Page 45

She gives a little shimmy of her shoulders as I reach down and tug her up. I loop my arms around her, my legs still shaking. When I rest my forehead against hers, my synapses fire in little bursts of pleasure, my brain a neon canvas.

But as I begin to reconnect to reality, my mind returns to a few minutes earlier. “Did you say you practiced?”

“I’m an athlete. That’s what we do. ”

“You fucking practiced?” I ask again.

I shouldn’t be astonished. This is super on-brand for her. And yet, something about it is kind of ridiculously touching. It’s hitting my heart in ways I never would have expected.

“I wanted to get it right. I wanted to be good at it. You practice hockey,” she says, like she’s proving a point too. That practice makes perfect? Or maybe that athletes just love to play, whether practice or games. We crave movement. We crave competition. We chase excellence.

Is that what she wanted? I drag a hand down the side of my face, blown away by this woman who wanted to be so goddamn good for me that she practiced.

“Fair,” I say, still gobsmacked, but damn curious too. “How did you practice? With…Popsicles?”

Her smile is full of pride—pride in a job well done. “Check the box. It’s more than halfway empty. So maybe I’ve had a bit of a sugar rush the last few days. I read some online articles on technique. And I wanted to…surprise you.”

She asked me to show her what good sex is, but this woman is showing me what great attention is.

And I’m learning, too, that this kind of attention doesn’t just make my dick happy—it makes my heart happy as well.

“You came to class prepared,” I say, but I’m not sure that covers the half of what I feel.

I hope my tone of voice does some of the work for what I’m not sure how to say though.

“I did,” she says, but her smile softens as she asks, “was it good for you?”

Like it’s all she wants to know.

I stroke her cheek softly, looping my other arm around her to tug her closer. “Out of this world, Sabrina. You blew my dick and my mind. I still can’t believe you practiced.”

Her smile widens. “I used to get up every morning at four-thirty to practice ice skating. Sucking on a cherry Popsicle so that I could give you an excellent blow job was no hardship. ”

I wrap my arms around her and pull her into a deeper hug. Is this a normal reaction post-blow job of my dreams? To just hold her? I don’t even know. But I don’t want to let go. “I didn’t need to teach you,” I say softly.

“But I wanted you to,” she says, her hand gripping my shirt as she looks up at me. “I wanted it to be so good for you, Tyler.”

I hear the vulnerability in her voice. And the desire too.

I pull back, tucking a finger under her chin. “You nailed it, sweetheart. And that means it’s my turn now.”

I zip up my jeans, adjust myself, and grab a tumbler from the cupboard.

Taking my time, I reach for a bottle of scotch my brother gave me when I joined the team, pour two fingers, then grab an ice cube from the freezer and drop it into the liquor.

Sabrina watches me with avid eyes as I pluck the ice cube from the glass and pop it in my mouth.

I suck off the whisky and swirl it around on my tongue, making sure I get my mouth nice and cold.

Her eyes widen, and I let the ice cube fall from my mouth back into the tumbler with a plink.

“And now, here’s the next lesson…”

I peel down her leggings, grab her hips, then set her on the counter. I slip off her panties, press my palms on either side of her strong legs and bend so I can lick a slow, cold line along her sweet, wet pussy.

She shudders, then shivers. “Oh my god,” she breathes as she wiggles.

I stand, meeting her eyes. “I’m going to eat your pussy. And you’re gonna tell me exactly how you like it. Or I’ll have to stop.”

Her eyes sparkle, lighting up like she’s just won the lottery. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Do it. Please,” she says, and the excitement is impossible to miss. My god, I’m so damn glad I was the guy at the bar in Cozy Valley the night she almost got married. I’m so glad I was the one she shared her 1001 confessions with.

And I don’t want anyone else to have her. But those thoughts are too much for right now, so I jostle them out of the way to focus on the here and now.

I lick her again, savoring her, her taste mingling with the memory of the scotch on my tongue.

“Your mouth is so cold,” she says, but it comes out trembly, breathless. She doesn’t pull away.

I reach for the Popsicle on the plate and take a slow lick, making sure I coat the tip of my tongue with its coldness. Then I return to the wet paradise between her thighs. I press my tongue right up against her swollen clit. She practically jumps on the counter, moaning at the same time.

“Oh my god, it’s so cold and so good at the same time,” she gasps, her fingers curling in my hair, keeping me in place.

Yesssss.

That.

Right there. I want more of that. “Tell me what you want me to do,” I whisper against her pussy, holding back, making her work for it.

“Do it again,” she pleads, her voice barely above a breath.

I take the Popsicle back into my mouth, suck on it, let it melt over my tongue, then press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her clit.

She wiggles against me, but she doesn’t push me away. She pulls me closer, her thighs squeezing around my head, her breath catching.

“More,” she demands.

And I give it to her.

I bury my face between her thighs, licking, lapping, letting her ride my tongue as she trembles beneath me.

“Yeah, just like that. More of your tongue,” she urges, gripping my hair .

When her moans turn into long, helpless cries, I stop, wrenching away. “Say it,” I tell her—a firm demand.

She groans, twisting against the counter. “Lick me.”

