Page 17

RILEY

The music swirls around me, my noise-canceling headphones creating a bubble of sound that makes my spine tingly. The stupid party last night left me tired and grumpy, and I had an assignment I’d forgotten to complete before my afternoon class.

The coffee shop is busy, but I’m tucked in a corner, chewing my pen and waiting for inspiration to strike. I suspect I’m going to be here for a long time. When a shadow looms over me, I assume it’s a barista clearing my empty cup and hinting that I need to find somewhere else to work, so I keep my head down. Then, the shape pulls out a chair and sits at the table next to me.

When I look up and find Hayes Drayton curled into a too-small chair, his hair damp, and his blue eyes fixed on me, the rush of heat careering through my body makes me woozy. I didn’t know arousal could hit so hard, but the memories of his lips and hands on me spin me out whenever they resurface, which is always at the most inappropriate moments.

I tug off my headphones and straighten.

“What do you want, Hayes?”

“To talk. To explain.”

“I don’t have time for this right now.” It’s the truth, but it sounds like a huge brush-off.

He has such broad shoulders, and on the ice, he can defend against the hugest forwards, but here, my words wound easily. His head lowers, and he lets out a long breath.

“Whatever you thought I meant, you were wrong. I don’t know what else to tell you. I would never hurt you, Riley. And I wouldn’t ever use a woman to get revenge on my brothers or whatever else you might have assumed. I’m not that kind of person, and I don’t like you thinking I am.”

“I’m not the kind of person who appreciates being played,” I say, raising my eyebrows and dropping my pen on the table. “And that’s kind of what it’s like. All of you messing with me out of a need to take revenge for the past.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Riley. And I’m sorry that you feel that way. I spoke to Shawn, and he’s not playing with you, either. He really likes you, but he told me he’d back off if I could fix things with you. Well, he talked about sharing you first, then suggested he’d back off.”

Sharing me? Jesus. I don’t probe any further, scared of what I might uncover.

“And Jacob? Because he’s still hitting on me.”

“He’s what?” Hayes looks like he might burst a blood vessel.

“Last night, he suggested fucking me might fix his headache.”

Hayes grits his teeth so tight that his jaw pops, and he shakes his head. “I don’t even know what to say about that. I’m sorry.”

Is he really? Can I believe him?

If I listened to my instincts about his body language and tone, I’d say he’s being truthful. He seems torn up about what he’s suggesting is a misunderstanding between us and is angry at his brothers for not treating me with respect. When his eyes meet mine, it takes me back to a day when he’d been too sick to play hockey with his brothers and had stayed home with me. We’d sat on the sofa, me with my favorite fantasy book and him watching Star Wars. We hadn’t talked much, but I’d been so conscious of his nearness and his quiet intensity that all the hairs on my arms had stood up in awareness.

I’d wanted to talk to him about my book and find out if he liked to read. I never saw him with books, but he wasn’t like his brothers. He had an introvertedness that I’d understood at the time.

“What are you hoping for?” I ask. “Coming over to me like this with your explanations.”

He stares at me, the intensity of his gaze sharpening into something hungrier. “I want to take you out again. I want to…” His eyes drop, focusing on the torn sugar packets littering the table. “I want to get back to where we were.”

“And your brothers?”

“Shawn wants to do the same, and Jacob’s just a mess.”

“Did he tell you about the box?” I ask.

“He did. I was going to ask you if I could look sometime.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Sure. Of course. You can take it.”

He shakes his head. “Jacob would throw it out if I had it at our place. Can you keep it until I can look at it?”

“Sure.”

He nods, and his tongue presses against the center of his full top lip, then slides away, leaving his mouth glossy, and my mind fixates on the way he kissed me. I need to wipe that out and tell him how impossible this is.

