Page 5 of Puck of the Irish (Vipers Sin Bin #2)
Five
NAT
I may have bitten off more than I could chew, but it’s the best mistake I’ve ever made. It might just be the best night of sex of my entire life. Ok, not might . It is. Hands down, bar none, all other competitors in the fucking dust. Rizz did, in fact, last long enough to make me tap out, taking me hard from behind bent over that table. I’d come two more times before I’d nearly collapsed, the only thing holding me up his body pinning me to the edge of the table. After that he moved us to the couch, somehow still going strong, but bless him, he slowed it down and wrung one more orgasm out of me before he finally joined me over the edge.
I’ll give credit where credit is due: Anthony Rizzo just might be a sex god disguised as a hockey player.
We’re sprawled out on the living room floor now, recovering, though I’ve yet to come back down completely from the absolute high of this night. I can’t quite believe it, not just because of the mind-blowing sex, but because I’ve actually crossed that line with Rizzo.
And it felt so fucking right and addictive that it scares me.
I finally get the strength to sit up and Rizzo tugs a blanket from a stack beneath the coffee table and tosses it to me before grabbing a remote. He presses a button and the fireplace roars to life. I wrap the blanket around my shoulders but he’s content to remain completely uncovered on the thick rug. I’m not complaining one bit. If this is my one night with him, I’ll gladly take every second to admire that body of his, to commit every detail to memory to replay over and over in my head for the rest of eternity. I feel bad for whatever guy comes next, honestly, because I can’t promise that Rizzo won’t be the one I’m thinking of for a long, long time.
The thought spooks me a bit, so I get up and wander around the room to really look at the space for the first time. I spy an old hoodie lying on the back of the couch, so I snatch it up and pull it on. I inhale deeply and shiver—whatever cologne Rizzo wears smells damn good.
“Help yourself,” he says with a laugh and I smile at him over my shoulder.
The place is huge, fully open-concept with the kitchen, dining, and living room space all in one giant room, really, but each area is well defined. The ceilings are high with exposed metal beams and the back wall is made up entirely of glass doors that open out onto an impressive balcony and an absolutely stunning view of Seattle.
“Not too shabby, Thirst Trap,” I say, nodding to the lights outside. He hikes a shoulder, watching me from his spot on the floor.
“The view is killer, for sure, and it’s a nice place, but not really my style, honestly.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it came fully furnished and that was fine with me—I didn’t have the time or desire to have to worry about decorating and shit, so it worked out great—but now that I’ve been here for a while, I realize how not-me it is.”
I look around again and agree that it doesn’t feel very Rizzo to me, there’s absolutely none of his personality anywhere. Everything is very…I don’t know what to call it. Industrial-modern? All sleek lines and dark metal. It’s gorgeous but a little cold, honestly, and there’s basically no personal touches at all, he’s right. No knickknacks or neon signs or movie posters—but I do spy one small area near the back of the room that has a cluster of framed photos on the wall.
“I’m actually moving soon,” he calls as I wander closer to get a better look at the pictures.
“Where to?” I ask over my shoulder as I take in the pics. They’re all of Rizzo and a woman who I’m assuming is his mom, with beautiful deep-red hair and the same blue eyes as her son. One in front of an old castle, one on a cliff side overlooking a gray ocean, another in front of a gorgeous church. Some of the backgrounds look vaguely familiar but I can’t quite place them—until I see the Guinness Storehouse sign.
“Are these all in Ireland?” I ask as he saunters up behind me. He places a quick kiss on my neck, almost as if out of habit and I can’t say that I hate it.
“To Shep’s neighborhood, actually,” he says, answering the first question. “I close in a few days and should be all moved in before Christmas. And, yeah, my mom and I go to Ireland every few years. It’s kind of our thing.”
I turn to look at him, glancing down at the pendant hanging from the chain around his neck that he always wears, and really look at it for the first time: St. Christopher but set atop what I realize now is a Celtic knot. I arch a brow.
“An Italian who’s obsessed with Ireland?”
He laughs and shakes his head, running his thumb almost absently over the pendant.
“Not a drop of Italian in me. Or, well, there’s probably some drops, let’s be real—I should probably do one of those ancestry DNA test things to find out—but my family is like ninety-five percent Irish, at least on the side that I care about.” He pulls his gaze away from the pictures to look at me, searching my eyes for…what, I don’t know, but then he lets out a long breath.
“Rizzo is actually my stepdad’s last name. He adopted me when I was thirteen and I love the man completely. He’s my dad in all the ways that matter, and I was all too happy to take his name and be his son, but, yeah, my mom is Irish. Like, born and raised in Cork until she was eleven and they moved to the U.S. My grandparents ended up moving back after my mom went to college and all the rest of the relatives on that side are still there.”
