Page 41 of Trick Shot (Bainbridge Hockey #4)

“Is that because you’re a big strong athlete?” I tease, rubbing my hands along his biceps.

“That might have something to do with it.” He leans in toward me like he’s breathing in my scent. I can feel his heated gaze on me and my legs open impossibly wider. He traces the center seam of my leggings and my body roars to life.

“I want to taste you so bad,” he says, bringing his mouth to my center.

I can feel the warmth of his breath through the thin fabric of my leggings.

“Sometimes it’s all I can think about,” he tells me, his talented lips less than an inch away from my sex.

“The way you feel on my tongue. How fucking wet you get. Those little moans you make.”

His words are causing all the reactions.

Without realizing it, I’ve tilted my pelvis up so it’s as close as it can be to his mouth without actually touching it.

My panties are wet, and I am almost certain there’s a damp spot on my leggings, too.

When I tilt my hips up another degree, his lips brush over my mound and it feels so good, I’m breathless.

No man has ever inspired this kind of reaction from me, even during actual sex.

Pete hasn’t taken any of my clothes—or his—off yet, and I’m already a whimpering mess.

But he’s taking his good old time. Not that I’m complaining. There’s a hot, almost forbidden aspect of keeping our clothes on when we fool around. But I’m ready to get to the fooling around part of the show.

So, to speed things up, I grind myself against his lips and chin. Now he’s the one moaning.

I have pictures to take and articles to work on, but right now, nothing feels as important as letting Pete’s talented mouth and fingers take care of the ache between my legs.

I relax back against the couch cushions as he shimmies my leggings and underwear down.

The look of absolute awe on his face when he sees my pussy—that he’s already seen dozens of times—is my undoing.

I surrender to Pete as he works me over with his lips and tongue.

“So fucking good,” he murmurs, and the vibration of his mouth against the most sensitive part of me takes me even higher. I thread my hands through his hair like I’m holding him in place, but the way he’s devouring me tells me he has no plans to go anywhere any time soon.

Proving he’s a true gentle giant, Pete presses a featherlight kiss to my clit, igniting a spark deep within me that has me pressing my pussy farther into his face.

I’m not shy about asking for what I want, and when his hands grip my hips and pull me in even closer, it’s obvious he wants this as much as I do.

He’s driving me wild with slow, languid licks. It’s like he’s got all the time in the world and the only thing he wants to do is eat me for dessert.

I’m not complaining.

In fact, I like it a whole hell of a lot.

If he keeps it up, I’m going to come. It doesn’t happen every time, but I’ve definitely had more orgasms with Pete these past few weeks than the rest of my life combined.

He’s so attentive, so attuned, and he doesn’t get all bent out of shape when it doesn’t happen.

When the pressure’s off, I can turn my mind off, too, and just let myself feel good. And sweet hell, does it feel good.

Pete grazes his finger over my swollen clit while his tongue laps at my folds. It’s all so incredible and overwhelming in the very best way.

“Don’t stop,” I tell him, and I swear I can feel him smile against my sex. He’s not relenting until I come, and when my thighs begin to tremble, I know I’m close.

He can feel it, too, and when he wraps his lips around my clit and sucks, I fall apart, my whole body shaking.

We ride out my orgasm together, and when he pulls me into his arms, I go willingly. We fall in a heap on my carpet, but I don’t care. There are far worse places to be than Pete Santos’s embrace.

When our breathing has slowed to a normal pace, he turns to me. “That was fucking incredible. Give me your phone.”

He wants to take semi-naked sexy pics? I’m scandalized in the very best way and I’m here for it.

Having a string of scandalous photos of Pete in my phone sounds pretty fantastic, even if he is still wearing all his clothes.

And it’s something a real girlfriend could have, so I don’t think it’s off-limits.

But when he aims the phone right at my face, I realize that’s not what he has in mind. “Uh, what the hell? I must look like a mess right now.”

“You’re beautiful,” he says, and the words wrap around me like a warm blanket. “And now you have a pic of yourself with a natural, post-exercise glow.”

I laugh as I look at the shots he took. He’s right. My cheeks are rosy, and my eyes are bright. An outsider would be hard-pressed to determine if I’ve just come in from a five-mile run or if the glow on my skin is from the tonguefucking my boyfriend just gave me .

I mean, my fake boyfriend.

The guy I totally don’t have feelings for.

The one I’m just having fun sexy times with until this mess at school is over or I graduate, at which point I totally won’t miss him or think about him or crave his touch.

Yeah, totally.

