Page 13 of Rematch (Stingrays Hockey #3)

Dragging his hand lower, he dipped his fingers into her pussy, loving how she was wet and ready for him…again. He wasn’t the only one experiencing some top-notch recovery times. Coating his fingers, he returned to her ass, pushing one inside, just to the first knuckle.

Chelsea stilled—her body, her breathing, everything.

“Okay?” he asked.

Her hands clenched into fists around the pillow beneath her head. “So okay.”

He took that as permission to forge on, so he did, shallowly thrusting in and out, adding a bit more until one finger was locked tight in the grip of her ass.

“Holy shit,” she whispered. “I never knew…expected…”

Preston slowly fucked her ass with just one finger, letting her get used to having that tight hole filled. He wouldn’t go any further tonight. He couldn’t. And while that realization practically killed him, he refused to do anything that Chelsea wasn’t fully prepared for.

He wanted her memories of this night to be nothing but good.

When she tilted her hips toward him, moving in time with his finger, he decided to up the ante. Reaching around her with his free hand, he brought her clit into play. It hadn’t taken him long to learn her clit was the key to her city.

She shivered when he stroked it, then began to writhe, begging him for more. He wanted to ask her to be more specific, not because he didn’t know what she wanted but because hearing her describe what she wanted him to do to her was so fucking hot.

However, he didn’t have a chance because Chelsea had been way more primed and ready than he’d expected. As he increased the speed and force of his stroking—both of her clit and ass—she came quickly.

The sound of shock that preceded it told him she hadn’t been expecting it either. He didn’t stop touching her, though he slowed his roll, drawing out her climax as long as he could.

Chelsea’s knees gave out and she sank facedown into the mattress. “I…didn’t even…know…” she said between gasps.

Preston withdrew his finger from her ass, gripping her butt in his hands. Still kneeling between her outstretched thighs, he took a moment to study the delicate curve of her back, the way her hips flared out, the soft slope of her ass.

She was utter perfection, and he tried to commit her body to memory. Hell, he was tempted to ask if he could take a picture of her, just like this, something he could look at during the long, lonely nights he was facing in the future. He’d spent his entire adult life looking for someone like her.

He didn’t have to pretend with Chelsea, didn’t have to guard his words or reactions, didn’t have to shield parts of himself lest he come on too strong.

God, she didn’t even know what he did for a living, which made this so much more powerful.

Because he knew all the way to the depths of his soul, she was here for him—the real him—not the professional athlete.

“Preston?” she said after a few minutes.

He’d gone quiet for too long. “I’m still here.”

“I wish I’d met you sooner.”

Fuck. Those words hit him like a freight train.

“I wish the same thing.”

They let those confessions hover there, neither of them saying anything else.

Fortunately for him, Chelsea found a way to bring them out of that heaviness. Pushing back to her hands and knees, she captured his gaze.

“I want you to fuck me. Hard. I want to be able to still feel you next week when I’m in Paris.”

Preston wasn’t the type to shy away from a challenge, and goddamn, if he didn’t want to leave that kind of a lasting mark on her. Because she was sure as shit leaving hers on him.

Putting on a condom, he gripped her hips, slammed inside, and then he took them both on one hell of a ride, fucking her until they were delirious, out of their minds. He no longer gave a fuck who heard them, and it was probably a sure bet everyone on this floor could.

Chelsea came twice more, and on the second orgasm, she pulled him into the sweet abyss with her.

Preston wasn’t even sure how long they remained in place, connected, before he recovered his wits enough to withdraw and dispose of the condom.

When he returned to bed, she became the little spoon to his big one and they both drifted to sleep for an hour or so.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of sex interspersed with short naps and long heart-to-hearts, where they shared countless stories of their childhood and continued their “favorites” game, covering books, food, vacations, and more.

Neither of them was willing to waste the time sleeping, knowing this was all they could have. They were counting down the hours together, so they created a lifetime of memories in a single evening, sharing every secret, hope, dream, and fear.

At four a.m., their bodies and minds wore out and Preston fell into the deepest sleep of his life.

When he opened his eyes again, he blinked several times, a bright stream of sunlight from the curtain they’d forgotten to close last night nearly blinding him.

It took a second before he realized it wasn’t the sun that woke him up but the sound of someone walking around the room.

Rising, his chest tightened when he spotted Chelsea, fully dressed, sitting on a chair and putting her shoes on.

She glanced at him, offering what he was sure she’d intended to be a cheerful smile. She wasn’t selling it as well as she might have hoped because he could read every bit of the sadness he was currently feeling in her expression.

“I called for a rideshare,” she said softly.

Preston shook his head, quickly climbing out of bed, reaching for his jeans. “No. I’ll give you a ride.”

She stood and crossed the room to him, putting her hand on his, stopping him from fastening his jeans.

“The car is already on its way, and I think this is better.”

He scowled. “Better?”

“Rip the Band-Aid off.”

“Give me your phone number, your address, your last name,” he demanded. “This doesn’t have to be it.”

He knew by her utter stillness she wasn’t going to give him any of it.

He huffed out a sigh. She’d told him it could only be one night. She wasn’t the one trying to change the parameters. He was.

“Fine,” he grumbled. Preston ran a hand through his hair, fighting back the rising rage. None of this was her fault. She’d been very honest with him about exactly how far this could go. She’d shown him the finish line and now they’d reached it.

While he wanted to fight her on this, wanted to demand more time, wanted to beg her to reconsider Paris, he wouldn’t do any of that. Because he didn’t want to ruin what had been the best night of his life with words he’d regret.

“I hate saying goodbye to you.”

The glassy sheen in her eyes let him know the feeling was mutual. He wasn’t sure why he took a modicum of comfort in the idea that she was as sad as he was. Maybe the old saying was true. Misery did love company.

“Preston, I can never thank you enough for last night or tell you just how much it meant to me.”

Her hand still rested on his, so he turned his wrist, clasping their palms together. “I’m never going to forget you, Chelsea.”

She smiled, blinking rapidly, beating back all but one tear that escaped, sliding down her cheek.

He reached out and brushed it away. “I hope you find happiness in Paris, my sweet Joy.”

She smiled sadly, then leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “I hope you find your soul mate, my dear, wonderful, hopeful romantic.” She’d changed the descriptor, and while he liked it, he knew his own was more accurate.

Because he’d never felt more hopeless.

They pressed their foreheads together, soaking in these precious last few moments before…

Chelsea stepped away first, squeezing his hand. “Goodbye, BFG.”

He followed her to the door, holding it open as she gave him one last smile, then turned and walked away.

As the door closed, he leaned against it, closing his eyes as he whispered, “Goodbye, Chelsea.”