Page 17

Chapter 16

Tenley

T his is not at all what I was expecting. Nash is bossy. He's pushy. He's manhandling me like I'm a toy. His toy. And it is the hottest thing that's ever happened to me. When he kisses me, his hand moves to my throat and curls around it, not rough, but firm. And I don't dare resist when he finally allows his tongue to slide past his lips. The sparks when he touches mine are unreal. My knees actually get weak.

He's still leaning into me, his whole body pressing me into the smooth concrete wall and the longer and harder we kiss, the longer and harder he gets. And he is not afraid to let me know. He moves his hand from my neck to the back of my head and his other hand slides down the outside of my thigh, around to the back of my knee which he grabs and pulls up, so he can rut that long, hard shaft of his up into the space between my legs.

Yup. I’m humping my much-hated husband up against his kitchen wall like we’re seniors in high school. And it is giving me life. All my stress about the documentary, all my worry about this stupid fake marriage, all my annoyance about living with Nash, all gone.

He moves his other hand to my ass and lifts me. I gasp and his mouth, which has trailed down to my neck, nips at my skin. I hook my legs behind his back. He tilts his hips into me roughly. “Good girl. Fucking finally.”

"Fuck you," I whisper, smiling.

“I intend to,” he growls playfully and turns, carrying me toward the stairs.

He moves quickly and easily, like he doesn’t have one-hundred and thirty-five pounds wrapped around his torso. His lips never leave my skin. He’s kissing my neck, my ear, my jaw, my lips. Nash is an incredible kisser. Unlike his personality, his kisses are warm, emotional and deep. He reaches the bed, kneels on it, and tips me, and himself, until I’m pressed into the downy mattress and he’s once again pressed into me.

I use my feet, still near his hips, to get his pants down. Slipping my toes into the waistband and pushing them off his hips as I extend my legs on either side of his thighs. He lifts off me a little, allowing the thick fabric to pass, and grins at me. “Nice party trick.”

He shakes the sweats off his ankles and goes back to kissing my neck. He’s balancing on one hand and using the other to explore under my tank top. His fingers are scraping their way up my abdomen. I push up on my elbows, causing him to roll to the side and give me room. With the joggers gone, he’s completely naked now and isn’t at all bothered by it. I lift my tank top over my head, grateful I wore the tiny, sexy white lace bralette because his eyes go right to it and stay there.

“Now the skirt,” he demands.

I flop back on the pillows with a victorious smile. I like the neediness I’ve put in his voice. I lift my hips and, very slowly, undo the button at the top and inch down the zipper. Nash groans in frustration and the next thing I know he’s yanking the skirt down my legs. He leans over me, tosses it on the floor on top of his joggers, and crawls over my body again.

I’ve seen Nash naked more than once now but I haven’t felt him naked. And all that warm, hard muscled flesh pressed against my own naked body is instantly my new favorite thing. “You are so fucking hot, Tenley. It’s criminal.”

He takes my mouth in a scorching, possessive kiss. We leisurely explore each other for the first time using our hands and tongues. Nothing about this feels wrong or annoying, which has my brain spinning because… I don’t like Nash. We are not even friends. So why is my heart galloping and my skin heating under his touch? Why am I dying for this to both move faster and go slower?

“Bra,” he grunts into my collarbone. “Needs to go.”

“Bra stays.”

He stills. “I’ve seen your tits. They’re glorious.”

“There are other places to explore,” I remind him.

He slides a hand between my legs, slowly moving up my inner thigh. “Don’t I know it.”

Oh God… if Nash is a robot, someone implanted the road map to a woman’s pleasure zones because he knows exactly what he is doing. His hand is down there for not more than two minutes and I am rolling my hips and panting his name. “Fuck Nash. Oh God…”

“Do I keep going?” he whispers against my ear. “Do I get you off like this? Tell me what you want.”

I manage to reach down and touch the tip of his cut cock with my fingertips. “I want what you want.”

His fingers keep moving and stars start to flicker behind my closed eyes. I am so close… “I want to fuck my wife.”