“Good girl,” I say, then I give her a teasing flick of my tongue.

“Kiss me.”

I press my mouth to her pussy, soft and slow.

“Fuck me with your tongue.”

It’s my turn to groan salaciously, then I comply.

But I do it with a pause here, a stop there—I make her say every filthy word describing what she wants me to do before I give her exactly what she’s begging for.

Until she’s gripping my hair, writhing, gasping, throwing her head back and coming on my tongue.

By the time she’s done, I’m rock hard again.

I push to my feet, my chest heaving, my gaze locked on her. She looks wrecked and beautiful, her skin flushed, her lips swollen.

“What else is in that sex diary of yours?” I ask, reaching for the little red book on the counter but not opening it. I wait. “Can I look?”

She hesitates for half a second, then meets my gaze, her eyes dark and trusting. “Page fourteen.”

Pleasure ignites in me all over again, chased by something warmer, something steadier, something I don’t quite know what to do with. Why do I love that she practiced on Popsicles for days? Why am I caught up in her knowing the page number? Is it just because all this tonight turns me on?

No. There’s more to it. My chest feels fizzy, and something’s stirring deep inside me that has nothing to do with sex. Something that feels a lot like more. But when I flip to page fourteen and read her words, everything else drains away. There’s no room left inside me for anything but lust.

“Ask him to bend me over the counter,” I read aloud. I haul in a breath, letting it fuel me, then meet her gaze. “Ask for it, baby.”

She bites the corner of her lip, teasing, tempting—then whispers, “Bend me over the counter, Tyler. Now.”

“There’s nothing as good as a fast and furious fuck,” I tell her.

She blinks up at me, all innocence and wicked delight. “I wouldn’t know,” she says, coquettish as hell. “But maybe you could show me.”

“With so much pleasure,” I promise.

Then I grab her off the counter, spin her around, and press a hand to the small of her back. I push her down, lining up her body into a seductive L shape for me. She’s wearing only her top and this half-naked look is hot as fuck.

I reach into my pocket, rip open a condom, shove my jeans down my thighs, and slide inside her in one smooth stroke.

And fuuuck.

She’s tight. I’m steel hard. And I don’t want this to end. I stop for a beat, just savoring the way we fit. “When everyone’s here for Thanksgiving…” I begin on a harsh pant.

“Yes?” she prompts as I start to move, slow and deep.

“I want you to think about the way I fucked you in the kitchen.”

“I will,” she breathes.

“Want you to look over here, and think about me fucking you so hard on this counter,” I growl, slamming into her, reaching a hand around to stroke her clit.

“It’ll be our dirty secret,” she says.

“I’m going to be thinking of you the whole goddamn time,” I say, and that’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but.

I swivel my hips and drive back into her, playing with her, making her feel everything as I tell her exactly what I want her to be imagining when everyone is in this house in a couple days.

How I’ve fucked her. How good it felt when we fit together, my cock plowing into her over and over again.

How I’ve tugged on her hair, how she’s groaned my name, and how I’ll be thinking about this too every time our eyes meet.

And soon, she’s gripping the counter, screaming my name.

And I’m following her there.

I was right. There’s nothing like a fast and furious kitchen fuck with the woman I can’t stop thinking about.

The woman who practices to make me happy.

Who knows what she wants.

Who plays the music I like. “I like these songs,” I say, and it’s just about music. But it feels like a bare admission.

“I had a feeling,” she says.

“That I like female pop singers?” I hold her tighter.

“I noticed what you play in your car. What you listen to in the house. What you sing along to with your kids,” she says.

And suddenly, I don’t just want to make her happy in the bedroom tonight.

I want to do something special for her.

And I don’t stop thinking about it as I carry her upstairs to my room.

The water pounds down, hot and fast, but I take my time washing her in the dim light of my rainfall shower, wiping away the last traces of the Popsicle from our hands, our bodies.

She murmurs under the hot stream, eyes half-closed, and I’m thinking. Hard. Wracking my brain .

I want to do something for her beyond tickets to a game or yoga supplies or even soft sheets.

I want to tell her she can use my shower anytime. I want to tell her she can sleep in my emperor-size bed whenever she wants. I want to tell her I want her here tomorrow night too.

I know all of those things are too dangerous. We’re trying to stick to a game plan.

But there’s one thing I keep returning to.

One thing I know she wants.

Something she hasn’t had in a while.

When we’re standing under the spray and I’m rubbing my hands over her skin, I stop and say, “Let’s get you a foster kitten.”

She freezes. Then blinks up at me. “What did you just say?”

“You want to foster kittens again. We talked about it briefly the day you moved in. And I always felt like you missed it. Like you wanted to. Let’s do it,” I blurt out.

Her mouth parts, surprise flickering across her face as she turns around, studying me. “Why are you saying this now?”

“Because you loved it. I know you miss it. It was really important to you,” I say, my voice quiet but certain.

“It was. It is.”

I cup her face, my thumb brushing across her cheek. “I’d like you to have the things you want.”

Her smile lights up my soul. “Okay then.”

It’s said simply and softly, but full of a gratitude that melts my heart. And I can’t wait to bring this kitten home either.