Page 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

Christina

One more game, one more night, and one more day before Cam is home. All the color leached out of my world when the team plane took off, despite the knowledge that we want different things long-term.

The girls tried to cheer me up at our last happy hour, pointing out older men and talking about planning something for New Year’s Eve. I told them Cam and I agreed to end things after the Holiday Ball in December.

I didn’t tell them about the jersey argument. They’d side with Cam, and I’m not up to fighting them all. I’ve worn it every night to sleep. That polyester makes me feel sexier than any of my fancy lace and silk nightwear, to the point where I’ve had to masturbate on the nights we FaceTime. Not on the call, obviously, especially because he shares a hotel room and has to sneak in calls when Jack is in the shower or down at the bar. But afterward, there was no sleep without relief, with his smiling face so fresh in my mind.

Tonight’s game was on ESPN, so I told Greg I was tired and wanted to view the game from my cottage rather than going up to the big house. Originally he’d planned to attend all the games everywhere, excited at watching his vision develop. But there’s still some hiring and setup to do, as evidenced by the additional jerseys being added to the store, and I think he mentioned one food vendor had pulled out. So he hadn’t been able to join them on this road trip. Some of the growing pains of an expansion team are better handled here in person with his staff, rather than via phone or videoconference in between flights and games.

I made a chef’s salad so I could eat during commercials without worrying about it getting cold, but it didn’t matter. I ended up eating less than half because I was on the edge of my seat for the whole game.

Our guys were shut out this trip – not a single win. However, this last game felt different than the first two. Our Tornadoes fought hard and played well. They looked more in tune with one another, like the kinks are being worked out.

I linger after the game reading in bed, one eye on the phone. I’d hear it buzz, but I check it every few minutes anyway. A few times, my fingers hover over the screen and I debate whether to send a message or not. This is supposed to be casual though, and he’ll be home tomorrow.

Normally, I’d go over a new dance routine to settle my brain for the night, but picturing him dancing with me is not helping me relax.

Finally, the phone buzzes.

Cam

You up?

Yes. You doing ok? That was a tough game, but you guys played really well.

Yeah, Coach said the same. We were more cohesive tonight. Other guys just outplayed us shrug emoji

...

... Saint is on me about speaking up when I see things that can be fixed

I can tell even through text that he’s down. Who wouldn’t be after three losses in a row? I’m not sure how to cheer him up, but I’ll try. I snap a picture of me in his jersey in bed and send it.

Oh wow. You look good in my number.

You ready to try the next lift when you get back?

Yes please. Send me the link to that YouTube

I do. He’ll be back by dinnertime according to the team schedule that gets sent to all the back office. When I reissue my text invitation, he offers to pick up tacos for us. We are back on track.

* * * *

Cam brings tacos from my favorite spot, even though it’s out of his way and his favorite is closer. I dismiss my unparalleled excitement at seeing him by telling myself I’m taking notes for when and if I do want a long-term relationship with someone not focused on having a family.

When he steps inside and draws me close, I feel like I’m home. His shower gel scent with a hint of starch from the dress shirt he’s still wearing is better than any expensive cologne. His height, broad shoulders, and long arms enfold me in the sexiest cocoon possible.

I’ve tried to gain perspective on this relationship being short-lived while he was on the road but I failed. Despite multiple stern lectures to myself to not get emotionally involved, ending this supposedly casual relationship will hurt like nothing ever has.

Trying to regain my balance, I focus on dance. “Let’s dance first and eat after so we don’t have to wait to digest, unless you’re starving?”

“I’m good.” He nods. “That way we don’t go too late. I have an early skate tomorrow.”

He quickly changes into a dance outfit he left here.

Lifts are normally all about the woman’s flexibility and the man’s strength. But given his extreme flexibility and the fact that he has the higher profile as a player, I want to highlight him as much or more than me. It should garner more donations for the charity, which will make Amy happy, but it’ll also help cement his reputation with the fans. My hope is that if he’s a fan favorite, it’ll smooth things with his team members. He’s already popular, or they wouldn’t have stocked jerseys with his name on them in the team store.

I try a few more songs that are faster paced than the first we’ve been practicing. The lift I want to try is an assisted cartwheel and momentum will help, as it’s really two lifts. He’ll hold both of my forearms, and twist me through the frame of his bent intertwined arms. Then, trickier will be him cartwheeling with my assistance. He’ll have to have one hand on the floor as there’s no way I can hold his weight even for a minute.

For this we’re West Coast swinging, as it’s much less structured and we can play around with it, creating a greater contrast to the slower, more formal rumba. We’ll develop the routine together, based on a series of ad hoc steps and what feels best.

It’s time to practice the cartwheel. He couldn’t do this with a shorter partner, as I need to get my hip at the level of his bent arms, so I go up and over, rather than dragging him down. He needs to be able to use his shoulders and back to help me, not just arm strength.

He’s strong enough that we’re able to go through the entrance to it slowly. The end of the lift is the same set of moves but in reverse and with his other arm. However, the slower speed is distracting as hell to me. I end up with my legs in a V under Cam’s face, held there as I start to talk him through bringing me out. I’m almost certain a moan escapes his lips so at least it’s not just me.

We do it faster and I try to ignore the flash of heat between my legs as though his gaze is burning me there. My hands start to sweat and I stop to dry them, my heartbeat pulsing between my legs and under my ribs.

Deciding it’s time to move on, I say, “Alright, you know the basics of that. Let me show you the rest.”

I play the video of the second version of the move, with the lifter churning the spinner as though they are turning a vertical dial with their connected arms, adding speed for the cartwheel.

He watches it once then frowns. “Why would we regress when we’ve already done the no hands version?”

“Picture you doing the cartwheeling,” I say with a grin.

