Page 40 of These Wicked Games (Wicked Sins #1)

eighteen

Andre

I ’m not sure what’s happening right now.

All I know is that I don’t want whatever may be happening to end.

Oli is like a magnet, holding me here to react around him.

Inside his kitchen, I can’t help myself, watching him as he walks to the counter.

I pinch his ass and he turns to look at me, shaking his head. “Haven’t you had enough?”

Oh, I don’t think I’ll ever get enough. Sex with Oli is explosive and raw.

He reaches out his hand and I take it, letting him tug me to him.

“This is insane.” His lips land on mine and I instantly groan, licking into his mouth.

I could kiss him like this all night—slow, indulgent, and sensual. He gives my ass a squeeze.

We were friends for so long, and I had a huge crush on him before, but this fire is new. It’s consuming. I can’t believe this is real, honestly. If eighteen-year-old me could see us now .

My thoughts drift back to that terrible day that changed us forever.

We were going to go out after that practice, which Oli knew.

What he didn’t know was that I was going to tell him how I felt about him.

How much I cared about him. I didn’t think he’d reciprocate my feelings.

That wasn’t the point. I just needed him to know how much he meant to me.

Instead, we were driven apart for nearly a decade.

My hand slips into his sweats, smoothing over his half-hard dick. We just showered. His bodywash filling my nose. “Wait.” He grips my hand. “I’m starving. Let’s eat first.”

“Are you serious?” I huff.

All he does is chuckle, though I don’t know what’s so damn funny.

I crave him in a way that feels animalistic.

There are so many fun things we could try and I want to do them all with him.

Oli cups my face, bringing his lips to mine.

It’s a slow, soft touch that lights me up just as much as the roughness. “Patience, zayka. ”

“Fuck off. Tell me what that means.”

“Google is free.”

Yeah I know, but I want him to tell me. I don’t know why. “What are you making?” Oli pinches my ass, going to his cabinet and pulling out ingredients. I watch him put flour on the counter then go to the fridge, pulling out ground pork, onions, eggs, and sour cream.

He then goes to the sink to wash his hands, and I follow, doing the same.

“ We are making dumplings.” He pulls a pasta pot out of the cabinet, grabs the flour and eggs, and pours some warm water into a measuring cup.

“First thing is we make the dough.” Grabbing a big bowl, he slides it between us.

“Go ahead. I need four cups of flour." I pause for a second, until I realize he’s waiting for me, then I put four cups of flour into the bowl and watch him measure out the salt. “My mother used to use her hands, but I’ll grab a spoon to mix,” he says, grabbing a spoon and mixing the salt and flour.

It hits me then, what Oli is doing, or showing me.

He’s sharing a piece of himself with me.

I ignore my horny brain, understanding the weight of what’s happening.

It feels important. “Then we make a well. Go ahead.”

I take the spoon, carving out a little well in the center of the flour. “Eggs next?”

“Right in the center.” Oli waits while I crack a couple of eggs into the well. He’s standing just to the side of me and I soak in his heat.

“Mix?” He shakes his head, handing me the spoon. Grabbing the measuring cup, he holds it up.

“Gently mix as I slowly add the water, okay?” I do as I’m told. “When I first started helping her the water was too heavy for me to lift, so she always had me stirring.”

I smile. “Can’t imagine a time when you didn’t have those giant muscles.”

“I was a scrawny fucking kid.” He laughs. “There you go, keep going.”

“This is a favorite, uh, meal she made?”

He shakes his head. “She always found ways to make the most out of the food we got. Flour and water were cheap, so we had this a lot.” He smiles.

“It’s a comfort food now. Sometimes we’d experiment, making all different flavors.

Just simple ways to make them different.

It’s also something we did together—making pelmeni on Sundays.

She’d make tons and freeze them.” As I mix the dough comes together in the bowl .

Oli grabs the bowl, covering it with a cloth and setting it aside. “Meat time.” He grabs another bowl, dropping the ground pork into it. “You want to cut the onion?”

“You just want to see me cry,” I laugh.

Oli’s eyes darken and he steps into me. My back hits the edge of the island.