“Just before Dad and I left, I was in my bedroom. I don’t think you knew I was home.” I rub the bone at the base of my thumb as hot embarrassment runs through me. “I heard you and your brothers talking about me. I heard everything you thought about me, and it hurt, Hayes. It really hurt. And maybe you’re telling the truth. Maybe you went into what happened between us with good intentions, but I can’t get past the old feelings.”

His expression has turned grim, and his eyes widen with sadness. “What did you hear?”

“That I looked lumpy. That my hair was a mess. That my glasses were stupid and basic. That my clothes were childish and too small. That I was ugly.”

He shakes his head and rubs his big hand over his face. “Fuck, Riley.” Glancing up, he reaches out for my hand, and I snatch it back as old tears rise and burn my throat. “I’m so sorry. We were idiots, all of us. We didn’t know what we were saying half the time. I don’t want to make excuses, but we were still cut up over what happened with Dad. It wasn’t even about you. It was about our mom and how easily she moved on, and your dad and how much he was trying to be a good guy. Everything we should have channeled toward the adults in our lives ended up on your doorstep. I’m sorry you heard something that hurt you. It was a long time ago and I’m embarrassed to say we didn’t know better.”

I shrug, cringing at the emotions that have taken me over, even after all these years. “It’s like yesterday.”

“I hate that you’ve been carrying this around for so long.”

“Words have power, Hayes.”

“They do.” He nods solemnly. “But actions have power, too. Let me make it up to you.”

This time, when he reaches for my hand, I let him take it. “How?” I ask.

“Come over to my place. I’ll cook you something.”

“You cook?” I blink, surprised. I mean, I guess he must have learned to look after himself a little but cooking for guests is very different from rustling up ramen for yourself.

“Better than my brothers,” he smiles.

“Is everything a competition with you guys?”

“Yes and no.”

Across the coffee shop, students pile in, laughing and joking, trying to find space in line. Jacob and Shawn catch sight of me and the shape of their brother holding my hand. Shawn’s expression morphs from surprise to relief. Jacob’s, on the other hand, is steely.

“Okay,” I say. “When?”

“Tonight,” he smiles. “Seven o’clock.”

And even though I’m filled with trepidation, I let him write down the address on a piece of paper before he leaves me to my studies and meets with his brothers for some fraught-looking discussion.

***

I don’t know what to expect at the Drayton house, so I’m a bundle of nerves as I climb out of my car and stand on the sidewalk, staring up at the home. Will Jacob and Shawn be there, or has Hayes made them vacate the place so it’s just me and him? What am I even expecting from tonight?

Like with every interaction I’ve had with them so far, a part of me is fascinated by them: their skills on the ice, their good looks, their reputations, and our link to the past. There’s also a part of me that wants to find out that they’re different from the assholes that broke my confidence for years. It’s as though I need to draw a line in the sand to heal the part of me they wounded.

A psychologist would probably roll their eyes at my motivations. They’d question my desire to disturb old grudges and grievances and open myself up to more of the same treatment that hurt me. They’d wonder why my heart’s fuller when I’m close to them, even though they’ve given me so little reason to feel that way. Or maybe they’d be able to explain that past links can snag a person like a fishhook, and the only way you can sever them is by tearing at your flesh.

When I knock at the door, my heart is already beating like it wants to escape the confines of my chest and fly far, far away. I wait, taking in the peeling paint and the dirt along the door trim. The mess of leaves lining the path mark the house as student accommodation, and I wonder who’ll tidy the yard before it gets slippery.

Footsteps thud inside, and I take a step back as the door is tugged open, and the shadowy shape of Hayes fills the doorway. Instinct drives me to sweep my gaze down his big body, over the broadness of his chest and the tightness of his waist, over the thickness of his powerful legs and the bareness of his feet.

Jeez. He has bare feet, and for all his size and strength, they seem so vulnerable. I guess I must be staring because he makes an amused sound, like a laugh through his nose.

“Riley, are you okay?”

“Yeah. Err…” I flounder, embarrassed enough at getting caught out that my face burns. “Just waiting to be invited inside.”

