Page 12 of Trick Shot (Bainbridge Hockey #4)

Claire

F uck Pete Santos.

Or, more accurately, I fucked Pete Santos.

Or he fucked me? Either way, I’ve been well and truly taken care of today, and frankly, it’s pissing me off.

Trust me, I know I sound crazy. Holland thinks so, too.

But she’s not exactly objective. She’s getting her needs met daily by a hunky hockey player, so she thinks that’s what I need in my life, too.

I couldn’t be happier that my best friend has found true love.

But that’s not in the cards for me, and if I ever do decide to have a relationship, it won’t be with Bainbridge’s favorite teddy bear.

Nope. Pete and I are a happily-never-after, and that’s the way I like it.

Because feelings like that never last.

And besides, I’ve been holding on to one hell of a grudge for nearly four years. I’m not about to forget all that now just because the man gave me an orgasm.

And, okay, that’s never happened before.

But still. As amazing as it was, it’s wrecked the rest of my day.

I have work to do and instead of writing articles and responding to letters, I’m sitting on my bed having flashbacks to the little death that may prove to be the death of me.

Or at least to my budding journalism career.

My attention span has shrunk down to about thirty seconds.

That’s how long I can concentrate before my brain hits pause and starts replaying everything that happened this afternoon in the cabin with Pete. And that’s a bad thing.

I’ve been writing the “Am I the Dumbass?” column for The Howler for two years now and I’m damn proud of the following I’ve gained.

The premise of the column is simple: people write in with their problems and I get to weigh in and let them know if they’re really in the wrong or if they’re not.

It’s so much fun. I unwittingly trained for this job my entire life.

I love doling out advice, and I have a knack for seeing right through bullshit.

My judgment isn’t clouded by those pesky little things called emotions.

I’m never afraid to call people out on their bullshit.

I’m not mean about it, but I am honest. Apparently, no-bullshit honesty is what BU wants these days because my inbox is full of messages.

The university is technically still on winter break, but assholery doesn’t follow a schedule, and students have been writing in with their woes, their romantic dilemmas, and their holiday horror stories.

I was hoping to get a few responses drafted so they’d be ready to publish when school is back in session, but my brain has other ideas.

I can’t concentrate for shit. I’ve been staring at the same letter for the last half hour and I’m not making any progress, which is not normal. Every time I think I’m getting somewhere, I stall out and get distracted.

I’ve been dating my boyfriend (21, M) for a couple months.

We’ll call him James. I (22, F) thought we were super compatible when we met at a Halloween party last fall, but now I’m not so sure.

The sex was great to start, but then it just became routine.

We’d do it the same way, Every. Single. Time.

It felt like we were following a script.

I was getting bored and frustrated, but every time I’d bring it up, he’d brush my comments off and tell me he loved our sex life.

That just made me feel guilty, especially because we are perfect together in every other way.

My birthday was last week, and he said we could do anything I wanted.

And every time he mentioned my birthday, he’d give me this look when he said “anything,” so naturally, I thought he was giving me sexual carte blanche for my special day.

When he came to my place to pick me up, he was dressed up like we were going out.

That should have been my first clue. I opened the door wearing nothing but a g-string and he freaked out that someone in the hall might see me.

There was no one there, and I can think of a lot worse things than a random stranger getting a two-second flash of boob while walking down the hallway.

Anyway, the night just got worse. He insisted we go out because he’d made reservations, and when we came back I thought I’d finally get my birthday present.

But no. He started our normal sex routine and when I showed him the plug I’d been wearing all night, he lost it.

He called me a freak and told me I should seek help for my sex addiction. We fought and he left.

I refused to talk to him at first, but now he’s begging for my forgiveness and a second chance. Part of me is still so hurt, but the other part of me misses all the good times we had together. He says he’s going to change, but if I take him back, am I the dumbass?

Sincerely,

Butthurt in Love

I read the letter again, forcing myself to focus.

