Page 30 of The No Touch Roommate Rule (That Steamy Hockey Romance #2)

Chapter

Seventeen

MAKENA

I wake up to sunlight filtering through the curtains onto Parker’s bare back and the sound of seagulls having a turf war outside our balcony, and smile.

And smile and smile…

My body aches in the best way—that satisfied, well-used feeling that makes me want to stretch like a cat and purr.

Parker’s still asleep, his face half-buried in the pillow, one arm flung across the mattress. His hair sticks up in ten directions, and there’s a red mark on his shoulder where I might have gotten a little bitey during round three.

Or was it four?

My brain’s too sex-drunk for math. Or counting.

I slip out of bed as quietly as possible, snagging one of the plush hotel robes from the bathroom. All my clothes seem to have vanished into whatever dimension clothes disappear to during desperate hotel sex.

But that’s okay, a girl doesn’t need clothes to order room service.

Twenty minutes later, I greet the waiter at the door, tip generously, and wheel a cart loaded with half the breakfast menu into our suite.

Parker’s still sprawled across the covers like he’s posing for the cover of a romance novel—The Naked Hockey Player with the Monster Cock who Murdered my Vagina by Makena DeWitt.

But it was a good murder.

Excellent, in fact.

So excellent, I’m still grinning as I singsong, “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty.” I park the cart beside the bed. “I brought sustenance.”

Parker cracks one eye, then both, a slow smile spreading across his face that makes my chest tight. “You’re here,” he mumbles, his voice rough with sleep.

“Where else would I be?”

“I was afraid I dreamed you,” he says.

“You didn’t,” I assure him, heart squeezing again at his sweetness as I lift the first silver dome from its plate. “I am very real, and I ordered everything. Pancakes, eggs Benedict, fruit, bacon, fancy potatoes, and six different pastries.”

He pushes up on his elbows, sheet sliding dangerously low on his hips. “You’re an angel.”

“I’m hungry,” I correct, handing him a fork. “I bet you are, too. We burned a lot of calories last night.”

“Preach.” He scoots up against the headboard, making room for me beside him. “My abs are actually sore. My fucking muscles are clearly not in peak condition.”

“Felt pretty peak to me.” I climb onto the bed with the fruit plate. “But I’m happy to help you stay in better shape moving forward.”

“Like I said. An angel.” He pops a strawberry into his mouth with another wicked grin.

We eat in comfortable silence for a moment, passing dishes back and forth, pouring coffee, stealing bites from each other’s plates while the waves crash outside. The morning feels soft and golden and almost too good to be real.

If I look at it directly, it might vanish like a mirage in the desert.

“So,” Parker says, spearing a potato with his fork. “We missed the crab suicide watch last night. Are you sad?”

“Very sad,” I say, trying not to stare as his lips close around the potato. It’s a little embarrassing that I’m still this hot for him after everything we did last night, but…here we are. “Though I’d argue our alternative activities were nearly as fun.”

“Agreed. But I think there’s another viewing party tonight. Same beach, same time, same potential for crustacean-based disappointment.”

I grin. “You want to try again?”

“I mean, we did drive all this way to watch shellfish fling themselves to their doom.” He steals a piece of my bacon—the thief. “Seems wrong not to give it another shot. We could walk down to the pier, see if we can score tickets.”

“True. I want to walk the pier anyway. Find some terrible tourist t-shirts for our collection.”

“‘I Got Crabs in Mobile’ shirts are a must,” he agrees solemnly.

This is good. This is us, bantering over breakfast like we’ve done since we moved in together. Like last night didn’t fundamentally change what I realized sex could be, when you’re with someone who sees everything and hides nothing.

Someone honest and real and caring with no agenda except giving his lover pleasure.

But last night did change everything.

I know it, and I suspect Parker does, too.

The knowledge sits between us, not quite awkward, but definitely present.

“More coffee?” I ask, reaching for the carafe at the same time he does.

Our fingers brush. We both freeze for a heartbeat, then smile.

“Sorry,” we say in unison, which makes us laugh.

“This is weird,” I admit, pouring his coffee first. “Good weird, but weird.”

“It’s the transition part,” he says, adding cream to both our cups without asking because he already knows how I like it.

“From ‘desperately wanting to bone’ to ‘have successfully boned multiple times’ to ‘would like to keep boning but also hold hands in public when we’re sober.’ It’s a dance, but we’ll get there. ”

“Is that all you want?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “Hand-holding when we’re sober?”

