Page 22 of Sexting the Coach (Pucking Daddies #6)

Elsie

Weston Wolfe is hot.

Obviously, I knew that. We all knew that. Mabel has been making a point about it from the day we showed up on the Squids campus and saw him standing there in his baseball hat, barking out orders.

But right now, in the middle of this dance floor, staring up at him, I just double down on the realization—he is gorgeous.

A strong jawline covered in a dark brown beard. Straight nose, thick eyebrows. The kind of neck I want to rise up onto my tiptoes and bury my face in. The scent of his cologne drifts off him, and each time I touch his chest, I wonder what he would do if I started unbuttoning this Hawaiian shirt.

Obviously, I’m wasted. But it’s not like these thoughts are coming just from the alcohol. Hattie always says getting drunk just lets the real you out.

Real me wants to climb Weston Wolfe like a fucking tree.

In fact, real me wants to drop to my knees right here, right now, and show him that I’m worth another try in bed. I want to forget all that shit about bring friends, about that night being a mistake. I want full access to his body for as long as I can get it.

Sober Elsie screams from somewhere in my mind that I need to make sure I’m not saying any of this out loud, but I shove her back into a closet and focus on the light, hazy feeling of having So+. Much. Fun.

I’m still not sure what got Weston to get up and come out to the dance floor, but I’m grateful for it. I keep dancing, sliding my hips against his, turning around and pressing my back into his chest, tipping my head up and lifting a hand to place at the nape of his neck.

He shivers, his hands tightening on my hips, flexing for a moment.

I twist around to face him, tip my chin up so my gaze catches his. His dark eyes focus on me, flicking between my face and my eyes, and once again I’m chanting, begging, pleading kiss me.

And, for a second, it looks like he might. He leans down, time slowing and warping around me when he gets closer, but before we can touch, something horrible happens.

The bartender calls out for closing time, and the once-dark dance floor is flooded in a bright, fluorescent light. It’s like plunging into cold water.

“Come on,” Weston says, dropping his hands from mine and tipping his head toward the door. “Let’s go home.”

On the way, he tells the Uber driver to go past past my apartment—a block away, so we’re not caught—to check on the mob of paparazzi still lingering outside the building.

“It’s just weird,” I say, trying to ignore the sting at Weston checking on it. He’s probably ready to have me out of his place. “That they still care so much about this.”

Weston shrugs, settling into the seat beside me, the streetlights flickering over his profile. When he turns to me, it almost knocks the breath out of me, how handsome he is in this low, flickering light. “Just give it some time. They’ll find something else to latch onto.”

“Yeah, but it’s kind of wild that they’re acting like this, right?” I shift my body, knees angling toward him, so I can get a better look at him. “I’m just a physical therapist.”

“Just a PT,” Weston says, raising his eyebrows, “and the daughter of a hall-of-famer, dating an NHL coach, whose ex-wife is making comments about your relationship.”

“I think Leda and I could be friends,” I pout, and when it makes Weston laugh, I have the urge to do it again and again, just so I can hear the noise.

“You are so drunk,” he says, voice soft, his thumb brushing over my knee for a fraction of a second, so quick I might have imagined it

When we pull up to his place, there are notably none of the paparazzi that are outside of mine.

Weston tips the driver and he and I walk through the front gate with ease.

I stumble trying to climb the steps, and Weston is right there by my side, guiding me up and keeping a hand on my back like he’s worried I might slip and tumble all the way back down.

For the slightest moment, we pause at the top of the stairs, and I feel his eyes land on me and leave like a hummingbird, just barely touching down. I want to go to his room, lay in his huge four-poster bed, but the shame and embarrassment from the other night comes barreling back over me.

I walk to the guest room, and when I stumble again, Weston comes in with me. When I try to lay down in my swimsuit and cover up, he insists I change into something else, and when he can’t find my pajamas, he returns with a pair of his shorts and a shirt that swallow me whole.

“You’re huge,” I mutter. “And you can turn around.”

When he does, his eyes landing on me in his clothes, something flickers over his face to fast for drunk me to process.

“Alright,” he says, voice rough.

