Page 21

Chapter 21

Nat

The notes of the guitar don’t soothe me.

Alone in my room, my head’s a tangled mess, so many broken pieces of my life at odds with one another—work, Ice Out, Olli. For once, the strings don’t invite my mind to wander off, to float free on a river of unbelonging. To detach from the limits of the physical world and leave my problems behind.

Instead, I spiral deeper.

Deeper into my indecision. I am rockless, anchorless, like a ship lost to the whims of the sea. What will happen if I lose my job? Could I really, truly, leave hockey behind?

As my fingers crawl deeper and deeper into the music, leaving behind the simple songs and racking through the more complicated twists and tangles of notes and chords that actually require practice, attention, my thoughts drift elsewhere.

He’s easy to think about.

The way he acts on the ice and off it are almost at odds with each other. On the ice, he moves like a fish through water. Off it, it’s like his body remembers how long it is, how very many lines and angles must be directed and controlled and contained. Or maybe it’s that what’s inside is too big to be contained by the flesh and bones on the outside.

What an odd thought.

My fingers tumble over the strings, and my mind tumbles over Olli .

Olli James.

I see him again, leaning forward, elbows to knees, the dark lines of ink just a slice on that exposed skin. A preview. A temptation or tantalization.

Something to make me want more.

Just like that kiss.

Like the press of his tongue, the tilt of his head as he offered me better access. The faint moan that slipped through his teeth—

My fingers trip on the strings. The notes crash together in a collision of off-key sounds, making me wince as reality seizes me by the throat. Why am I thinking about him? Why does my mind keep going back to him—the low purr of his laugh, the sparkle of brown eyes, the white of his teeth? That dark slice of skin, the long, corded calves sweeping past me. His rock-steady presence on the ice.

His tongue—

Jesus.

I shove the guitar back into its stand next to the bed and reach for the half-drunk bottle on the nightstand instead. Not like me to drink in my room like this, with Syd asleep just down the hall, but there’s no denying I’m in a strange headspace tonight.

Another few sips and my mind starts to soften around the edges. To let Olli seep back in. Maybe this is my final slip of self-control, the first crack in my sanity, and all my broken pieces are about to go jumbling together until I can’t sort them apart anymore.

I slide headphones into my ears, let the notes of someone else’s songs carry me away as the booze turns my head soft and fuzzy.

Bad Omens’ “Death of Peace of Mind” hums from my speakers, inviting me to drift. And I do. I relinquish all holds on my self-control to see where the universe takes me.

My eyes flutter closed, and I’m not surprised when my new little ghost hovers before me, smiling and pretty, the scent of strawberries and coffee brushing against my senses like the softest and most sensual caress .

He leans close, like a question, and like both nights at the bar, I’m the one to answer, to close the distance between us. Because I want it. I want him.

I want to taste him, feel his lips opening against me, plunge my tongue past his teeth to search the soft cavern of his mouth. Want to feel him pressed against me, hips rocking, rutting, sending heat and arousal spiraling through me.

I want to wonder what would’ve happened if he hadn’t pulled back. I want to know.

If we’d stayed against that wall, kissing, rocking in sync like a song in harmony, what would’ve happened? What would he have done? What would I?

Would I have liked it?

My breath escapes in a harsh sigh as I picture it, feel it. Him on me, and me begging with my tongue, my hips, the hardening of my cock against his thigh.

Does he feel it, my want for him? The way my body responds to him? My pelvis twitches up, but he’s not here, it’s just me and my thoughts and my cock starting to tent the front of my sweatpants.

Shit.

How is this happening? Any of it? And why don’t I mind? My fingers trail up my thigh and across the front of my pants to press down on my growing erection, sending heat through my body.

Why do I want so badly to let this little scene play out—with my hand wrapped around my cock, like his might have been. I press down again. Harder. Firmer. But I’m not seeing my own hand, not feeling it. No, my eyes slip closed and it’s him surging into me, grinding against my now rock-hard cock.

I taste him again—sweet booze, a faint suggestion of peppermint. Feel his coarse curls under my fingers, softer tongue in my mouth. Hard body meshed into mine, pinning me to that wall.

And when my fingers slide beneath the waistband of my pants, I imagine they’re his .

I imagine that he never pulled back to spare me from my own confusion, and instead slid his hand down, down, down.

Wrapped his fingers around my cock.

I gasp aloud as my own fingers curl around my shaft. But it’s not my hand sweeping up and down in light, dry, punishing strokes. No, it’s his, moving expertly over me like he knows exactly what I like. Still kissing me, still pinning me. Stroking, stroking, stroking. Making heat flare across my skin like fireworks, turning my breath to ragged rasps as I approach that proverbial edge.

I come too close.

I fall.

The orgasm steals my breath and my vision with its violence. Cracks across me, careens over me, so I’m not even entirely sure where I finish, until I ease down from the high several seconds later to find cum splattered across the front of my shirt, over my hand, trailing down onto my pants.

Jesus.

When was the last time I came that hard by myself, no lube, no extra fingers, no porn or magazines? Just my dry hand and my clearly overactive imagination.

Yet despite the strangeness, the wrongness, I’m sated.

Still thinking of that dark ghost.

My ghost.

The one I hope never stops haunting me.