He sets his coffee down, giving me his full attention. The morning light turns his eyes the most beautiful sky blue, and the way he’s looking at me makes my stomach flip.

“Nah, I want everything,” he says simply. “Hand-holding, more road trips, you yelling at me about proper knife maintenance in the kitchen. Our kitchen. I want to take you to games and show you off, and help you get your food truck up and running, and be your first customer every day.”

My throat goes tight. “Parker, that’s?—”

“But there’s no pressure,” he cuts in. “And no rush. I know we’re still figuring things out. I’m just saying I wouldn’t mind if that’s the way this goes.”

And maybe I wouldn’t, either.

God, I don’t know. I only know I’m not nearly as good at talking about feelings as he is. So instead, I lean in for a soft, lingering kiss that I hope he can tell means I wouldn’t mind that, either.

Any of it.

All of it?

When I pull back, his eyes are slightly dazed. “You don’t feel pressured?”

I shake my head. “No, I don’t. I just feel…happy.”

He smiles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I trace the edge of his jaw, marveling that I’m allowed to touch him whenever I want, without my inner psycho shouting that it’s not going to work out because he’s too young or too crazy or too Parker.

He’s perfectly Parker, and I’m pretty sure I want him to be perfectly mine.

“You’re kind of the real deal, turns out,” I add.

He gives a mock roll of his eyes. “Duh. Been trying to tell you that for literally over half a year.”

I shrug. “Yeah, well, I’m stubborn. Sometimes in a good way. Sometimes in a dumb way.”

“You’re not dumb,” he says, his smile falling away as he catches my hand. “You’ve been through it with a bunch of assholes.” He pauses, pressing a kiss to my palm. “But I’m not them, and I never will be. Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a Boy Scout.’

“Sure wasn’t.” He tugs me closer with a grin, until I’m half in his lap and feeling every inch of how happy he is to see me. “But my promises are good all the same. The dirty promises are extra good, and that’s something you don’t get with your average Boy Scout.”

“Sure isn’t,” I say, biting my lip before adding in a softer voice, “thank you. For sticking with me. For not giving up.”

“You’re welcome, F.C.” He exhales a soft laugh. “Though I do have a confession to make. F.C. doesn’t really stand for Feisty Critter.”

My brows slide up. “Oh, no?”

“No. It stands for First Crush. Because you were my first crush, and I’d be just fine if you were my last.”

The way he says it, so simply, so plainly…

Laying his heart completely on the line.

It makes me want to cry.

Or write bad poetry.

Or rent a billboard that says “This Man is Mine, Back Off” in giant letters and arrange for it to be erected on his front lawn.

Instead, I say, “Thank you,” in a small voice, because I’m still me, and my feelings still take their time creeping into the light.

I’m probably more of a feral critter than a feisty one, but I’m also falling for him, hard and fast. I just need a little more time, and I know I can be what he needs.

To prove it, I whisper, “That may be the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me. But if we talk about it, I might cry. And I would rather go walk the pier with you, and hold your hand, than cry.”

His smile is pure, gentle acceptance as he nods. “I’d rather do that, too.” But he doesn’t let go. Instead, his arms tighten around me. “Or, we could…”

“We could?” I prompt after a beat.

His grin takes a turn for the wicked. “Or you could stay right here for a little longer. On my lap.”

“But we might miss the good t-shirts,” I tease. “All the medium ‘I Railed my Roomie in Mobile’ will be gone.”

“Tragic.” He kisses my neck, light brushes of his lips that make me shiver. “How will we survive?”

“Damn, Parker,” I breathe, my eyes sliding closed. “Your mouth…”

“I love the way you say my name.” His teeth graze my skin as his fingers trail lower, opening the robe. “Especially when you’re getting turned on.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie, even as I tilt my head to give him better access. “I’m not turned on. I’m very focused on the day ahead.”

“Mmm-hmm.” His hand finds the belt, tugging it loose, making my pulse spike as the terry cloth falls open. “There we go. Your tits are out, and your nipples are already hard for me. Hmm…and no panties. Much better.”

The cool air hits my bare skin, making me hyperaware of everywhere he’s not touching me.

Yet.

“But the crabs,” I murmur, giving him an opening I know he won’t let go to waste.

