Page 23

Harrison

T he moment I get Lovie Waters back through the door of my apartment, I’m peeling off her coat, pushing it from her shoulders and onto the ground.

We move wordlessly together, me stepping forward, and her back, her chin already tipped up to me when I bend down to take her mouth with mine.

She’s cold and hot at once, her stomach warm but her cheeks frosty, and I relish moving between them with my fingers and lips, peppering kisses over her forehead, her eyes, her neck.

Our dance to my bedroom is almost languid, easy and lazy, the simple movements of two people who have gotten to know one another. Our trip is colored by the certainty that we’ll both be getting what we want at the end of this night.

When I kiss her, she tastes like the cider from the market. She tastes like my childhood.

She tastes like my future.

Strangling that thought, I shove it to the bottom of my mind and focus on the here and now, rather than what I may or may not get. Whether I can or can’t convince her to take a chance on me isn’t important right now.

What’s important is that when we stepped into the elevator earlier, and I pressed the button for my floor without even considering stopping at hers, Lovie rode up with me, her hand still in the crook of my arm as we walked toward the door.

She leaned against the wall, watching me unlock the door, then reached forward, pressing her lips against mine just before it opened.

Lovie came to my apartment to be with me tonight, despite the fact that it’s not on the calendar. She’s not ovulating, and it’s not optimal. It doesn’t fit into the schedule of her fertility medicine.

And yet, here I am, walking her backward through the doorway to my bedroom.

Here I am, unclasping her wool skirt and sliding it down, hooking my thumbs in the waistband of her thermal tights and rolling them down to her knees as the backs of them hit the edge of my bed.

Piece by piece, I undress her, loving the sweet softness of her skin, the breaths and gasps, the way her dark eyes focus on mine through the low light of the room, how she reaches for me, tugging at me, asking for me to be closer, closer even without saying a word.

I love how her fingers skate along the waistband of my jeans, her deft fingers making quick work of the button.

Her slow, careful nature in sliding them down my legs.

The gentle, comforting back and forth of undressing one another, undoing the shells we put on for the outside, to reveal what’s underneath only for each other.

When she looks up at me, her hair loose and wild around her shoulders, those perfect tits free from her bra, pink lips slightly parted, I realize that’s exactly what I want.

I want nobody else to see her like this.

I want to be the only person in the world who gets to see her undone, flushed and panting, wanting and loving.

I step toward her, ready to push her back onto the bed and drown these thoughts with fucking, but she shakes her head and reaches out, putting her cool hands on my burning shoulders and stopping me in my place.

I falter, brain already collapsing with the impossible feeling that this might be it, that she might be coming to her senses and shutting this down.

Then, she pushes her hair behind her ears and slowly sinks to the ground.

“Lovie—” I start, mind racing with all the reasons why this doesn’t make sense. Why it’s not a good idea. Probably because a blowjob has nothing to do with me getting her pregnant. That doing this means something.

“Harrison,” she says thickly, her hand already wrapping around the base of my cock and giving it a good squeeze. “I want to do this.”

My heart hammers in my chest like I’m sixteen again and receiving my first ever blowjob, like I’m a fucking teenager with a crush. Maybe that’s exactly what I am, because the moment Lovie looks up at me with those fuck-me eyes, I have never been harder in my entire life.

When she takes my cock in her mouth, a shudder runs through my body so powerful that it might actually make my knees fucking buckle.

I lock in, commanding my body to stay upright as she laps at me, teasing and playing with me, running her tongue over the head of my cock so slowly that my hands itch to reach out, tangle in her hair, speed up the pace.

She pumps slowly, ignoring the thrust of my hips, licking my dick like it’s not throbbing, not slowly edging toward the cliff between horny and painful.

“Lovie,” I growl, a warning, my hand going to the back of her head. To my surprise, she opens her mouth, tipping her head slightly and looking up at me, giving me the slightest nod at the pressure I apply. Then, the entire fucking world tips on its axis as I fuck her mouth.

She closes down, applying more pressure as I hold the back of her head and slide in, thrusting against her tongue and into her throat.

I’ve had my fair share of blowjobs, but nothing like this.

Never something so raw and pleasurable, never with a woman who trusted me enough to let me fuck her like this.