“Like a vampire?”

“Yeah. I’m a bloodsucker, but only after midnight.”

He checks his watch, then nods like he’s relieved there are a few hours before I go to work on his neck. “Then you better come in.”

I have to turn sideways to pass him in the narrow hallway, and the scent of a freshly washed Hayes is an aphrodisiac I’m not prepared for.

I imagined dinner with Hayes to be a simple affair. Something basic but filling, the kind of thing that athletes make and brag about in boring podcasts and social media posts. Nothing convoluted. Just two people trying to muddle through whatever this evening is.

I didn’t expect him to put in gourmet-level effort.

But as he leads me into the kitchen, I’m blown away by the setup and even more by how he tosses a towel over his shoulder and focuses on the food. The smell of butter and garlic makes my stomach growl.

“Take a seat,” he says, draining pasta into the sink.

I shrug off my coat, resting it over the back of the chair. The table, which is designed for four, is laid for two. A bottle of beer is already open for me, and I pour it, smiling.

This is nice.

It gets even nicer when he presents me with a bowl of spaghetti in a homemade butter and garlic sauce withlemon rind, green parsley and grated parmesan. It’s the kind of thing I’d order in a restaurant.

“Wow. This is…”

“Better than you were expecting. A man can be good at more than one thing.”

“I’m sorry that I thought otherwise.”

“What did you imagine I’d make for you?”

“I don’t even know,” I admit. “I was hoping it would be edible, and I wasn’t going to have to chop it into pieces and hide it under my napkin.”

He snorts, twirling the pasta around his fork like a native Italian. That one gesture gets my loins stirring like some old-world Italian Contessa. “Maybe you should try it before you get too excited.”

I do, and it tastes even better than it smells, creamy but fresh, with a hint of heat. “What did you add to make it spicy?” I ask.

“A little cayenne. I like some heat.”

Our eyes hold, and the heat he spoke about settles low in my belly. I like heat, too. The kind of heat I know Hayes can produce, in and out of the kitchen.

“Pasta is my happy place.”

“It’s God’s food,” he says. “Although, Coach and the team nutritionist would look at this meal and scowl at the lack of protein.”

“There’s protein in cheese.”

“Exactly.”

“You can do so much with pasta. Ravioli, lasagna, baked ziti…”

“Mac and cheese.”

“Yes! Exactly!” I wave my fork. “Pasta is the blueprint for happiness.”

He leans back in his chair and reaches for his beer. “Happiness, huh? That’s a bold statement. I was aiming to fill you up, not achieve the pinnacle of the human experience.”

“Pasta’s good, but it can’t achieve that.”

“Oh?” His voice is casual, but he’s watching me closely with a smile playing on his lips. “And what can achieve that?”

“Chocolate,” I say firmly.

“Chocolate.” He lowers his beer and rubs his unshaven chin. “So, you’re asserting that chocolate is better than pasta?”

“It’s close.” I take a mouthful and chew, still marveling at the restaurant-quality flavor. “But chocolate has the edge.”

“And why is that?”

“Well, it’s portable.”

“Pasta can be portable if you have Tupperware.”

“It doesn’t need to be heated.”

“Pasta salad,” he reminds me. “That can be cold.”

I rack my brain for more benefits, enjoying our banter, but still determined to win.

“You can’t spread pasta over someone’s body and lick it off.”

His blue eyes, which up until now had been light with laughter, darken. “Both are possible but messy, but I’ll give it to you. Chocolate has the edge when it comes to bodies and spreading,” he counters, his lips tugging into a faint smile.

The word ‘spreading’ shouldn’t sound so explicit coming from his lips, but it does. The memory of wrapping my legs around him in the truck pushes forward. I huff out a quiet laugh, and for a moment, the tension I’ve been carrying disappears. Anyone who likes pasta and chocolate as much as I do and can debate their pros and cons can’t be all bad.