I shake my head and reach for my phone so I can upload the photo, but that’s when I notice the shadow over one side of my face. “Oh, crap. Can you take a few more before the freshly-fucked glow fades?” I asked.

“Because it would be so tragic if I had to put my mouth on you again,” he teases.

We scooch over a few feet so that we’re still lying on the floor, but the lighting is much better.

Pete takes some more shots before handing the camera back to me.

I snap a few selfies as Pete leans into the frame.

These are cute candid photos and if we were actually dating, I might think about framing them or making a cute little picture album.

But we’re not, so I don’t.

Instead, I sit up and tug my leggings on before resuming my spot on the couch. Pete settles back into his space, too, and if it’s awkward for a moment, we both pretend it isn’t. That makes sense. We’re getting good at pretending. A little too good, at least in my case.

“Which background do you like better?” he asks, breaking our silence. He shows me his computer screen and toggles between two colors.

“I like the blue, but I think the words are much easier to read on the yellow. So, if they’re taking notes, I’d go with that one.”

“Yellow it is,” he says, tapping a few keys.

Since he’s getting back to work, I do the same. My email inbox is getting crowded because submissions are coming in for next week’s Dumbass column, but I’ll tackle those later. Right now, all my attention is on the message from Garret Leveque, Leslie’s assistant at Prentiss .

“You ok over there?” Pete asks, probably sensing the tension as it rolls off me.

“Garrett emailed me back,” I explain.

“That’s great. Does he like what you sent? I loved the piece about the rage room.”

“He likes that one best, too, and he’s going to pass it on to Leslie, which is good, but?—”

“Good? That’s fucking amazing, Claire. Don’t sell yourself short.”

I’m still blown away by how excited Pete gets about my writing.

My article could have come between us, but it hasn’t.

So many people here judged me for writing it, but Pete never did.

I know the content bothered him, but he never attacked my right to tell my story.

And now he’s become my biggest cheerleader.

That’s why I hate to dampen his enthusiasm with a dose of reality.

“Garrett wants more pieces like the expose, and Leslie does, too. That’s great and all, but they don’t exist. I like to think I’ve written some meaningful work in the past few years, but nothing pushed the boundaries the way that article did, and that’s the kind of stuff they want to see.”

Pete reaches for me, and even though it doesn’t make any sense, I crawl into his lap. His hug is just what I need, and as I breathe in the scent of him, I feel grounded, calmer.

“Listen to me,” he says, taking my face into his hands.

“Your writing is powerful, Claire, and it doesn’t matter if you’re writing the kind of stuff that gets schools to change their policies or if you’re writing about the benefits of having your colors done, or whatever it’s called.

Your writing is amazing. If they can’t see that, fuck ‘em.”

If only it were that simple .

“You don’t get it,” I tell him. “Don’t get me wrong, your loyalty is hitting me right in the feels, but giving the middle finger to The Prentiss Report won’t pay my bills or feed my soul.

Writing that article felt so good, and you probably hate hearing that, but it’s true.

That’s what I need more of, but scandals aren’t popping up all over campus. ”

His eyes shutter for a moment. “Something will come up. I know it will. But don’t go looking for trouble, okay? And please don’t write an article about Ollie and his MyFans account.”

I straighten, pulling back from his embrace. “Pete, you know I wouldn’t do that. I’m not in the business of betrayal. When I find a story, I won’t be doing it for personal gain. I thought you knew me better than that.”

“I do,” he assures me, pulling me in close again. “I do. I just panicked there for a second, but I know you have too much integrity for that.”

Mollified, I snuggle into him. I feel safe in his arms, and though I wish I could stay here forever, my phone beeps with an alarm letting me know I have an exam in twenty minutes. The urge to kiss Pete is strong, but I settle for one more squeeze before I stand up and get ready to go.

Pete’s phone chimes, too, and I’m guessing it’s one of his teammates until I see the expression on his face.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, striding across the small space just to make contact with him again.

“Ma’s in the ER. She fell again, so the boys called an ambulance. Leo says she’s really out of it. Fuck . I need to go.”

My head is spinning with this information, but I do my best to stay calm because that’s what he needs. “Let me drive you,” I say, knowing I’ll probably miss my test, but this feels so much more important right now .

Pete shakes his head and presses a kiss to my forehead. “No, I’m good to drive. And I’ll need to have my car there anyway. Go take your test and let me know how it goes, okay?”

“Yeah,” I answer, nodding numbly and wishing I could do more to help. “Keep me posted?”

“Of course,” he says, dropping a quick kiss on my lips. “I’ll send updates when I have them.”

Less than a minute later, Pete’s out the door and I’m standing in the middle of my tiny living room feeling powerless.