The noises coming out of her are feral, wanting, and as much as I want to come with her lips around me, I want to come inside her more.

When I pull back, she blinks up at me, confused, but I just reach down and grab her, lifting her with effort, getting her on the bed where I want her.

I lay her on her back, watch her hair spread out over the pillow, notch myself in her entrance, and clench my jaw at the feel of how fucking wet she is.

Wet for me—from me. From having my cock in her mouth.

When I slide into her, I play the same game she did with me, slipping in just an inch, taking it slow, holding back until she’s laughing and writhing beneath me, throwing an arm over her eyes in frustration.

“Harrison,” she laugh-whines, arching her back against the bed. “Please.”

Then, in typical Lovie fashion, she doesn’t wait for me to give her what she wants.

Instead, she wraps her legs around my waist and lifts her hips to mine, taking me deep and knocking the air from my lungs, until I have no choice but to chase that feeling.

to bring her closer with each thrust, drive deeper into her, see what kind of sounds I get her to make.

When she tightens around me, her orgasm coming in several increasing waves, I come, too, the pressure enough to send me over the edge.

I spill loose and fast inside her, grunting against her collarbone, and we hold onto each other like we might never have this chance again.

When we’re done, she doesn’t bother with holding her knees to her chest. And, for some reason, I don’t bother reminding her. Instead, she cuddles into me, and I loop my arms around her, breathing in her scent, the lingering smell of the market in her hair.

Just when I think she’s asleep, I lean down and press a kiss to the top of her head, hoping it says everything I can’t yet speak out loud.

It’s Christmastime, and I’m jolly as hell as I walk down the hallway in the arena, already hearing the distant buzz of fans filling up the seats.

I’m jolly when my phone buzzes, and I know exactly who it is.

Lovie: Only if you win tonight, coach.

A response to my request that she come over to my place after the game. Little does she know there’s a party planned for her, appetizers and holiday food I’ve been working on for the past week saran-wrapped in my fridge and ready to go.

Harrison: I’ll go ahead and suit up, then.

Lovie: Save that for the bedroom.

A thrill runs through me, and I laugh out loud at her text. Lovie Waters, known for being zipped up tight, joking with me like that. It reminds me of that airline waiting area, the sense that she was just waiting for someone to loosen her up.

And I love being the one to see her like this. It makes me happy, adds to the jolly feeling in my bones.

I’m happy enough that I don’t even mind the last-minute extra tickets they sold to this game, or the fact that Greenhill is still nowhere to be found. I don’t even complain about the stupid Santa hat on my head, and how the coaching staff thought it might be a fun addition to tonight’s game.

I’m so happy, in fact, that at first, when my phone pings with an email from HR, I assume it must be something mundane—the monthly HR newsletter, or a round-up of all the new hires. An announcement about this year’s Christmas party.

Most of that happiness fades when I see what it actually is. An invite to an emergency HR meeting, taking place immediately.

When I walk in, Lovie is already seated, her face white. She doesn’t meet my eye as I step to a seat, sit down.

“What’s going on?” I ask, looking between her and the HR representative, a young woman I vaguely recognize. Glancing at the nameplate on the desk, I read, Maya Winthrop.

“Mr. Clark,” she says, her hands trembling slightly as she looks between Lovie and me. “Unfortunately, I’ve called you both to my office today to deal with an…unfortunate series of photos that have been posted online.”

Quickly, she turns her monitor around so I can see what she’s talking about.

There are a few tabs to click through. The first is an Instagram post from a Blue Crabs fan page. Ms. Winthrop flicks her mouse, moving through the photos at rapid speed.

Lovie and me, at the Christmas Market. The photos are practically high fucking definition, showing the snowflakes in her lashes, the way my hand lingers at her lower back. Us locking eyes as we drink from our boot mugs, her laughing as she skates.

The comments underneath the post shift as Ms. Winthrop flicks through them.

Hockeyluver11: Honestly they’re kind of cute together, who cares.

Blucrabzboy: Dude is like 100, find someone your own age, damn.

Emmaaaaa4: This is literally grooming, disgusting. Always knew the guy was a creep—just look at him.

Ms. Winthrop clicks away before I can read more of them, shifting the screen over to an article on NHL Today , which features a photo of Lovie and I skating together at the top.