“And cake. Cake is good.”

“Cake is good,” he says. “It’s portable, doesn’t have to be heated and you could smoosh it over someone’s body.”

“Smoosh. Good word.”

“But crumbs in bed… not so great.”

We laugh and eat, and I finish my beer. Even though my stomach is lined with carbs, I’m still a little tipsy, enjoying our easy conversation.

“So let me get this straight,” he says, pointing a fork at me like it’s a weapon. “You’ve seen The Godfather , but you think it’s overrated?”

“I didn’t say overrated,” I reply calmly. “I said it’s not as entertaining as people make it out to be.”

“Blasphemy.” He crosses his arms across his chest, his food forgotten. “The Trilogy is holy.”

“I’m just saying, it’s a good story, but the people who act like it’s life-changing...” I shrug and bite back my smirk as his expression tightens.

“You just don’t get it.” He shakes his head like I’ve mortally wounded him with my contrary opinion.

“There are so many better stories out there,” I say. “Stories that will never see the light of the big screen.”

He shrugs. “I don’t get time to read much. Do you?”

“All the time, but I’m not married to college hockey.”

He nods. “My wife is very demanding.”

And even though it’s said as a joke, jealousy at his mention of the word wife catches me by surprise. His eyes linger on mine a moment longer, and then he looks down at his plate like the conversation hasn’t made the air between us heavier. “I should clear these dishes.”

He stands quickly, takes both our plates, and loads them quickly into the dishwasher.

“What about the pans?”

“I’ll do them tomorrow.”

The tension between us is as heavy as chocolate pudding or gooey mac and cheese, and I lean back against the counter, needing its solid support to keep me steady. Hayes is nervous too, his gaze fixed on my feet like they hold all the answers. Until now, I’ve thought of him as confident and a player like his brothers, but the more time I spend in his company, the more my assumption feels wrong.

He takes a step closer and looks me dead in the eye. We hold each other’s gaze, and so much communication passes between us. Do you want this? Yes. Can I kiss you? Yes. Will you push me away? No.

He steps towards me, gripping the counter next to me. I stare up at him, overwhelmed by the swarming butterflies in my tummy and the vibration of heat and longing that pulses between us.

He dips his head but doesn’t lean in enough to kiss me. Instead, he licks his lips and closes his eyes. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about kissing you,” he says. “Your lips.” His breathy exhale tickles my mouth. I’m magnetized to him. So eager to return to where we were in his truck, I sway forward. It’s all the encouragement he needs. When our mouths collide, it’s heat and longing and relief. Sheer relief. His hand grips my neck and hip, hauling me against him. I’m on tippy toes, but he still has to bend so we meet in the middle. The first swipe of his tongue against mine elicits a moan from deep in my throat. In seconds, he lifts me and carries me through the house. We bump into the doorjamb and then into the wall, but he’s careful to shelter me in his powerful embrace. I’ve no idea where we’re going, but eventually, he drops onto a huge couch, keeping me tightly pressed to his big, hard dick.

“Fuck, Riley. You feel so good. So right.” His growling words punctuate the press of his palm over my breast, and his hips rise to grind into me.

I feel right? He feels like heaven.

“Hayes,” I moan as he mouths my neck, my collarbone, and lower, squeezing my breasts together and pressing his face into the soft flesh. Hungrily, he licks my skin, tugging down my top and bra and sucking so hard on my nipple that I throw my head back.

“Your shirt,” I pant. “Take it off.”

In a flash, he’s yanked it over his head with one arm, and I almost combust at the hotness he’s revealed. I paw at his chest, grabbing hunks of muscle, and he’s just as frenzied, ripping my top over my head so I’m naked from the waist up with just my bra loose around my middle.

His eyes bug out at the fullness of my breasts and the dark pink of my wide nipples. He runs his finger around the outside and then latches to the tight tip, sucking like his life depends on it. I’m antsy and restless, desperate to come, and when my hips shift my pussy against the bar of his cock, he loses it more.

