Page 31

The Finals. After hundreds of regular-season games, and dozens of playoff battles, I'd finally reached hockey's ultimate stage. The culmination of childhood dreams, countless hours of training, and sacrifices too numerous to count. Everything I'd worked for my entire life was within reach.

Yet as I sat in the locker room before Game 1, my thoughts weren't solely on hockey strategy and opponent matchups. They kept drifting to Sienna, to our conversation in the park, to the startling realization that something that had begun as a business arrangement has transformed into the most meaningful relationship of my life.

"Special delivery for Harrison," Coach Miller announced, breaking my reverie as he tossed a small package onto the bench beside me.

The brown paper parcel bore Sienna's distinctive handwriting. Inside, I found homemade protein bars – not the commercial kind I usually consumed, but ones clearly crafted with careful attention to my nutritional preferences. A small note was tucked alongside them:

For luck and energy. I believe in you. – S

A small heart was drawn beneath her initial – a tiny addition that somehow meant more than flowery declarations might have. I traced it with my fingertip, a smile tugging at my lips despite the pre-game tension.

"Someone's whipped," Marco commented from the next stall, though his tone lacked the bite it might have held earlier in the season.

"Jealous?" I replied mildly, tucking the note into my wallet for safekeeping.

"Nah. But I wouldn't mind some of those homemade protein bars. You gonna share with your defenseman partner?"

I tossed him one, which he caught easily. "Tell Sienna if we win tonight, I'll propose to her myself," he joked after taking a bite.

"Back off, Marco," I warned, but without heat. We both knew who my heart belonged to.

The game itself was a battle from the first puck drop – fast, physical, with momentum shifts that kept both teams on edge. I played with unusual freedom, making offensive rushes I might have avoided in the past, taking calculated risks that resulted in scoring chances. When I assisted on our second goal, sending a perfect cross-ice pass that Reynolds buried top shelf, I found myself searching the family section for Sienna's reaction before celebrating with my teammates.

Despite our effort, we lost 4-3 in overtime, a deflection off our defenseman's skate ending the game in heartbreaking fashion. The locker room afterward was somber but not defeated – this was the Finals, after all. No one expected an easy path to the Cup.

I drove home far later than usual, post-game media responsibilities and team meetings stretching well into the night. The house was mostly dark when I arrived, just a single lamp illuminating the living room where Sienna waited, curled on the couch with a book, Sprinkles sleeping at her feet.

"You should've gone to bed," I said softly, dropping my bag by the door. "It's midnight now."

"I wanted to see you." She set her book aside, studying my face with gentle concern. "Tough loss."

I nodded, suddenly exhausted as the adrenaline that had carried me through the post-game activities finally ebbed. "One bounce. That's all it was."

Sienna didn't offer empty platitudes or try to analyze what had gone wrong. Instead, she simply stood and wrapped her arms around me, her head resting against my chest. I enfolded her in my embrace, breathing in the comforting scent of vanilla and cinnamon that always clung to her hair.

We stood like that for several minutes, neither speaking, her steady presence somehow easing the sting of defeat in a way no words could have managed. This quiet understanding – so different from the dramatic emotional swings or biting criticism I'd experienced in previous relationships – felt like a revelation.

"Thank you," I murmured against her hair.

"For what?"

"For this. For knowing exactly what I needed." I pulled back slightly to see her face. "For the protein bars too. Best I've ever had."

Her smile brightened the dim room. "I've been testing recipes. I know the commercial ones taste like cardboard."

"Marco threatened to propose to you after trying one."

"Tempting," she teased, "but I'm afraid I'm spoken for."

The casual certainty in her voice – I'm spoken for – created a warmth in my chest that eclipsed any disappointment about the game.

The next morning, I met with Perfect Home Furnishings executives to discuss the proposed vow renewal ceremony. Their enthusiasm for capitalizing on playoff publicity was evident in the elaborate plans presented – a large public event with media coverage, corporate sponsorships, and marketing tie-ins.

"We're thinking the weekend after the Finals conclude," the marketing director explained, sliding glossy mockups across the conference table. "A celebration regardless of the series outcome, though obviously a Cup win would amplify the exposure exponentially."

I studied the proposals – ornate flower arrangements, elaborate staging, a guest list running to hundreds. None of it seemed like something Sienna would enjoy.

"This isn't right," I said finally, looking up to meet surprised expressions around the table.

"I'm sorry?" The director blinked.

