments so that I would be set for the rest of my life.

My parents were, too.

I’d made certain of that , despite their recalcitrance to accept my help.

Further that, I’d ensured that my siblings were secure as well.

As the oldest of four, that was my responsibility, especially considering that my youngest sister had just finished college and was working while she considered her options for more school, my little brother was working while getting his graduate degree, and my other sister was getting married.

I’d paid for Sam and Margot’s tuition (and Kathy’s when she’d gone) and would have paid for Kathy’s wedding, but my parents were refusing to accept my contribution.

So, I was going to give it Kath as a wedding present.

Maybe she’d use it as a down payment for her house, or to go on a killer honeymoon—God knew that none of us had been on vacation enough growing up. We’d all been worked too hard for too long.

Meanwhile, Jules had shoved the money back in my pocket.

Christ .

Women, man. They were confusing as fuck.

Of course, as the guys liked to tease me, I sucked at understanding women, so maybe it wasn’t a surprise that I was often left in confusion.

Like how a woman who was sweet and lovely could turn into a raving banshee who didn’t respect boundaries.

Or another who said she wanted to be in a relationship, but then immediately tried to pick up a teammate.

Several who’d seen me just as a paycheck, another who’d been beyond clingy and wanted me to pay to let her attend every away game. And Chelsea.

Sweet Jesus.

She was a hundred times worse than any of them.

She’d taken crossing boundaries and turned it into an art form.

“Fuck,” I muttered, rubbing my forehead as I moved into the bathroom, cranking on the shower, knowing that she’d get the hint soon. Christ, she’d have to. I didn’t know how to make it any clearer.

Hell, I was convinced that she didn’t really even like me.

It was more the idea that I’d ended things.

No doubt, she was beautiful and smart. But there’d been a sharp edge to her that had always rubbed me the wrong way, a need for control that had made it clear she wanted me to make her a priority but that the courtesy wouldn’t necessarily go the other way.

Fuck, maybe I did have a bad picker, as the guys always liked to accuse me of.

Still, it was better that I’d found Chelsea wasn’t right for me sooner rather than later—though I’d been dumb for long enough for me to take her to CeCe’s, for her to be a bitch to Jules (and yeah, maybe that had been the final straw for me, the fact that Chelsea had gone claws out on Jules within two minutes of meeting her).

But as the guys liked to point out in the time since she’d been unhappy with me ending things and started showing up at the rink and my house and the practice facility, I was an idiot for bringing her to one of our places.

One of the spots the team liked to congregate because the staff were cool, and the patrons left us to our beers.

And another place I had to dodge her on the regular.

Soon.

She had to lose interest in me soon. Right? Right?

And yeah, that was a slightly hysterical edge to my internal voice. Chelsea didn’t want to let go. Jules didn’t show any interest.

Though, tonight had been…

It was the first time I’d seen a glimpse that perhaps she’d wanted me—or at least part of her had responded to me, my body, my touch—and she hadn’t turned down my sweatshirt, hadn’t refused the gesture or offered it back.

Maybe she’d keep it.

Maybe she would wear it to bed…with nothing underneath.

The idea of her sleeping in my sweatshirt, of the warm cotton touching her naked skin, had my cock going hard.

But that wasn’t new.

I’d jerked off to the image of Jules more times than she could probably ever guess. My fantasies were never ending.

Slipping into her tight, wet pussy, feeling her clench around me. Licking the tightened buds of her nipples, tasting her skin. Her fingers in my hair, her legs around my waist, heels digging into my ass. What she would sound like when she came.

And all the various places I could make her come.

My bed. Her bed. The shelves in my closet. The shower. The couch. Hell, my stairs were carpeted. I could set her right on the top step, stroke into her from behind. Or halfway up, her body sprawled over several risers, thighs spread, pussy glistening.

“Fuck,” I muttered again, giving into the urge and wrapping my fingers around my cock.

She’d taste sweet. I just knew it.

And maybe she’d be a little shy, need some coaxing to spread her legs, need me to get her wild with need before she’d follow all my orders, her cheeks flushed pink. What I wouldn’t give to be the one to turn her to the dark side.

Or maybe she’d take charge.

God knew that she could handle a table of rowdy hockey players without breaking a sweat.

Maybe she’d be the one giving the orders, telling me to fuck her harder or deeper or at a different angle, at a different speed.

Maybe she would push me back and climb on top, no hesitation in her actions as she ground down on me, taking me deep into all the tight, wet heat of her, fucking me until we both came hard enough that we couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

I didn’t give a fuck which way she chose.

One or the other or both or something different.

I could get off on anything Jules.

Case in point, my orgasm coiling at the base of my spine, exploding out through my body, hot jets of my cum landing in a hand towel I luckily managed to grab in time.

Fucking teenager shit, coming in a hand towel.

Fucking teenager shit, jerking off all the time because I couldn’t get the girl I wanted.

And it didn’t even help.

My cock was still hard.

I still ached for Jules.

“Fuck,” I muttered again—apparently the only word my brain could manage to get across my tongue. After cleaning myself up, I strode naked to the closet and made sure that piece of dirty laundry ended up in my hamper (because I wasn’t a fucking animal).

Then I ignored my still-erect dick and stomped back into the bathroom, wrenching open the shower door.

Hot water.

Another round of jerking off because I couldn’t keep my mind from Jules.

I was going to be chafed if I kept this shit up.

Thankfully, round two got my dick to behave, and I deliberately kept my mind from the stubborn, gorgeous Jules as I got dressed.

But as I started to leave my closet, I saw the money on the shelf.

I grabbed it, set it deliberately on my dresser, right next to my wallet.

Jules could start this fight.

But I was going to damn well finish it.