“Wow, really?”
“Yep. Why do you think St. Patrick’s Day is my favorite holiday?” he asks with a smirk.
I roll my eyes. “Because they have green beer and the puck bunnies are even drunker than usual?”
He chuckles and takes my hand, tugging me back to the couch. He grabs the blanket from the floor and we settle in together, not exactly cuddling but…pretty damn close. What the fuck is happening right now?
“Growing up, St. Patrick’s Day was this huge deal to me. I dunno, I guess I thought the holiday was just for us because in my little five-year-old brain, us being Irish was like a big deal. We were extra special and so St. Patrick’s Day was just for me and mom, and everyone else who celebrated was actually celebrating us, like it was our fucking birthday or something.” He laughs and shakes his head, and I can’t help but smile, imagining a tiny Rizzo. It’s…adorable, actually. And sweet. And damn it do not make me like you even more, Anthony Rizzo …
He continues on. “Mom would make shamrock cookies and green Kool Aid, and we’d have our own little St. Patrick’s Day Parade in our tiny living room with decorations that we made out of construction paper. We’d call my grandparents who would always send a box of treats, and do lots of other very not-even-remotely Irish things, but mom was happy to do whatever made me happy. They’re some of the best memories I have. I loved everything about it. Still do.” He gives me one of his crooked, sexy grins. “The green beer and inebriated ladies are just extra perks now.”
I snort. “Your mom didn’t want to move back home after college?”
“Well, I kind of came along and then things got complicated,” he says, smiling, but there’s a hint of hurt there.
“Ah, gotcha.” I want to ask about his dad, suddenly so damn curious about this man, this side of him that I never knew existed, but that feels like too much, especially coming from me. Instead I ask about the pictures again. “So, the trips?”
“Well, growing up we didn’t have a lot of money—which incidentally is how I ended up playing hockey in the first place. My mom worked two jobs, sometimes three, just to make ends meet, and our downstairs neighbor would babysit me more or less for free. Hank was one of the best men I’ve ever known. He didn’t have to help out a single mom like that, ya know?” I suspected dad was out of the picture, but hearing it confirmed makes me want to know the whole story. “He ran the ice rink which thankfully was within walking distance of our apartment complex, and he would watch me there and let me skate for free. I helped him around the place, cleaning up and sharpening skates once I got old enough to do it without slicing my own finger off. He was a former hockey star turned coach, and I guess saw something in me. He gave me my first hand-me-down stick and pads, taught me the basics, and there was no turning back after that.” He smiles fondly at the memories and I can’t help but smile back, hearing how such an amazing life and career got started.
“Sounds like we all owe a lot to Hank.”
He nods his head. “We really, really do. I don’t know where the hell I would have ended up without him. He was the one who pushed me to keep my grades up when all I wanted to do was be on the ice to make sure I’d be eligible for scholarships, and when that time came, he helped my parents do so much research, finding me every damn dime they could. He even reached out to old teammates and players to get me seen by coaches from the best schools. I never would have gone to Cornell without him, let alone be drafted. Never would have met Shep, never would have…” He looks at me with one of those rare serious, intense stares, but quickly continues on, “moved to Seattle. He passed about five years ago now, but he got to see me play in the big leagues and even bring home a couple of titles, and that’s all I could have ever wanted.”
“I’m sure he was proud of you.” He nods, a sad smile on his face.
“I know he was. He and Ray—that’s my stepdad—were the best two father figures a kid could ask for.” He clears his throat before continuing on, “Anyway, back to the trips. So, yeah, mom and I didn’t exactly have the spare funds that would allow for vacations to visit my grandparents in Ireland back in the day. Even after she married Ray, we weren’t just swimming in cash or anything. My grandparents were able to come here a handful of times over the years, but it was hard for them too—they were both teachers before they retired, so not exactly lucrative careers. So, once I signed and started making the tiniest bit of real money, the first thing I did was take mom home. Then it just became our tradition. Ray comes sometimes too, but he likes to give me and mom our time together usually.” He shrugs and I shake my head.
“What?” he asks, running his hands over my legs.
“You are…surprisingly wholesome beneath that playboy exterior of yours.” It isn’t exactly what I want to say, but we aren’t going there.
His lips quirk. “Ok, all that was bullshit. I really just like the green beer and drunk chicks.”
I smack him in the chest and he laughs, scooping me up and twisting us so quickly that I yelp and giggle in surprise before he settles over me. He leans in and kisses me in a way that makes my breath hitch, my entire body suddenly on fire all over again. I reach down and grip his cock, not as shocked as I should be that he’s hard again. The man has some impressive stamina and rebound, that’s for damn sure. He groans quietly and I bite gently on his lower lip.
“I believe you promised all night long…and it’s only two a.m…”
With that, he makes good on his promise.