“Wait—” I pat the bed spread. “Tuck me in?”

I have no idea where this is going until he comes over, and I surge up, wrapping my arms around his neck.

“Elsie,” he says, his hands flying to my elbows. “What are you—”

“I’m sorry,” I breathe.

“…sorry? For what?”

My face burns with shame, but drunk me is rolling right through this interaction, not stopping on account of the mortification.

“For the other night,” I clarify, swallowing, glad I’m holding him like this so he can’t see how red my cheeks are.

“When you…well, you spent a lot of time on me, and I was like a frat guy. Falling asleep.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then I feel his throat against me as he swallows. “Elsie. That was—you don’t have to worry about that kind of thing.”

“I was so embarrassed,” I squeeze my eyes shut, surprised at the relief that I already feel at getting this off my chest. “You probably thought I was like a dead fish.”

“No.” Weston pushes me back, shaking his head, his eyes meeting mine. “Was that—was that the oh God?”

“What?”

“When you woke up,” he says, staring into my eyes. “You said oh God. I thought you regretting what we did.”

“No,” I breathe, shaking my head, clumsily trying to push the hair from my face. “I only regretted falling asleep. It’s…it’s all I’ve been able to think about. How much I don’t regret it. How much I want to do it again.”

Weston makes a noise, frowns, runs a hand through his hair. “Okay. Good to know.”

With that, he turns to leave. Regret and wanting rush through me at the sight of him walking away. It’s like my body just can’t let him leave, and my hand snaps up, wrapping around his wrist.

“Wait.”

He turns, his eyes heavy with something I can’t identify. When he says nothing, I forge ahead, swallowing, tugging on his wrist.

“Will you stay?”

And, to my surprise, he does.

When I wake up, Weston’s cock is pressing against my ass.

We’re spooning, not a breath of space between us at any point from shoulder to calf.

His bicep is firm under my head, like a pillow, and his other hand grazes up and down the side of my body, from my hip to the tip of my shoulder, back down again.

I expected to be hungover when I woke up. To emerge into a painful, pounding headache. Instead, the only thing I can feel—the only thing I can pay attention to—is the throbbing between my legs, the heat pooling in my stomach, the urge to get Weston as close as physically possible.

My mind feels a little loose, thoughts a little difficult to catch, but I get the feeling that I said more than I wanted to last night. I can’t think about it right now.

When I move, pressing my hips against him, he hisses between his teeth and stops with the gentle, grazing movements, instead sliding his hand up and under the t-shirt I’m wearing—his t-shirt—to cup one of my breasts.

I gasp, and he drops his mouth to my neck, hot and needy as he kisses along the sensitive skin there, biting gently.

“Weston,” I whisper, because I’m not in control of my body right now. The want floods over me, making my skin hot and feverish. My hips press back into him, my ass flush against his lap, and he moans against my skin.

His hands leaves my breast and travels down, his finger marking a path down from my chest, over my stomach, and to the waistband of my shorts. His shorts. Of course, I’m completely dressed in Weston Wolfe’s clothes. Drowning in his scent.

Before he can do anything else—before he can come to his senses and stop this—I reach down and grab the waistband of the too-big bottoms, pulling them down and kicking them off my feet.

Weston breaths hard, sliding his hand around to the front of me, his long, strong arm like a seatbelt over my body.

It seems impossible, but I get even closer to him as he slides his hand between my legs.

I’m not going to let this be another one-sided venture. Grasping, I reach back the best I can and catch the band of his boxers with one hand, trying to tug them down.

I want his cock. I’ve waited long enough.

Getting the message, he pulls his hand away from me just long enough to shirk the boxers, then returns, and I gasp at the feeling of his cock against my ass, hard and hot, ready for me.

His hand returns to the slick between my legs, and I reach back to wrap my hand around his cock, full-body shuddering at the sound that comes from the bottom of his throat when I pump once, twice—

Weston growls, sliding his hand down the inside of my thigh and hiking my leg up so my knee is nearly on top of his, the tip of his cock notching just inside my entrance. Everything is moving fast, at a feverish pitch, and I let myself get swept away in it.