"For Sienna. She wouldn't want something this... flashy." I gestured to the mock-ups. "She prefers meaningful over extravagant. Small touches that matter to the people involved, not grand gestures for public consumption."

The executives exchanged glances, clearly taken aback by my input. In previous meetings, I'd deferred to their expertise on all publicity matters, focusing solely on my end of the contract.

"Mr. Harrison," the director began cautiously, "while we appreciate your input, our market research suggests—"

"I understand the publicity value," I interrupted, surprising myself with my assertiveness in a non-hockey context. "But if you want authentic emotion for your campaign – which is what's been connecting with your audience – then it needs to feel genuine to us. Especially to Sienna."

"What would you suggest?" asked the CEO, studying me with newfound interest.

I described elements I knew would matter to her – incorporating her grandmother's recipes, perhaps holding it at a location with meaning, keeping the guest list intimate with people who genuinely cared about us. "The photos and videos will be more compelling if we're comfortable, not performing."

The room was silent when I finished speaking. Then the CEO smiled, a genuine expression rather than the corporate mask he typically wore.

"You really do understand your wife," he observed. "It's refreshing to see. Most of our celebrity endorsers treat their partners as accessories, not individuals with distinct preferences."

I felt a flash of guilt at the word "wife" – our relationship had begun under false pretenses, after all – but pushed it aside. What we had now was real, even if our beginning had not been.

"We'll revise the plans," the director conceded, gathering the rejected proposals. "A more intimate, personalized event could actually work better for the specific demographic we're targeting with this campaign."

Returning home after practice, I was surprised to find Leo's car in the driveway alongside Sienna's. When I entered, the sound of laughter led me to the kitchen, where an unexpected domestic scene awaited: Sienna and Chloe preparing dinner while Leo set the table, all three engaged in animated conversation.

"There he is," Leo announced upon seeing me. "Man of the hour."

"What's all this?" I asked, taking in the elaborate meal preparation underway.

"Celebration dinner," Sienna explained, coming to greet me with a quick kiss. "For making the Finals. For the bakery's success. For... us." The slight blush accompanying her last word made my heart rate increase.

"Also," Chloe added, raising an eyebrow, "for Leo finally admitting he's been secretly obsessed with me since college."

"I admitted no such thing," Leo protested, though his expression softened when he looked at her. "I merely acknowledged a certain persistent interest."

Their bickering continued as they moved around each other with surprising coordination, the formerly hostile dynamic now transformed into something playfully affectionate.

The dinner itself was filled with easy conversation and genuine laughter. Leo shared ridiculous stories from his agent career, Chloe countered with bakery customer anecdotes, and Sienna detailed her plans for special Finals-themed pastries. I found myself more engaged and relaxed than I'd ever been in social settings, the careful distance I typically maintained completely absent.

After Leo and Chloe departed together, I watched Sienna in the kitchen, moving with practiced grace as she stored leftovers and wiped counters. The soft curve of her back, the rhythmic movements of her hands, the contentment in her expression as she hummed quietly – all created an overwhelming surge of emotion in my chest.

I approached silently, taking the spatula from her hand and setting it aside. She turned to face me, surprise giving way to something deeper as our eyes locked. I cupped her face gently, thumbs tracing the delicate line of her jaw, gaze lingering on her lips, still slightly parted.

The kiss began slowly, deliberately, a conscious choice rather than an impulsive action. Her response was immediate, her body melting against mine as my arms encircled her waist, pulling her closer. The taste of her – sweet with undertones of the wine we'd shared at dinner – was intoxicating, more potent than any playoff adrenaline rush.

She wasn't just kissing me back. She was seeking me, the solid comfort of my frame, the heat radiating off my skin. And I, in turn, was seeking her, needing her closeness with a sudden, almost desperate urgency.

Without breaking the kiss, I shifted my hands from her waist, my palms sliding upwards, skimming over the soft cotton of her dress until they cupped the curve of her ass beneath the fabric. It was firm, warm, impossibly soft. I squeezed gently, almost testing the waters, and a soft moan escaped her lips, a low hum that vibrated against my own.

Breaking the kiss finally felt like surfacing for air after being held under too long. We were both breathless, our chests rising and falling in unison, our eyes locked.

“Sienna,” I murmured, her name a rough sound in my throat, my voice cracking with a need I could no longer ignore.

She just looked at me, her silence more eloquent than any words could have been. And in that look, I saw it all. The want, the hesitant surrender, the thrilling spark of rebellion against the careful walls we'd built between us. It was an invitation, pure and undeniable.