I’m on my back, with Hayes panting over me before I can look around. We’re in the dimly lit den, not the privacy of Hayes’ bedroom. “What if someone comes?” I whisper, even though we’re alone in the house.

“Someone’s coming,” he says with a lopsided smirk. “Both of us, if I have anything to do with it.”

I roll my eyes but smile up at him goofily. “I mean, your brothers or other housemates?”

“They’re out,” is his hurried response as he licks his lips, his light eyes roving over my body.

“But they could come back.”

“They never do this early.” He starts unbuttoning my jeans and tugs at the waistband. I lift my hips, and he drags them down so quickly they get tangled at my ankles. I’m bent in two, and he’s wrestling to get me naked, and it’s so ridiculous that I start to laugh, and he does, too.

By the time my legs are free, and I’m wearing only panties and a bra that is no longer serving its purpose, I’ve been laughing too much to be bothered by the exposure. But then Hayes’ reverential gaze softens as he stares at my baby pink lace panties and drags his finger over the little ribbon bow at the center. “You’re so pretty, Riley. Everything about you. You’re like a cake, frosted and sweet and perfect.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d wonder if he was hinting at something about my hockey-baking channel, but the longing that drives his hands to span my soft waist and hook his fingers at the edge of my panties is just about my body.

“Can I take these off?”

“Yes,” I whisper. It won’t be the first time a man has seen my pussy, but it’s the first time I’m so excited about it. I’m pretty sure I’ve soaked through the fabric, and what he’s going to find beneath will be warm and wet.

I keep myself trimmed in the lady garden area but not bald. A little fluff is womanly, and any man who doesn’t like it can go bury his face in someone else’s unlucky pussy. Hayes is ecstatic at what he finds as he tosses my underwear to the ground. Although there’s always an element of shyness when getting naked with a new partner, it’s not like that with Hayes. He’s warm and eager in a way that makes me feel appreciated and wanted.

My hand moves to his chest, the solid warmth of him grounding me, and he groans softly as I trail lower. Then he backs up, dipping his face between my legs, and my whole world narrows to the anticipated press of his tongue.

He doesn’t just savor, that’s for sure. There’s nothing tentative about the way he approaches my body. It’s like his need to taste me has overwhelmed his restraint, and when his tongue laps at me, it’s with a frenzy that makes me reach behind my head to grip the sofa’s armrest.

The groan that rumbles from his throat is long and vibrates against my sensitized flesh. I get lost in the lapping and the sucking and the way he scoops my ass into his hands and tips it so I’m spread open at the perfect angle.

No lover has ever made me feel this delicious or this wanton. Or comfortable. That’s the main part of this that I’m struggling to comprehend. It shouldn’t be this right , not with our history or after what happened before.

I should have reservations. I should need more time. But I don’t. I trust this man to try his best to give me what I need.

There’s no rush for me to finish. I don’t get that awkward feeling that he’s getting impatient. He just focuses on the task at hand in the same way he approaches hockey. He’s there to get the job done, and he’ll keep going until he’s reached his goal

I writhe and groan, and he stills me with his big hands, eyes meeting mine across the naked plain of my body. “Fuck Hayes,” I groan. “Don’t stop,” and his responding groan is the trigger to my orgasm.

There’s no easy slide into pleasure. I’m yanked into oblivion like he got a hand on the back of my jersey to pull me from the end zone. My body arches, and my thighs close hard around his head. My hand grips his hair, holding him absolutely still because I can’t take more than he’s given me. It’s too blinding, too pulsing, too all-consuming.

“That’s it,” he mutters. “That’s it, Riley. Fucking come for me.”

And I do. I do. I do. It goes on forever until I’m nothing but a twisting rope of flesh and ecstasy.

It’s only when I come down and open my eyes that I find Shawn standing in the doorway with a huge grin on his face.