Page 24

Chapter 24

Cyn

T he hot water hits my skin like a thousand tiny kisses. I close my eyes and let the steam wrap around me, a cocoon of luxury in this ridiculous hotel shower that's bigger than my first apartment's bathroom. My heart is so full, since Garrett looked at me across the table and said the words I'd been waiting to hear. He loves me…

I adjust the temperature a notch hotter and grab the bottle of citrus-scented shampoo sits on the marble shelf. I pour some into my palm, work it into my hair, and let myself enjoy this moment of absurd luxury.

Six months. That's how long we've been together. Six months since he rescued me when I had no phone, no money, no shoes and no way to find my friends in that jam-packed Las Vegas casino. Six months of discovering the man behind the famous hockey career, behind the carefully measured coaching persona he shows the world. Six months of learning that Garrett Hughes snores when he sleeps on his back, that he can't function without coffee in the morning, and that beneath all that muscle and masculinity is a man who adores his cat.

Moving in together. Jesus. It's a big step. The biggest I've ever taken with anyone.

For the first time in my life, I'm not second-guessing or overthinking or waiting for the other shoe to drop. I'm simply happy. Happy in a way that feels like floating, like being drunk on champagne, like summer sunshine on bare skin.

I work conditioner through my hair, taking my time. Garrett said he had some emails to send, business that couldn't wait. Something about player trades and contract negotiations.

I find myself rushing, suddenly impatient to be with him.

I rinse my hair and reach for the fluffy hotel towel, anticipation building in my body.

I've barely turned off the water when the shower door opens. Steam billows out in a cloud, and there he is—Garrett, already naked, eyes dark with something that makes my breath catch. He steps in, the space suddenly smaller, warmer. "Couldn't wait," he says, voice rough at the edges.

"I thought you had emails to—" My words dissolve as his mouth finds mine, hungry and insistent. My back meets the tile wall, cool against my shower-heated skin. The heat of his body pressed against mine makes me moan.

"Fuck the emails." His hands cup my face, thumbs tracing the line of my jaw. "I’ve been doing nothing but thinking about you naked in here the whole time."

I laugh against his lips. "I missed you too."

He reaches behind me to turn the water back on. It sprays across his broad back, droplets catching in the light. Even after all these months, the sight of him naked still stuns me—the wide planes of his chest, the defined muscles that speak of years of discipline, and that cock…oh my God, that cock.

His fingers trail down my neck, my collarbone, cupping my breast like it's something precious. I arch into his touch, suddenly greedy. Six months together, and still, every time feels like the first time, like discovery.

"God, look at you," he murmurs, reverence in his voice. His thumb circles my nipple, and I gasp. "Most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"Sweet talker." My voice sounds breathless even to my own ears.

He grins. "Just honest."

Then his mouth is on my breast, hot and wet, and talking becomes secondary. His tongue draws circles, his teeth graze sensitive skin, and I dig my fingers into his shoulders, needing an anchor. Steam rises around us, making everything dreamy, unfocused—everything except the points where his body connects with mine.

His hands slide down my sides, grip my hips, then lower, lifting me slightly. I wrap my legs around his waist, impressed as always by his strength. Water flows between our bodies, adding another layer of sensation.

"Tell me what you want," he whispers against my neck.

"Make me come," I manage, barely able to get the words out.

He presses me harder against the wall and his hand moves between us, fingers finding the center of me with practiced ease. I whimper as he strokes, slow at first, then building rhythm.

"Like this?" His eyes hold mine, watching my reaction.

"Yes," I breathe. "God, yes."

His fingers work magic, putting pressure in just the right places. I feel myself climbing, tension coiling tighter with each touch. But it's not enough—I want all of him.

"Inside," I tell him, my nails practically digging into his shoulders. "I need you inside me."

He doesn't make me wait. With one fluid motion, he positions himself and pushes forward, filling me completely. The stretch and fullness draw a moan from deep in my throat. Our bodies fit together perfectly.

"Fuck, Cyn." His voice breaks on my name. "You feel so good."

He starts to move, pulling back and driving forward in a rhythm that has us both gasping. Water beats down on us, turning his skin slick under my hands. I feel the muscles of his back as they flex and release with each thrust.

He shifts angle slightly, hitting a spot that makes me moan out loud. "There," I gasp. "Right there."

Garrett, ever the strategist, locks onto the target. His hips maintain the perfect position while his hand slips between us again, fingers finding my clit. The dual sensation—him filling me, stretching me, while his fingers work on me—pushes me rapidly toward the edge.

"Come for me," he growls, his breath hot against my ear. "I want to feel you come around me."

His words, the raw need in his voice, are the final push I need. The tension breaks in a rush of pleasure so intense it borders on pain. I cry out, uncaring who might hear through the hotel walls. My body clenches around him, an overwhelming sensation washing through me.

"That's it," he encourages, his movements never faltering. "Just like that."

I'm still shuddering through aftershocks when his rhythm changes, becomes more urgent. His breathing turns ragged, his grip on my hip tightens. I watch his face—the furrow between his brows, the way his lips part, how his eyes lock onto mine.

"Cyn," he groans, and then he's coming, his body tensing against mine.

He reaches over and turns the water off. Grabbing the towel, he gently dries every inch of me before handing me the incredibly plush white robe that hangs behind the door.