Driven by an impulse I barely understood, I lifted her. My hands slipped under her thighs, effortlessly scooping her up, the lightness of her frame surprising against my braced arms.

She gasped, a surprised little sound, and her hands flew up, instinctively grasping my shoulders for balance. Her dress, a simple, summery thing, rode up her thighs as I raised her, and I caught a glimpse of bare skin, the pale expanse of her legs suddenly vulnerable and exposed in the bright kitchen light.

I backed her towards the kitchen island, a solid block of pale marble that usually held stacks of cookbooks and haphazard piles of mixing bowls, the detritus of morning baking. Now, it was just an obstacle to be cleared, a stage to set.

I nudged aside a heavy ceramic bowl filled with wooden spoons, the clatter echoing faintly in the sudden hush that had descended around us. Another cookbook, its spine cracked and well-loved, went sliding across the smooth surface to join the bowl on the floor.

The cool marble met the backs of her bare thighs as I set her down, the stark, shocking temperature a sharp intake of breath against the rising heat of her skin. She gasped again, this time a sharper sound. The coolness of the counter, the mundane functionality of the kitchen, it all served to amplify the heat that was building between us.

Her legs dangled on either side of me, my body slotted between them, trapping her against the cold, unyielding surface.

My hands went to the hem of her dress, my fingers fumbling slightly with the soft cotton fabric. I needed to see her, needed to touch her skin directly, to feel the heat that I knew was radiating from her.

Slowly, I pushed the fabric upwards, inch by agonizing inch, revealing more and more of her legs, her thighs, the shadowed V at the juncture of her thighs, hidden beneath the thin fabric of her panties.

Her breath hitched again, and I could feel her muscles clench slightly beneath my touch. She knew what was coming. She knew where my gaze was fixed, where my intentions were leading. And she wasn't pulling away. She was leaning in, literally and figuratively, meeting my desire with a hesitant yet undeniable invitation.

The fabric of her dress was bunched high around her waist now, exposing the pale skin of her inner thighs, the gentle swell of her pussy still partially covered by the thin cotton of her panties. My gaze dropped lower, tracing the curve of her thighs, the shadowed crease between her legs, the promise of hidden delights.

I sank to my knees between her legs, placing myself directly in front of her pussy, my gaze fixed on that tantalizing shadow, the fabric barrier that was the only thing separating me from her most intimate self.

The cool marble of the floor pressed against my knees, grounding me, centering me, focusing all my senses, all my being, on the woman perched above me, on the prize just within reach.

My hands moved again, tracing the line of her thighs, then drifting inwards, settling on her hips, anchoring myself, holding her steady. My thumbs brushed the edges of her panty line, teasing the sensitive skin just above the lace trim. And then, without a word, I lowered my head.

The air between her legs was thick with her intoxicating scent. My lips parted, and I pressed my mouth against the fabric of her panties, right over her clit.

The thin cotton was surprisingly damp, already slick with her arousal, and the heat radiating from her pussy was palpable, even through the barrier of fabric.

She cried out softly, a small, involuntary sound that was immediately swallowed by the kitchen’s quiet hum, but it resonated through me like a live wire. Her hands tightened on my shoulders, her fingers digging into my shirt, her body arching almost imperceptibly towards me, offering herself, surrendering to the sensation.

I started to lick, tentatively at first, my tongue tracing the outline of her clit through the fabric, mapping the contours, learning the shape of her desire. She gasped again, a sharper intake of breath, and her hips shifted slightly, instinctively pressing closer to my mouth in encouragement.

My tongue grew bolder then, my licks becoming more insistent, more demanding. I lapped at her through the cotton, swirling my tongue around her clit, teasing the sensitive nub beneath the fabric.

She started to moan, soft, breathy sounds that escalated with each stroke of my tongue. Her fingers tightened their grip on my shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of my shirt, her body starting to tremble.

I could feel her wetness seeping through the thin cotton, the dampness spreading against my lips and tongue, the taste subtly salty, intensely arousing. It was her, pure and unadulterated, the taste of her desire, and it was driving me wild.

I increased the pressure, pressing my mouth harder against her, sucking gently through the fabric, creating a subtle vacuum that tugged at her clit. She cried out again, louder this time, her moan echoing off the tiled walls of the kitchen, her hips bucking against my face, no longer controlled, no longer hesitant.

Her legs, which had been dangling loosely on either side of me, now clenched and unclenched rhythmically, her thighs pressing tightly against my head, holding me captive in her delicious embrace.