I wrap all my fingers around his shaft and gently squeeze, feeling the weight and the girth of it. He moans deep in the back of his throat. And then his fingers are gone and he's reaching for the nightstand drawer. He fumbles around in there. "I'm covered."

Our eyes meet. “What?”

"I'm taking birth control. I haven't had sex in almost two years, and I'm tested every year for everything in my annual physical," I explain. My eyes shift away from his because this is slightly intimate, emotionally, not physically, and that wasn't on my bingo card with Nash. I don’t tell him that I’ve never had sex without a condom, but if I’m going to do it, it might as well be with him. Because for some incomprehensible reason, I trust Nash. I don’t like him but I trust him.

“I’m tested every?—”

“Six months. Like every other hockey player I know.”

“More… I test more. Every three.”

“Of course you do. Classic overacheiver.”

He slots back into place over me. As his lips find mine again, I push my legs apart and he fits himself into the space between. His hips move and his right hand slips around my knee and he bends it. Inch by inch he works his way inside me and my eyes flutter closed at the fullness and pleasure of it.

We start to move together. It’s slow, delicious, but it isn’t long until I want more. And he does too, I see the look of worried concentration knitting his brow in between kisses. I bend my other knee, wrap my arms around his neck, and rake my fingers into his hair.

“Don’t hold back.” His hips roll, I feel him everywhere and arch my back. “Nash.”

He keeps moving. It’s nice. More than nice. It’s amazing but… it’s not everything.

“Nash…”

“What the hell do I have to do to shut you up?” He growls, curling his head into my neck and biting the sensitive skin there as he drives himself into me again, a little quicker and harder this time.

I tug on the ends of his thick hair between my fingers. “Fuck me like you hate me. It shouldn’t be hard.”

He pauses and I tug on his hair again. The next thing I know he’s grabbed both my wrists. My arms are bent above my head, his wide right hand holding them together, pressing them into the pillow, and Nash’s body is bottoming out with every snap of his hips. My body temperature rises as if I’m suddenly on a bed of coals.

I don’t hold back. I couldn’t if I wanted to. I writhe and swear and whimper in ecstasy under him, fighting the swelling wave of pleasure as long as I can. And then, when it finally overtakes me, I willingly, blissfully drown in my orgasm. I think I praise him, telling him he’s incredible, but I’d rather die than admit that…

He keeps going, but I'm so numb and boneless, that it takes everything in me to keep up. I owe him the same euphoric release and I intend to pay up. Moments later, with my left leg repositioned over his shoulder and my lips sucking hungrily on his neck, Nash comes. I can feel his release pulse into me and I shiver with satisfaction. The score is even, just how I like it with him. And this is a game I can't wait to play again.

I wake up when the morning sun is slicing its way through the corners of the blinds covering his windows. Nash is the only hockey player I know who doesn’t have blackout blinds. I’ve been meaning to ask him why that is, but as I roll over now, he is nowhere to be found. I sit up, holding the sheet to my chest, and look around. The loft is so quiet I know he’s not home. His clothes from last night are gone off the floor and mine, including my underwear, are neatly folded on the chair I was sitting on last night.

“Of course,” I mutter and try not to smile at Nash’s predictable politeness. I don’t bother to get dressed. I jump in the shower and then carry my clothes down to my makeshift room in nothing but a towel. My phone, which is charging on the bookshelf where I left it last night, says it’s almost ten in the morning. Nash and I both passed out in his bed after sex, but I expected to wake up before dawn and sneak back down to my room. I slept like a log. I guess he didn’t because I think he’s been gone a while.

It’s probably best this way , I think as I go about throwing on clothes, drying my hair, and applying some basic makeup. I don't know what to say to Nash in the light of day when the lust has flamed out and he's back to being the robot version of himself. I should get the heck out of here before he gets back. Today is an off-day for him and the Quake. They'll have a light practice and team meeting at some point, but they don't play again until tomorrow.