He eases me onto my back, looming over me with a bulge in his boxer briefs that makes my pussy clench. “I’ve got your crabs right here, baby.”

I giggle. “I knew you’d take the bait and run with it.” I grin up at him, spreading my legs as he settles between them.

“Every time,” he promises as he reaches for the fruit plate, selecting a perfect strawberry. “Now, don’t move.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What are you… oh .”

He drags the berry down the center of my chest—the cool fruit making me shiver as it traces between my breasts, over my belly, circling my navel before continuing south.

“I’m conducting an experiment,” he says seriously. “Very scientific.”

“Oh yeah?” My voice cracks as the strawberry finds my hip bone. “What’s your hypothesis?”

“That you’ll taste even better with fruit.” He follows the berry’s path with his mouth, tongue hot where the strawberry was cold. “Initial results are promising.”

I’m already squirming, need building fast. There’s something about the focused way he touches me, like I’m something precious, worth savoring, that undoes me completely.

“Spread your legs wider, F.C.,” he murmurs against my stomach. “Show me that slick little cunt I love.”

I obey without thinking, past shame or hesitation.

His approving hum vibrates through me. “Good girl.” The words shouldn’t hit as hard as they do. Oh, but they do… “Now let me take care of you.”

And he does.

With his mouth and fingers and that devastating combination of reverence and filth that turns me to a quivering puddle of lust every single time. He takes me apart methodically, patiently, like he’s got all day to catalog exactly what makes me tremble.

By the time he finally lets me come, I’m a babbling mess, and pretty sure I’ve promised him my firstborn despite neither of us wanting kids.

He kisses his way back up my body, looking pleased with himself.

“So?” he asks, settling beside me as I try to remember how to breathe. “Still worried about missing the good t-shirts?”

I sigh, part my lips to speak, then decide talking is overrated, and sigh again.

He laughs low in his throat. “I’ll take that as a compliment to my oral skills.”

“Your oral skills should come with a warning label.” I press my face into his shoulder, still trembling a little. “Danger: May Cause Loss of Words.”

“I’ll get that printed on a shirt, and add it to my first vacation t-shirt collection.”

First vacation.

First…

The word doesn’t sound scary now. It sounds like a promise I want him to keep.

Nearly as much as I want him inside me…

“Parker?” I whisper.

“Yes?”

“I have a serious question.”

He sobers, pulling back to gaze into my face. “Yeah? Shoot.”

“Why aren’t you inside me right now?”

His breath rushes out with a grin. “I don’t fucking know.

” He pushes the front of his boxer briefs down, freeing his cock as he shifts back on top of me.

“That was a serious fucking oversight.” He reaches down, spreading some of my wetness on his length with a slow glide of his hand before he murmurs, “Let your legs fall open for me, baby. Nice and relaxed. Perfect. Now, reach down and open your inner lips. Let’s make it easy for you first thing this morning. ”

I obey, more turned on by the frank way he tells me how to get ready to take him than is reasonable.

But fuck reasonable.

I don’t need reasonable. I just need this sweet man whispering encouraging things into my ear as his giant cock tunnels to the core of my being.

“That’s it, fuck, Mack,” he murmurs, kissing my temple. “Love the way you let me in. How hot you are, how wet.” He groans as he starts to move, long, slow strokes that alter my brainwaves. “God, baby. You’re heaven. Never want to be anywhere else.”

“Never,” I agree, clinging to him as my body adjusts to his girth.

Soon, I’m able to wrap my legs around his hips and grind up into him, meeting him thrust for thrust until we both fall apart. And as he plunges deep, filling me in sharp jerks as my inner walls pulse, I send out a silent prayer to any benevolent forces that might be listening.

Please, don’t let this end badly.

Please…don’t let it end at all.

Afterwards, as we’re catching our breath, I give praise where praise is due. “You’re very good at sex. Like…very good.”

“So, I’ve been told.” But his cocky grin softens into something tender as he adds, “You’re pretty wonderful yourself, Makena DeWitt.”

The way he says my name—like it’s something special, worth savoring—summons another goofy smile to my face. It’s a woman in love smile, one I haven’t felt in a very long time.

“Come on,” I say, before I do something crazy like drop the L word ten seconds into our “more than friends” relationship. “Let’s go buy some terrible t-shirts and get tickets to watch crabs commit suicide.”

“Living the dream,” he agrees, but he’s looking at me when he says it.

And maybe we are.