I could feel her tension building, her body coiling tighter and tighter, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. I knew she was close, and I wanted to push her over, wanted to be the one to send her spiraling into oblivion.

I started to lick faster, harder, my tongue a frantic blur against the damp cotton, my suction growing stronger, deeper. I pressed my hands more firmly against her hips, holding her still, grounding her as the sensations threatened to overwhelm her.

Her moans escalated into cries, sharp, breathless sounds that were ripped from her throat. Her body arched higher off the counter, her back bowing, her hips thrusting against my face. Her pussy muscles clenched and unclenched, her thighs squeezing my head in a vise-like grip.

And finally, she cried out again, her body convulsing around my mouth. I could feel her clit throbbing beneath the fabric, her muscles spasming, her inner walls milking my face with wave after wave of pure, unadulterated orgasm. The taste of her wetness intensified, sweeter, saltier, utterly intoxicating.

She was still coming, the aftershocks of her climax rippling through her body, her moans softening into whimpers, her breathing slowly evening out. I stayed there for a moment longer, my mouth pressed against her damp panties, savoring the taste of her cum, the feeling of her spent body shuddering against mine.

Finally, I lifted my head, looking up at her. Her face was flushed, her eyes glazed and unfocused, her hair disheveled and falling around her face in a wild tangle. She was breathtakingly beautiful, utterly ravished.

“God, Jax,” she breathed, her voice still shaky, laced with lingering pleasure.

I smiled, a slow, satisfied curve of my lips. “You okay?” I murmured, my own voice rough.

She just nodded, unable to speak for a moment, still catching her breath. Then, slowly, she focused on me, her eyes clearing, a hint of mischievousness flickering in their depths. “Okay?” she repeated, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. “I’m more than okay.”

And then, her gaze dropped, lower to where my cock was pressing against the fabric of my trousers, straining against the confines of my zipper, demanding its own release. Her smile widened.

“Now,” she purred, her voice suddenly husky, laced with a playful challenge. “I think it’s my turn.”

Without waiting for a response, she shifted on the counter, pushing herself back slightly, straddling my legs now, her dress still bunched high around her waist, her bare thighs framing my hips. My dick throbbed, responding instantly to her movement.

Her fingers went to my belt buckle, fumbling slightly, her hands still shaking slightly from her orgasm. I watched her, mesmerized, as she worked to unbuckle me.

Finally, with a click, the belt came undone. She unzipped my trousers, her touch slow, deliberate, teasing, drawing out the anticipation until it was almost unbearable. And then, her hand closed around me, through the thin fabric of my boxers, cupping my length, weighing me in her palm.

A gasp escaped my lips, sharp and involuntary, the sensation of her touch electrifying, especially after just having my face buried between her legs. She squeezed gently, and I groaned, my head falling back against the cool cabinet behind me.

She looked up at me again, her eyes dark and glittering, her smile knowing, seductive. “Hard enough for you?” she teased, her voice a low murmur.

“You know the answer to that,” I rasped, my voice thick with need.

Without another word, she reached down, pulling down my zipper, freeing my cock from its confines. The cool air of the kitchen hit my heated skin, a momentary shock quickly replaced by the burning heat of her hand as she closed her fingers around the base of my shaft.

She guided me, positioning me perfectly between her legs, her gaze locked on mine as she slowly, deliberately, lowered herself onto me. I gasped again as she took me inside her mouth, the sensation incredibly intense, the contrast between the cool air and the wet heat of her mouth almost overwhelming.

She took me deep, her lips gliding over my glans, her tongue circling the sensitive tip, teasing and tormenting, drawing out the pleasure. She moved her head slowly at first, a deliberate, measured rhythm, her eyes never leaving mine, her gaze holding me captive, drawing me further and further into the sensual vortex she was creating.

Then, she increased the pace, her movements becoming faster, more urgent, her mouth working me with a practiced expertise. Her hands moved to my ass, guiding me, controlling the depth and rhythm of her suck.

The kitchen faded away again, the world narrowed down to just the sensations exploding in my dick, the wet heat of her mouth, the pressure of her lips, the swirling dance of her tongue. Moans rumbled in my chest, escaping my lips in soft, guttural sounds. I gripped her hips, holding her steady, lost in the pure, unadulterated pleasure.

She knew exactly what she was doing, knew exactly how to drive me wild. She varied the pressure, sometimes sucking deeply, almost to the back of her throat, sometimes teasing the tip with just the flick of her tongue, each variation sending a different wave of sensation washing over me.