I know exactly what I want to say to Butthurt in Love, but I can’t organize my thoughts.

My mind keeps zeroing in on the word plug, which is ridiculous.

I mean, butt plugs aren’t ridiculous. I’m all for toys or props or anything that makes you feel good.

And I am not into shaming anyone for what they like or want to try.

And that’s just it—I’ve never even thought of trying a plug before.

I’m not even sure I want to, but every time I read the letter, all I can see is Pete’s face if we were in the same scenario.

It’s crazy, I know. I don’t even like to be in the same room with Santos, so why does my brain keep streaming images of us in bed after a romantic dinner together.

That’s bananas. I know that’s never going to happen, and I don’t want it to.

But I also know that Pete’s reaction would be totally different than James’s demeaning tantrum.

After all, Pete didn’t miss a beat when I told him I don’t climax during sex.

He didn’t protest or pout or make it all about him.

He just gave me really, really good sex… and a freaking orgasm.

And the best part, okay, the second-best part, was how he wasn’t all smug or cocky afterward. It would have been so easy for him to take a cheap shot at me or any other guy I’ve been with. He could have gloated or bragged, but instead, he was sexy and cuddly and sweet.

Damn. Him.

Ugh. He is the reason I’m not getting any work done. He’s the reason my body is still humming. It’s like now that my body has been reminded just how good it feels to go over the edge, it wants another taste. But that’s not happening. Although…

Maybe that’s what I need, I think as I set my laptop on my nightstand and settle in under the covers. Maybe this is exactly what I need. I’ll indulge in a little self-care to take the edge off. Once that need has been met, my head will be clear, and I can get back to work.

Right now, though, I need to get down to business.

Letting my eyes drift closed, I call up memories from earlier today and within seconds, I feel like I’m back in that little cabin with Pete.

I can picture myself in his arms, feel the heat of his gaze on me.

My body is electrified by the memories. My skin is heated, and I can feel warmth and wetness building deep within me.

Grazing my hands over my breasts, I toy with my nipples through the worn material of my sweatshirt.

It feels good, but it’s nowhere near as satisfying as Pete’s touch.

I bite back a groan as I reach under my hoodie to cup my breasts.

Pete was fascinated with them and the way he licked and sucked and played with them made my body hum.

I’m doing my best to stir up those same feelings, but it’s not working… yet.

Abandoning my boobs, I let my fingers skim over the waistband of my shorts while I think about how fucking hot that bastard looked leaning back on the couch with his massive cock in his giant hand.

I think about the way he rubbed the tip, swirling pre-cum with his thumb while his eyes were locked on me.

Dipping my hand into my cotton sleep shorts, I can’t help but think about the hunger in his gaze when he saw my naked pussy for the first time.

Or the desire I saw reflecting back at me when he found me wet and wanting.

The way his thumb rubbed my clit was otherworldly, like he knew some secret code and he was entering it with each tight circle of my sensitive bundle of nerves.

I’m wet and needy all over again as I mimic his moves, but my fingers just don’t have the same effect as they usually do.

I never have trouble getting myself off. Ever.

Is this some Pete Santos sex curse? Has his dick cast a spell on me? Will I never come again unless his fingers, lips, or cock are involved?

I know I’m being ridiculous right now, but Pete’s a shady motherfucker who hides behind that sweet smile and lovable personality. I put nothing past him.

Taking a deep breath, I shake off the doubt and conspiracy theories before forcing my brain to get back to the task at hand. Literally.

Sliding my fingers between my folds once more, I realize that Pete is the problem. I shouldn’t be fantasizing about him or replaying our afternoon. I had great orgasms before I was stuck in the woods with him, and I will have great orgasms afterward, dammit.

I don’t need him or his alarmingly large fingers to get the job done.

I don’t need the memory of his cock filling me up or his hands gripping my waist. And I sure as hell don’t need to picture every thick, delectable inch of his body as he held me tightly after we had sex.

I’m an absolute sucker for bears, and Pete checks every one of my boxes.