I've been invited by Fisher to the editing studio today, which is both annoying and exciting. It's my docu-series, I shouldn't need an invite to the editing studio, but I do because I'm not the director. Still, it will be exciting to see all the footage they've filmed that I wasn't there to see. I grab my purse to head out but decide to make a to-go coffee to take with me. I am already running late and don't want to have to make a pit stop at a coffee shop. On top of that, Nash has this very fancy, very good coffee machine and I swear it's better than any store.

I stop dead in front of it because there is a note taped to the stainless steel front, by the milk frother handle, and a box sitting on the grill part where you place a mug. It’s a blue box. A blue ring box. My eyes go back to the note.

Hey. If we’re going to keep doing this, you need this. If it doesn’t fit, I can size it. N

Is this… What I think it is? The box is old, and the blue coloring scuffed off the corners of the lid. Inside, on a bed of cotton batting, is an engagement ring, exactly as he described in the bar, with sapphires that match my eyes. "Holy crap…"

I pluck it from the box but hold it like it's a predatory item that might bite me. A beautiful, stunning, perfect, and perfectly terrifying item. I shudder. "Oh fuck, do I have to wear this?"

I shake my head put it back in the box and leave it right where I found it, skip coffee because I'm jittery enough now, and head out the door. Fisher greets me at the studio in the editing room with a big grin I immediately want to punch off his face. He went from being a friend to a foe so quick. I hate it, but it is what it is.

He makes small talk like nothing is wrong as I settle into a seat next to him and he queues up some raw footage. He sighs. “Your aunt and uncle are amazing, by the way. She has no filter and is a total MILF and he’s still eye candy, according to the girls on the crew, and charming as fuck.”

“Do not call my aunt a mother you want to…” I shudder. “And yeah, she’s blunt and brilliant. He’s great too. Now let’s get to work.”

The first clip is Aunt Callie and Uncle Devin at home in Silver Bay. They’re in their kitchen. She’s cooking. Conner is home sitting at the kitchen island talking about the playoffs with Devin, which makes sense. He visits a lot more now during the season since he plays for Portland and it’s only a couple hours away. It’s entertaining and informative to hear the two talk hockey. Then Conner changes the subject and starts talking about his live-in girlfriend Mac. She’s also his coach’s daughter, which is hilarious to me but complicated for him.

“Mac thinks it’s time to get qualified as foster parents,” Conner announces.

Fisher stops the tape and turns to me. “This is where I’ll insert the footage of Conner’s one-on-one interview where he gushes about Mac and her social work and how they both want to foster and adopt.”

I nod, knowing my cousin and his soulmate’s plans. I’m proud of them.

He presses play on the footage again. Uncle Devin assures his first born that he’s ready and it’s a good thing to be intimidated by the responsibility. Callie asks him why he’s holding back. And Conner goes sheepish. He pulls a box from the pocket of his joggers. Callie squeals before he even opens it to reveal a gorgeous diamond ring.

A little spike of panic stabs me in the heart as my mind flashes to the ring on the coffeemaker in Nash’s loft. Fisher has started watching me and not the footage. “Are you hot? You’re turning red.”

“Yeah,” I peel out of my sweater but keep my eyes glued to the screen where my aunt is squealing and hugging Conner.

Conner admits he’s nervous to ask his coach and Mac’s dad, Alex Larue, for permission. Callie waves her hand, dismissing the worry. “Ask Brie. The whole dad thing is antiquated.” She leans in across the island as she slides a plate of food toward him. “Baby, you are going to be the best foster dad, just like you’ll be the best husband Mac could want and everyone knows it. Even Alex. If he doesn’t, I’ll knock some sense into him.”

I laugh because my aunt has a reputation for actually knocking sense into people. There's family lore she's whacked my father and my Uncle Luc with towels, yoga mats, and more when they were dating my mom and my aunt Rose. Conner thanks her for her support and she grabs his face in her hands, the camera zooms in… she kisses his forehead. But I don't focus on that. I focus on the calendar on the fridge. It's one of those wipe-board calendars. Callie and Devin have had it up since as far back as I can remember. It's where they track family events, work obligations, birthdays, everything. And on it… I see a word I don't like. At all.

“Rewind it please,” I demand, but Fisher doesn’t move fast enough so I do it.

