Page 40 of Sexting the Coach (Pucking Daddies #6)

Elsie

True to his word, Weston carries me the entire way down the street as I laugh, clutching onto him.

Despite the cold, Ontario is alive around us with tourists, commuters, and the general sounds of the city.

We pass both old and modern buildings, people in hats and mittens, their breath puffing up into the night.

I breathe in Weston’s scent as he brings me home. We probably look crazy, but I don’t care.

Just before we reach the front door of the hotel, it starts to snow softly, and I stare up at the sky, at the TV static look of the clouds and snow drifting down, and think that I’ve never been this happy in my life.

He holds me the entire time he unlocks the hotel room, and then carries me to the bed. The moment I hit the duvet, the look on his face changes from contentment to hunger, and the sight of it runs through my body, making me shiver at the thought of him touching me.

We move quietly, efficiently, him slipping off my dress and me pulling at his dress shirt until he slides it off over his head. We’re two warm bodies, two people reaching for each other at once, and when bare skin touches, the heat is almost unbearable.

I want him inside me, and I say as much, but Weston shakes his head, pulling back and placing a kiss to the side of my head, just below my temple.

“I’m taking my time with you,” he says, his voice low enough that I can barely make out the words.

Holding himself up over me, Weston kisses down the side of my face, then to my collarbone, trailing his fingers down my biceps in a way that sends a battalion of shivers running the length of me.

I’m in nothing but my lace underwear, and Weston pauses for a moment, reaching over for a remote that sends the fireplace in the corner of the room blazing to light.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, dragging the tip of his nose between my breasts, and it feels like he’s connected to my breath, like each time he touches me it gives my lungs permission to expand again. “So, fucking beautiful.”

The praise should make me self-conscious, but there’s nothing about being with Weston that doesn’t feel right. He places a hand on my hip, his fingers splaying out possessively over the bottom of my stomach, and I sigh into him, the feeling of being the sole object of his desire.

Running his hands down the insides of my thighs, Weston hitches at the knees and spreads my legs, kneeling down between them with a wicked look on his face. My panties come off, and I’m bare before him.

I’m mute, breathless and beholden to him as he lowers down between them, dragging his tongue crudely up and through me.

I cry out, and one hand flies to his head, my fingers looping around his hair, my heart skipping several beats as he explores me, forgetting rhythm or pattern and instead teasing me, running his tongue along the inside of my thigh, swirling several times over my clit before leaving, dipping his tongue just into my entrance until I’m shaking and gasping for him.

“Weston,” I finally plead, writhing, the desire coursing through me nearly painful. “Weston—”

“Yes?” he asks, rising up and wiping his mouth roughly with the back of his hand. The sight of him like this, his eyes dark, the faint lines of his abs visible from the flickering of the fire—it makes me sick with an almost primal need.

I rise up to meet him, tasting myself on his lips and not caring. He sighs into the kiss, one of his hands falling to my hip, the other planting on the bed just above my shoulder.

Grinding up and into him, I press my clit along the length of his shaft and whimper at the feeling, at the desperation with which I need him inside me. Reaching down, I run my hand along the thick velvet of his cock, and his body shudders appreciatively for me.

Voice like gravel, Weston says, “I love you.”

I tip my chin up to him, catching his eyes, overwhelmed with the number of feelings there. Amusement, wanting, desire, affection. “So, show me.”

And he does.

When Weston slides inside me, it’s like butter, so easy and slick that I think we’re about to catapult into something fast, a mirror of the other times we’ve been together. Me rocking into him, begging for more, and Weston delivering pace and impact.

But he doesn’t.

Thrusting his hips, Weston delivers long, slow strokes that keep my orgasm just on the horizon, his body over mine a tease, his hot skin and solid frame a clear indication of how roughly he could treat me, but how much he refuses to in this moment.

As he fucks me, he leans down and kisses each of my shoulders, uses one hand to pin down my hips so I can’t squirm, can’t rise to meet him with each thrust. He forced me to take what he’ll give me, and it creates such a slow, steady rise to orgasm that I’m lost to the movement, so when it finally starts to wash over me, it’s like it comes from every part of my body at once.

I feel it in the tips of my fingers, in the cool, sweet sensation on my tongue, in my hips and the backs of calves. Nerve endings reacting, lighting up in a chorus of pleasure.