He flicks his gaze back to the frozen video, then up to meet mine, his lips forming a slow smile. “Ohh…Now I see. I like it. Sweet.”

I talk him through the steps. This one has to be fast from the start, or he’s basically doing a one-armed cartwheel without help. First, I have him do a couple of cartwheels across the floor so I can check his form.

I don’t check his form at all. I should be ensuring he’s properly aligned, but instead I follow his impressive bulge and his hockey bubble butt as he rotates, salivating. God, I love mirrored walls.

He cartwheels back to stand in front of me.

I lick my lips trying to find words, but something in my face must give me away.

He steps in, sliding a hand under my ponytail to cup my head, and bends toward me. His mouth settles across mine and I clutch him, sliding forward that last inch to press my body flush against his.

He groans and deepens the kiss, his tongue undulating against mine. Half-lifting his mouth from mine, he mutters against my lips, “God, I missed you.”

I’m too busy coaxing his tongue back into play while tugging on his shirt to answer.

He walks me backward a half dozen steps then stops me and raises his head, reaching behind him to yank his shirt off and toss it aside. I can’t remember why I thought professional dancers were sexy, because this hockey player might set me and my studio on fire. He spins me with his hands on my hips.

We’re at the barre, and I’m staring at us in the mirror.

He places my hands on the wood, then unties the filmy tie of my skirt and lets it drop away. His eyes are roving over me as he kicks my legs wide. His voice guttural, he growls, “Second position. Now wider.”

I blink. He apparently has something specific in mind, and I’m here for it. I widen my stance, my leotard already damp with arousal.

I don’t see him move, but his hand comes to my upper spine and smooths down. All the way down, over my butt and between my legs. Never has a man made my front tingle when he touches my back. With one hand no less. My nipples pebble, eager for him to smooth over them. Instead, he gently presses three fingers against my soft folds, sliding them backward and bringing all my nerves to life.

Needing more friction, I bend my knees an inch to press down against those fingers. The spandex in my leotard makes it hard for him to touch my clitoris directly and the nylon makes the pressure too soft.

He squats with his legs behind mine to align our hips. Those delicious hockey quads allow him to hold me rather than the barre, pressing his naked chest to my back above the low scoop of the bodysuit. I stare at us in the mirror.

His eyes are hooded as his gaze roams over me, and his hand is massive over my lower ribcage and stomach. “You’re gorgeous.”

I’m sucking wind like I just tried to race him on skates. “Cam. Please. Your skin feels so good against mine. I need more.”

“You’ll get it,” he promises. Standing, he grabs the straps of my leotard and peels them down, unbuckling my shoes and tossing them aside as well.

I snap my legs together and step out of it when he crouches to tug it off each leg. I’m naked now. His hair brushes my butt, and his gaze burns me as he rises again.

He toes his shoes off, then strips with the efficiency of an athlete. When he taps the inside of one of my ankles with his foot, I return to my wide stance and watch him through the mirror.

He mimics me, coming behind me again. His blonde waves brush my forehead and his breath gusts over my cheek as he leans in. His voice rumbles in my ear, “Now plié.”

I lower myself, holding onto the barre for what I expect is going to be the longest and most pleasurable squat of my life.

He lowers himself with me and brings one oversized hand next to mine to hold the railing. With the other, he parts my labia and brushes my clit then dips lower to wet his fingers in the copious lubricant my body has already created for him. He circles. When I fidget, he presses his forearm down my back.

“Cam, I’m close. How am I close already?”

He grins in the mirror, pleased with himself.

My hand shifts to clutch his on the barre, needing that extra contact to ground me as I might splinter into a trillion pieces. It’s soothing and unbearably arousing all at once.

He moves his other hand behind me and nudges his cock at my folds before sliding partly inside.

“Okay?” he asks. At my nod, he adds, “And you can hold this position?”

“I think so.”

He shoves in another inch without further warning.

I gasp. His size had somehow been blurred by a few days apart. Now it feels like a battering ram if such a thing could be the best thing in the world while still carrying an element of scariness. Pleasure curls through me reaching every corner. Heat spikes, burning from my core to my fingertips and my back arches, ready for more.

He pinches a nipple—damn hockey player doesn’t need to hang onto the barre to do this—and slides all the way in.

I explode. Never in my life has an orgasm snuck up on me like this, especially one so extreme. My muscles clamp down, pulsating around him, and my legs go taut. I rise and fall in tiny movements, seeking to prolong it. Cam’s finger is back on my clit, pressing rhythmically. I mostly stifle a scream through my teeth, keening as the pleasure goes on and on until I’m limp.

Thankfully, he has one hand on the barre and I’m almost sitting on him, as I can’t hold myself up at this point.

“My turn,” he says.

I hold on tight as he starts to piston, tugging his hand away from my clit alone for a few minutes until it—I—recover from my first climax.

But as his thrusts get harder, jolting me upward each time, he says, “Come with me.”

I’m mesmerized by the view in the mirror layered on top of the physical sensations. At his words I bring my gaze to his and suddenly I’m right there again.

I grip the barre and tighten my legs, determined not to burden him with my weight any longer. His fingers come to my most sensitive flesh again, and the barre creaks under his grip.

My clit quivers under his touch, still super sensitive.

He must feel it too, because he makes a V of his fingers and rubs the sides.

Holy shit. I’m on the precipice again. Two more swipes and I curl my torso forward with the ecstasy, shuddering all over.

Cam rams into me one last time. He brings both hands to the wood so we don’t fall backwards on the hard floor, his arms quaking around me. He groans in my ear as he jerks and spasms inside me.

Finally, we are both spent, grinning at each other in the mirror like loons. At times like this, the rest of the world falls away and I don’t care about secrecy or casualness.