Page 37 of The No Touch Roommate Rule (That Steamy Hockey Romance #2)

As we step off the stage, Nana is waiting with our prize, matching t-shirts that say “Official Weiner Circle Members” across the top, with extremely suggestive graphics beneath.

“Put them on,” she demands. “I need pictures for my socials.”

We pull the shirts on over our clothes, still grinning like idiots. After Nana’s done with her phone, the official festival photographer snaps shots of us with our arms around each other. Makena presses up on tiptoe to kiss my cheek, while I grin like I won the girlfriend lottery.

Because I did.

The rest of the day passes in a happy daze of meat and music. We eat our way through the festival, Makena moaning over everything, taking notes for food truck ideas, and feeding me bites of delicious things straight from her fingers just to watch me squirm.

We sway sedately to a bluegrass band, while I silently will my knee to hurry up and heal already.

I’m so ready to be no-holds-barred on the dance floor with her again, like at Grammercy’s wedding.

Later, we get matching bratwurst temporary tattoos—Makena on her ankle, me a larger one on my bicep that pulses obscenely when I flex—and buy Nana a hat that says “GILF Energy,” which she immediately puts on before taking to the dance floor with Eugenia.

By the time the sun sets and the festival is winding down, my knee is talking to me, and Makena is fretting that she might develop the meat sweats.

“I mean, there is such a thing as too much meat, Parker,” she says as we leave Nana gossiping in the beer tent and head for home.

“Lies,” I say, tucking her under my arm. “But yeah, I’m ready to live my best vegetarian life for a week or two.”

“Agreed,” she says. “I’ll pop over to the store tomorrow before y’all wake up and grab stuff to make tofu curry for dinner tomorrow.” Her lips turn down. “Is it wrong that I’m kind of sad that we only have two more nights? I really love your grandma.”

I grin. “Don’t be sad. We’ll just make plans to come back soon. I’ll still be on the PT bench during camp in August. I can probably talk Coach into letting me do my exercises remotely for a couple of days so we can sneak away for a long weekend.”

She sighs, letting her head rest on my chest as we walk. “That would be nice. I doubt I’ll have the food truck up and running by then. But even if I do, I can take a couple of days off, too.”

“No sense working yourself to death,” I agree. “You’ve done enough of that. And you don’t have to worry about paying for rent anymore, so…”

She makes an irritated sound. “No money talk until we get home, remember? But if you’re going to insist on it, just know that I will be chipping in on the mortgage. Proportionally. Since I don’t make a pro hockey player’s salary.”

“Fair,” I say. “Very fair.”

“And then, when you’re old and crusty and can’t play hockey anymore,” she continues, “and I’m a famous restaurant mogul with a fleet of food trucks and an award-winning restaurant in the French Quarter, I’ll take over paying the larger share.”

“Also, very fair. I’m looking forward to being a kept man.”

“Shower?” Makena asks with a smile as we turn into the yard.

“Soon,” I say. “I want to show you something first. Seeing all those kids today made me wonder…”

“Wonder what?” she asks, following me through Nana’s wild garden to the far corner where my old playhouse squats in the gathering shadows. Its brightly painted wood looks a lot more weathered than I remember, but it’s still here. Still standing.

“What’s this?” Makena asks. “Where you used to go to smoke weed when you were a teenager?”

I laugh. “Nah, I was never a smoker. But my Oxford friends and I may have gotten wasted on Pabst in here a couple of times during summer vacation. And I used to play in here all the time as a kid when it was raining. Come on.” I open the creaky door and duck inside, muscle memory navigating the low doorway.

She follows me, glancing around in the fading light.

Band posters from bands I loved as a teenager paper the walls, along with artwork from when I was younger, and ancient protest posters from when Nana was a teenager hiding from her dad out here.

There’s a small couch, a desk that’s seen better days, and my beanbag chair still in the corner.

“Not as bad as I thought it would be,” Makena observes. “Nana must come out here and clean up every once and a while.”

“Probably,” I agree. “I think she’s got a soft spot for the clubhouse.

This is where she and her friends used to hang out, plotting the feminist revolution and sewing charms on their bell-bottoms. She must have told me that women couldn’t have their own bank account until the 1970s a hundred times when I was growing up. ”

“Good,” Makena says, taking my hand. “We should never forget how far we’ve come. Or the women who had to fight to get us there. I’d be so screwed if I couldn’t manage my own finances. My dad would never have co-signed a small business loan for me.”

I squeeze her fingers. “Speaking of loans and finances… I’d be happy to loan you the money for the food truck, okay?

” I cut her off before she can protest, “I know you’re a strong, independent woman, but why pay interest if you don’t have to?

We could draw up something official, lay out clear terms for you to pay me back over time, just… without interest.”