“Now, that was a shower I’ll not soon forget,” he says chuckling.

The ultrasound gel is cold, and I flinch as Dr. Anderson squirts it onto my belly. Garrett sits beside me, his massive hand engulfing mine, thumb running back and forth across my knuckles in a steady rhythm that matches my heartbeat. The examination room is painted a pale yellow that's probably supposed to be soothing but reminds me of watered-down mustard. None of that matters though—not the cold gel, not the ugly paint. Today, we find out if we're having a boy or a girl.

"Sorry about the temperature," Dr. Anderson says, as she spreads the gel with the ultrasound wand. "The warmer's broken again."

"It's fine," I say, though my abdominal muscles tense involuntarily.

Garrett leans forward in his chair, which looks comically small beneath his frame. He's wearing what I've come to think of as his coach face—intent, focused, like he's analyzing game footage for weaknesses in the opposing team's defense. "Will we definitely be able to tell today?" he asks. "The gender?"

Dr. Anderson nods, her brunette hair swinging with the motion. "You're far enough along that we should be able to get a good look." She presses the wand more firmly against my belly, eyes fixed on the monitor that's turned away from us. "Let's check all the essentials first—spine, heart, brain development."

I squeeze Garrett's hand, suddenly nervous. We've been so focused on finding out the gender that I almost forgot this scan is also checking that everything's developing properly. What if something's wrong? What if?—

"Perfect," Dr. Anderson announces, interrupting my spiral of worry. "Strong heartbeat, spine looks great, brain development right on track." She swivels the monitor so we can see. "There's your baby."

The grainy black and white image stuns me into silence. Since our first ultrasound, the amorphous blob has transformed into something unmistakably human—a profile with a distinct nose, a tiny hand with five visible fingers, the curve of a spine.

"Holy shit," Garrett whispers, then glances at the doctor. "Sorry."

She laughs. "I've heard worse, believe me. Especially during delivery."

I can't take my eyes off the screen. "That's our baby," I say stupidly, as if they both don't already know this fact.

"It sure is." Garrett's voice has gone rough around the edges. When I glance at him, his eyes are suspiciously bright.

Dr. Anderson moves the wand, changing the angle. "Let's see if we can determine the sex." She studies the screen, head tilted to one side. "Ah, there we go." She looks at us with a smile. "Congratulations—you're having a boy."

A boy. The word echoes in my head, suddenly making everything more real. Not just a baby, but a son. I picture a little boy with Garrett's brown eyes, maybe my smile, running around with a toy hockey stick.

"A boy," Garrett repeats, sounding dazed. His hand tightens around mine. "We're having a son."

I turn to him, find his eyes already on me. The love I see there makes my throat tight. "A little boy," I manage.

Dr. Anderson continues moving the wand, taking measurements and typing notes with her free hand. "Everything looks perfect. Good size, good development." She pauses, squinting at the screen. "Actually, I should say excellent size. Not to be unprofessional, but I his penis is measuring quite large for this stage."

There's a beat of silence, during which I feel Garrett go completely still beside me.

"Is that...normal?" I ask, uncertain how to respond to this information.

"Oh, completely normal," she assures me. "Just on the upper end of the growth chart. Some boys are just more blessed than others." She continues typing, seemingly unaware of the bomb she's just dropped.

I make the mistake of looking at Garrett. His lips are pressed together so tightly they've nearly disappeared, but his eyes are dancing with suppressed laughter. I bite my cheek, hard, but it's no use—a snort escapes me.

Dr. Anderson glances up. "Something funny?"

"No," we say in unison, which only makes it harder not to laugh.

She looks between us, confused. "Did I miss something?"

Garrett clears his throat. "Inside joke. Sorry."

She nods slowly and smiles, seeming to understand what’s going on. "Well, I'll just print some images for you to take home and you can check out.”

Once she leaves to print the ultrasound images, we both lose it. Garrett bends forward, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. I cover my face with both hands, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.

"Did she really—" I gasp.

"Yep." Garrett wipes his eyes. "Our son is hung."

"The Hughes legacy continues," I say, which sets us off again.

When we've finally stopped laughing, Garrett helps me clean the gel off my stomach. His hand lingers there, warm and protective over my growing bump.

"A boy," he says again, wonder in his voice. "Our boy."

"God help us if your old teammates ever find out about this ultrasound." I sit up, adjusting my shirt. "Can you imagine? They'll start calling him Little Huge before he's even born."

His laugh is quiet as he pulls me against him. "I love you. Both of you." His hand returns to my belly, a gesture that's become his habit lately. "So, a son. Any name ideas?"

"So many. I have no idea how we’re going to choose.”

Garrett shakes his head, but he's smiling. "We've got time to figure it out."

Dr. Anderson returns with a strip of ultrasound photos, which Garrett takes with careful hands, like they're made of something precious and fragile.

As we leave the clinic, stepping into the bright afternoon sunlight, I feel a surge of excitement. We're having a boy. A perfect, healthy little boy who hopefully will someday grow into a man just like his father. It's overwhelming in the best possible way.

Garrett's arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me close against his side where I fit perfectly.

"A son," he says again, like he's testing out the word, getting used to how it feels.

I lean into him, soaking up his warmth, his strength, his steadiness. Whatever comes next—whatever challenges parenthood brings—we'll face them together. The thought settles in my chest, as warm and certain as his hand in mine.