My breath grew faster, shallower, my body starting to tense, the pressure building, coiling tighter and tighter within me. I knew I was close, on the verge of losing control.

Just as the pressure became almost unbearable, she changed tactics again. She slowed down, her movements becoming gentler, almost teasingly slow, drawing out the anticipation, prolonging the pleasure. Her tongue danced lightly over my glans, her lips barely brushing against my shaft, tormenting me with the exquisite torture of near-misses.

“Sienna,” I groaned, her name a plea, a desperate demand. “Please, baby.”

She chuckled softly against my cock. “Please what, Jax?” she murmured, her voice laced with playful sadism. “Please make you cum?”

I could barely speak, my brain short-circuiting, my body screaming for release. I just nodded, dumbly, unable to articulate the words, the need, the overwhelming desire.

She must have sensed my impending breaking point because then, she shifted again, changing the angle, deepening the suck, her mouth closing around me with renewed force, her tongue swirling around my glans with frantic urgency. Her hands tightened on my ass, holding me still as the pressure built to an unbearable crescendo.

And then, it hit me. The wave of orgasm crashed over me. I groaned aloud, and cum exploded from me, hot and thick, spurting into her mouth, filling her mouth with my release.

I bucked against her, my hips thrusting involuntarily, my body convulsing in the throes of my climax. Waves of pleasure shuddered through me, stealing my breath, blurring my vision. I could feel her mouth still working me, sucking even as I came, drawing out every last drop of my seed.

Finally, the spasms subsided, the intensity receding, leaving me limp and breathless, weak with aftershocks. She pulled back, slowly, reluctantly, her mouth glistening with my cum, her eyes heavy-lidded, sensual, triumphant.

She swallowed, provocatively, and then looked up at me again, her smile widening, a slow, satisfied curve of her lips. “Yum,” she murmured, licking her lips clean, her gaze locking onto mine.

When we finally separated and got dressed, I rested my forehead against hers. "I've been wanting to do that all day," I admitted.

"What stopped you?" she asked, her hands resting lightly on my chest.

"Until recently, I wasn't sure where we stood. If what I was feeling was one-sided."

Her laugh was soft, incredulous. "How could you not know? I've been falling for you for weeks."

"I'm better at reading opposing defenses than women," I confessed, earning another laugh that I felt against my chest. "Speaking of reading situations correctly, I had them change the vow renewal plans today."

She pulled back slightly, eyebrows raised in question.

"The original proposal was too elaborate, too public," I explained, leading her to the living room where we could sit more comfortably. "It didn't feel right for you – for us."

"What did you tell them?"

"That my wife prefers meaningful over flashy," I replied, enjoying the way the word 'wife' now felt genuine on my tongue. "That authentic emotion would photograph better than staged grandeur."

Her expression softened. "You really do know me, don't you?"

"I'm learning." I reached for her hand, lacing our fingers together. "I want this renewal to be special for you, Sienna. Not just for publicity."

"It already is special," she said softly. "Because this time, the promises will be real."

Her simple statement encapsulated everything that had shifted between us. I was about to suggest we start making some of those promises immediately when my phone rang, my brother's name flashing on the screen.

"Alex?" I answered, concerned by the late hour of his call. "Everything okay?"

"It's Dad," he said without preamble, his voice tight with worry. "He's in the hospital. Heart attack."

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. "How bad?"

"They're saying it's minor, but..." Alex's voice wavered slightly. "He was asking for you, Jax. I think you should come if you can."

"I'll book a flight now," I promised, mind already racing through playoff schedules and travel logistics. "Text me the hospital details."

After hanging up, I turned to find Sienna already moving toward the bedroom, purpose in her stride. "I'll help you pack," she said simply. "You can catch a plane if we hurry."

"Sienna, I—" I gestured vaguely, the conversation we'd been having, the question I'd been about to ask, all suspended by this family emergency.

"Go be with your family," she said gently. "We have time, Jax. For everything that matters."

As I rushed to pack essentials, the question I'd been about to ask Sienna – Will you consider making our marriage real beyond the arrangement? – remained unspoken.

But her parting words as she drove me to the airport, pressing a gentle kiss to my lips before I exited the car, gave me hope: "Come back to me. Your family here is waiting too."

On the overnight flight to Minnesota, watching Seattle's lights recede beneath me, I found myself thinking not just of my father's health, but of the woman I'd left behind – the one who'd gone from contractual partner to the center of my world in the space of a few short months.

I'd return with an answer to my unasked question, one way or another.