She shakes her head—annoyed but touched, I can tell. “I don’t need you to save me, Parker. I mean, I did that one time, but not now.”

“I don’t want to save you,” I say. “I just want to make you happy.”

“You already make me happy,” she says, pressing onto tiptoe.

The kiss is gentle at first, tentative in this space that still feels frozen in another time. But then she curls her fingers into my ass through my shorts with a soft moan that reminds me how fucking starved I’ve been for her all day.

I walk her backward until her shoulders meet the wall, my hands framing her face. She arches into me, and I trail my mouth down her throat, feeling her pulse race under my lips. Her hands tangle in my hair as I nip at the spot where her neck meets her shoulder.

“Parker,” she breathes, but it’s not a protest.

I hook my fingers in the neckline of her sundress and pull it down, exposing her breasts. No bra. She rarely wears one, and it drives me insane. I cup her breast, thumb circling one nipple while my mouth finds the other.

She gasps, her back bowing off the wall as she presses herself deeper into my mouth.

And then, her hands are under my shirt, her nails dragging down my back.

I work my way across her chest to attend to her other nipple, taking my time, loving the hungry sounds she makes when she needs me inside her.

When I finally drop to my knees, adjusting my weight to accommodate the brace, she’s already trembling.

I push her dress up slowly, kissing the inside of one thigh, then the other, teasing her until she’s squirming against the wall. Only then do I tug her panties down, steadying her as she steps out of them.

She threads her fingers through my hair, holding on as I press my mouth to her. The first taste makes me groan, and her hips buck forward, seeking more. I give it to her, the kind of slow, thorough attention I know she likes best.

I know that about her already, and I can’t wait to know more.

To know everything.

After she comes, I look up to find her watching me with soft eyes. Her thumb traces my temple, my cheek. The way she touches me, studies me…it’s different this time.

I stand, lifting her as I go. She wraps both legs around my waist, her dress bunched between us as I turn toward the beanbag chair.

I lower myself carefully. The knee brace makes it awkward, but I don’t give up until I’m sitting with my back against it.

She follows me down, knees bracketing my hips, never breaking our connection.

When we’re face-to-face—her straddling me, my hands gripping matching handfuls of her fine ass—we both go still, staring deep into each other’s eyes.

Silently acknowledging that we’re us now.

We’re a couple, for real.

A couple who feels things for each other and, pretty soon, are going to be ready to confess all those things out loud.

But for now, this is enough.

More than enough.

She reaches between us, freeing me from my shorts with steady hands. When she rises up on her knees and sinks down onto my cock, we both sigh with relief. Her forehead drops to mine, and for a long moment we just breathe, adjusting to how good it is to be together again.

Then she starts to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that drives me crazy.

Each roll of her hips is a full-body wave that starts in her spine and ripples through us both.

My hands span her back, feeling the muscles work under warm skin, marveling that every time we come together seems to get hotter than the last.

Finally, she pulls back, pausing as her gaze locks with mine, and what I see on her pretty face makes it hard to breathe.

No more walls. No more hiding.

Just Makena—soft and open and trusting me with every piece of her heart.

And I’m going to take care of it, I silently promise. I’m going to guard it like the fucking treasure it is. I cup her face, willing her to feel how much she means, how much she matters.

She turns into my touch, her lashes fluttering closed as she starts moving again, faster this time. I plant my good foot for leverage, thrusting up to meet her as I catch her nipple between my lips, making her gasp.

I grip her hips, guiding her into a deeper grind that has us both shaking, while she kisses me like she’s trying to crawl inside my skin. Soon, I can feel her getting close in the way her muscles tense, the little shudder in her breath as she exhales.

Her orgasm builds slower this time, her whole body drawing taut like a bow.

I watch it happen—the flush spreading down her chest, the way her lips part, the moment her eyes fly open and lock on mine.

She comes with a ragged cry, her pussy clenching around me, and I follow her over, emptying my balls inside her until we’re both a mess.

A beautiful mess…

I hold her against my chest after, her breath hot on my neck. I can feel her heartbeat against my ribs, rapid at first, then slowing in time with mine.

Her fingers find the hair at the nape of my neck, drawing it through her fingers while I gently pat her perfect backside. The dust motes float around us in the last beams of light, and somewhere in the walls, skittery things skitter, but still…we linger.

“Your knee okay?” she finally murmurs, the first words either of us has spoken in what feels like hours.

“Knee, what knee?”

She huffs a laugh that I feel more than hear as she leans in. Her lips press to my pulse point—not a kiss, just contact. Like she needs to feel me alive under her mouth. I tighten my arms around her and kiss her temple, where her brain lives.

My favorite brain

My favorite body.

My favorite person.

We’ll have to move eventually. Get dressed, go back to the house, shower—all the normal nighttime things.

But not yet.

For now, we just breathe in the gathering dark, two people in love.