I pause the footage, lean in, and squint at the screen. I want to ask Fisher if he sees the word I see but I don’t because I don’t trust him anymore. I swallow down the sick feeling bubbling in my chest. “What?”

I shake my head at Fisher. “This is fine. Good.”

“That’s it?” He lifts a brown eyebrow. “Your cousin is going to get engaged.”

“Yeah. I knew that would happen eventually.” I nod. “What’s next. I need to get home.”

And call my aunt , I think but don’t say.

“I was trying to butter you up with that footage because I know this isn’t going to make you happy…” Fisher mutters as he flips to different footage and Anne-Marie fills the screen. I groan.

Anne-Marie is Crew Westwood’s ex-wife. And it was a very messy breakup, to put it lightly. I turn to Fisher and glare. “We shouldn’t be including her at all.”

“Drama factor.”

He hits play and her nasal voice fills the room. It's a one-on-one clip. She's sitting in a room by herself. It starts innocuous enough as she yammers on about her long-distance relationship with Emmett Echolls. She talks about the hardships of not 'snuggling up together every night' and I roll my eyes. "But you know, even when they're here with you hockey players aren't always here, you know? It's a full-time job with no days off from the start of the season to the end."

Well, she isn't wrong there, but that revelation isn't drama and we could get it from any other wife or girlfriend. I'm about to tell Fisher that when he pauses the footage and switches to footage of Emmett and Anne-Marie together. In Quebec, according to the subtitle he's put in already. Emmett plays for the Quebec Nationals. Anne-Marie is Canadian but yet won't move to Quebec to live with Emmett, and in this clip, they're fighting about it. "I have a career too you know. And you'll need that money when yours ends. Plus I enjoy it. I'm a model and my time is limited on that too, so I can't give it up now and go back to it later."

I roll my eyes. The girl does low-end clothing websites, she’s not exactly Chrissy Teigen. It’s a career switch she got into after her divorce. Fisher pauses the footage. I wait for him to play something else, but when he doesn’t I turn to lock eyes with him. “This is where you lose your mind.”

He hits a button and we’re back to the one-on-one footage with Anne-Marie. She frowns… or tries to. I think she’s had Botox because the corners of her mouth kind of turn down but the rest of her face remains motionless, which looks so freaking weird. “I need my independence. I know how hockey romances can blow up. I was married to a player before Emmett. And… it didn’t work out. We… we made some bad choices in our marriage… I hold responsibility too. I mean, I think deep down I knew he was gay and that’s why I left.”

I’m out of my chair and screaming the second the word gay leaves her lying little mouth. “He’s not gay. She has zero evidence and this is called defamation, on top of which Crew has not signed on to be a profiled person in this series and we have absolutely no right to?—”

"I know your argument," Fisher says sternly like he's bored. Fucking douche. "But the fact is, she's never going to stop making the accusation."

“She’s a lying bitch.” I reply, growling. “He’s in a very happy, exclusive relationship with my cousin for fuck’s sake. My female cousin!”

“So then what’s the harm in airing this bullshit and letting him address it?” Fisher asks, his eyes so innocent I want to punch him again. I ball my fists and press them into my sides. “Like I said she keeps saying it. Every chance she gets. So if we don’t let that footage out, she’ll eventually say it to some other media outlet.”

“If we do let it out, this becomes trash tv,” I argue. “It will eclipse the purpose of the show.”

“It will get us viewers.”

“There’s good attention and bad, Fisher, and this is bad. Are you that thick?”

“There’s money in bad attention, Tenley. Are you that thick?”

We stare at each other. He looks smug and I’m sure I look rabid. I grab my sweater and my purse and start out of the room. He follows me to the door and calls after me as I march down the hall to the exit. “Tenley! Are you going to stomp off like a child?”

“Oh trust me, asshole, what I’m about to do is not child’s play,” I reply, my voice calm and even. Unaffected. I pause to glance back at him and as he takes in my expression and the coldness in my stare the smug smirk slides away.

Good. Because I’ll burn this dream of mine to the ground before I let him ruin Crew and Liv’s lives.