Being with Weston makes me feel whole, and this isn’t the kind of sex we’ve had before. This is Weston Wolfe when he’s making love, burying himself inside me, grunting his pleasure and whispering in my ear how sweet I am, how tight I am for him, how much he loves being inside me.

It feels like slowly drifting to the bottom of a pool. Like rising up and out of my body, entering into a dream instead.

When I start to orgasm, my walls tightening in around his cock, Weston lets out a low groan from the back of his throat and quickens his pace only slightly, keeping his strokes long and steady, nearly pulling all the way out before sliding back in again, each kiss of fullness inside me temporary before it starts all over again.

This man keeps me wanting. He somehow manages to make me ravenous and fed, all at once. Supported and urged ahead.

I clutch tight to him, whimpering into his neck, and when I whisper, “I love you, Weston,” into his ear, his body starts to shake, his muscles tightening and contracting, and I feel the warm fill of him inside me.

He hums, nuzzling into me, holding me tight and staying buried inside me even as our orgasms subside, even as our heartbeats even out and there’s nothing but the slow sound of our breathing, coupled with the gently flickering fire in the background.

Weston disappears for a moment, returning with a warm washcloth. We clean up, then he slides into bed, pulling me against him and settling in, breathing deeply into my hair.

There are a lot of things we need to talk through, but right now, everything feels right with the world.

When I wake up at some point in the middle of the night, the fire is still dancing in the corner of the room, casting us in orange light. Weston is already awake, one arm behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling.

For a second, I just admire him—how handsome he is, and how good it feels to be here at his side.

“Hey,” I croak, and he reaches over to the bedside for a glass of water, handing it to me. I take a sip, my voice coming out smoother when I ask, “Everything okay?”

His smile is slow and easy, like maple syrup. “Yeah. More than.”

“More than?”

“I’m happy, Elsie,” he shifts, turning so he’s cradling me, looking me in the eye. “I mean, there are things we need to work out, but I just…I have you. And that’s enough.”

I smile and push my face into his chest, breathing in the scent of him—cologne and deodorant and laundry soap, all the little fragrances that create a smell all his own. Pieces of his life that I’m going integrate into.

Soon, I’ll know what brand he buys. We’ll go to the store together, we’ll pick out clothes for our baby and argue over hockey jerseys to dress them in. Obviously, they’ll have a Squids jersey, but I know Weston likes the Blue Crabs. I’m a through-and-through Bruins girl, because of my dad.

“You’ll need to keep up with your PT,” I say, after a moment, and though I’m not looking at Weston, I can feel him raising an eyebrow at me. “So, you can walk her down the aisle.”

“Oh, it’s a her, is it?”

“Of course,” I roll my eyes, looking up at him with knowing look. “A mother knows these things.”

The sound of that sends a shiver down the length of my back—I’m a mother. The feeling is warm and comforting, like coming home to a clean house and a lit candle.

“I’m talking to Karlee and the others Monday morning,” Weston says. “Before the game. Give them an ultimatum about offering you your job back—”

“I don’t want it back.”

Now that I’m saying it out loud, I know it’s true. The job that I worked so hard to get, now something I don’t want to come back to.

“You don’t have to say that Elsie—”

“Sports PT was never really my passion,” I say, and Weston nods, clearly remembering the other times we’d talked about it.

“I’m…well, I’ve actually been thinking about opening up my own clinic.

Focusing on pediatrics PT. I have enough money, with the trust from my grandpa, and my parents have been investing money for me from the time I was a little girl.

I could live off interest forever if I wanted to.

So, I was thinking, why go through with this job when it’s not what I want?

For a long time, I was doing it because of Drew.

But now, I could open the clinic, have patients pay what they can. Help kids who need it.”

I go quiet, and Weston raises his hand, running it soothingly over my back.

“Well, I think that’s a great idea,” he says, leaning over and kissing my cheek. “And, for what it’s worth, you’ve already got your first investor.”

“And client,” I say, laughing when his hands slip to my waist. “I’ll make an exception on age, just for you. I don’t trust anyone else with treating you.”

“Why is that?” he murmurs, his voice getting lower, thicker with the lust I can feel growing against my hip.

“Oh, please, Weston,” I laugh, turning in his arms, my own breath coming quicker. “You and I both know those PT sessions were rife with romantic tension.”

“Absolutely excruciating,” he agrees, before pulling me onto his lap. “It worked out in the end, though.”

“Yes,” I sigh, leaning down and kissing him, letting out bodies come together. “Yes, it did.”