Gasping and breathing hard, little black dots swim in my vision when he shifts his arm under my head, positioning me how he wants. His hand flattens over my chest, anchoring me to him.

“Fuck, you have no idea how much I’ve wanted this,” he rasps, his voice ragged with need, but firm. My entire body is pulsing. I’ve never felt like this before—he could ask me for anything and I would go along with it, as long as it meant getting his skin on mine, his cock inside me.

“I think I do, actually,” I whisper, closing my eyes, all my attention narrowing on the spot where his cock presses against me, insistent.

I haven’t even gotten to see it yet. But that will have to wait until after this, after my body gets what it’s begging for.

“If you remember, I’m the one who texted you. ”

He laughs against my ear, and the hot breath just makes my heart skip faster. Desperate to make this happen, I grind backwards against him.

“Elsie,” he says, “do you remember what you said to me last night?”

I take a breath, mind running through the memory of the night before, coming up with nothing. I hardly remember coming home, let alone saying anything to him.

But then it comes back to me—I told him that I was sorry for falling asleep last time. He thought the reason I said oh God was because I regretted what happened between us, and not because I felt like I hadn’t given as much as I got.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Weston says, moving his hip steadily, so his cock slides against me, but conveniently—and maddeningly—doesn’t provide relief in the spot I want it.

“You never have to worry about reciprocating with me, Elsie. I’ll fuck you over and over with nothing in return if it means I just get to touch you. ”

Breath leaves me all at once, and I arch back against him. Why is the sound of that so fucking hot? How can his words be turning me on even more than him touching me.

“Okay,” I breathe, shifting my hips, catching the tip of his cock in my entrance so he hisses between his teeth. “Prove it.”

Weston shifts again, turning me so my face presses into the pillow, and he’s bracing himself over me, his leg hiked up over mine. When he slides inside me, I’m so wet and so ready that he’s seated inside me fully on the first thrust.

“Fucking Christ,” he mutters, reaching up and pulling my hair away from my neck. “You’re so fucking tight for me.”

I moan into the pillow. I can’t come up with a coherent thought, not when he pulls his cock out and slides back into me. Not when my hips are pinned against the bed, not when his fingers are tangled in my hair and his other hand loosely palms my breast between me and the mattress.

Everything is hot, my skin damp against his, my breath fast and timed to the thrusts of his hips. Weston paces himself, going slow and even for so long I let out a desperate, wanting cry into the pillow.

“What is it?” he says, amused and breathless. “What’s wrong.”

“Faster,” I plead, and when I lift my body slightly, he accommodates me so I can slide my hand under myself, find my clit.

The second I apply pressure to that spot, I feel my climax speed toward me like that famous dolly zoom in Vertigo.

“Harder,” I add as an afterthought, and with that, it’s like Weston releases whatever control he was maintaining.

I feel him adjust above me, and the next time he slams into me, his cock hits deep enough that he must be hitting my g-spot. That’s never happened to me before, not during sex with a man.

Of course, Weston is unlocking firsts with me.

“Come for me,” he says, pressing his lips against my ear, and the sound of him breathing, the feeling of his heavy body braced over mine, the way I can feel him just barely pulling back, the shaking of his hands, how he squeezes at my chest—it sends me over the edge.

I come long and hard, and he doesn’t slow, doesn’t let up, riding through the entirety of my orgasm, even when I’m sobbing as the pleasure overwhelms me. In fact, Weston keeps fucking me, follows the thread of pleasure through to a second orgasm I didn’t even know I was capable of.

When we’re done, he rolls away, gathers me up, tucks me into his arms like it’s the most normal thing in the world. I cuddle into him, and he breathes me in, and for a second, I think that it could actually be like this with us.

That I could spend my life coming down with him. Together.

It’s obvious that things have shifted between us. That we’re going to have to talk about what this means. I’m hopeful that we’ll be able to agree on one thing—we should definitely do this again.

I hold onto that feeling, closing my eyes, and turning my head so I can press a gentle kiss to the soft, fuzzy skin of his chest. Maybe he’ll be able to read in the kiss what I’m feeling, but just can’t articulate right now.

Three words that buzz through my head, begging to get out.