“Oh, zayka, ” His hand comes up to my throat, his thumb pressing against my Adam’s apple.

“I have far more fun ways to make you cry.” Oh my fucking god .

My dick perks up, and his eyes become hooded when it presses against him.

“Like a goddamn trigger.” He leans into my neck, sinking his teeth into my flesh.

The shock of it makes me moan, and his tongue runs up the bite before giving me a smile.

“Barely even affected,” I squeak.

He barks out a laugh, and it’s so boyish I can’t help but smile.

“Cut the fucking onion, Dre.” I cut up the onion, and I don’t know why, but onions never really bother me much—so I do not cry.

Oli takes them and throws them into the bowl with the meat.

“Salt and pepper.” I grab the shakers, handing them to him, and he measures by memory, then mixes the pork and onions.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

He sighs. “I guess.” He grabs the dough and drops it onto the butcher block on the island, then grabs a rolling pin. I watch his arms flex while he rolls out the dough. Fuck me sideways . “Dre?”

I blink my attention away from his delicious muscles to focus. “I um, just mean, you guys were so poor. How did you attend games? I remember you said you both used to go.”

Oli grimaces and I want to take the question back.

I almost tell him to forget it; I don’t want to upset him.

“My mother, I mean, she made sure I didn’t know what she did for money but .

. .” He runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek.

“I found out. Plus. Kids are assholes. There were rumors.”

“Rumors?”

“Um, during middle school there were rumors that she broke up the marriage of a teacher whose son was in my grade, and he beat me up. Blamed my mother.” He shakes his head.

“I just remember the things that were said about her. She was a beautiful woman. That’s how it is, though, isn’t it?

Men go out of their way to cheat on their wives.

They’d hire her for a service, using their money, risking their home lives, and yet it was my mother who was at fault.

She was the whore. She was the homewrecker.

It was just a job to her. It put food on our table.

It was one of three jobs she did to provide for me.

She worked her ass off so that I could attend some home games, and to get into this already expensive sport. ”

“What about your father?” He never talks about him.

“I’ve never met him. I’ve never even seen pictures of him.

” Oli shrugs. “She was pregnant with me when she left and came to the States. I think they were still married, so I’m not sure how she did it.

She never shared that part of her life with me, but I suspected he was abusive.

She had a friend here at the time, and she helped her.

Then her friend died a couple of years after she had me, and she was on her own.

” He smiles. “She took classes, learned English . . . she fought to give me a great life.”

I think about it. It’s not something I’ve ever had to worry about.

Hockey was basically expected. Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love being a goalie, but I never had to worry about how much it cost, or if I was going to get in.

Even if I was a mid player I would most likely have gotten here.

Maybe not on the Vipers, but on some team. It’s legacy .

The problem with that, though, is the future of this sport will only belong to a certain tax bracket.

It should be accessible to everyone. If we want to attract the best players, why are we alienating a huge chunk of talent due to income?

Oli’s mother never should have had to work that hard to make sure her son had a shot.

A pit forms in my stomach thinking about the switched tests. “I am so sorry.”

He shrugs now, cutting out the dough in little circles with what looks like a cookie cutter. “What’s done is done.”

“You believe me? That I didn’t—”

“Dre . . .” He faces me and I want to see it in his eyes—that he trusts me.

I need it. “I don’t believe you intentionally did it.

” He looks away. It’s not what I want. I want one thousand percent confirmation that he knows I didn’t do it.

“What’s done is done, okay? It’s what happened, and there’s nothing that can fix it.

” I don’t know if he’s talking about me, his mother, or the place we’ve ended up in.

I want to argue, but instead I let it go.

“Can you fill that pot with water? Salt it well.” I listen, still wanting to talk about this, but Oli’s tone tells me it’s final. “Turn it on high.”

Oli grabs two spoons as I prep the water then join him back at the stove. “How much?”

“Just like a teaspoon. Not too much or they’ll fall apart.” I watch him a couple of times before trying it on my own. Watching the way his thick fingers delicately pleat the dough into half moons around the filling makes me smile.