Page 23 of What If I Hate You (Anaheim Stars Hockey #6)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BLAKELY
I never thought I'd find salvation on Barrett Cunningham's kitchen floor, but here I am, seated with his cat in my lap while he awaits my choice. One path leads to safety—talking, getting to know each other, the polite dance of two people circling what they really want.
The other path is almost certainly dangerous fire.
"I think…option two sounds good," I whisper, and the words feel like I’ve just sentenced us both to jumping off a cliff.
Barrett doesn't hesitate. He moves with the same focused intensity he brings to the ice, closing the distance between us in one fluid motion.
His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone with an unexpected tenderness.
For a heartbeat, he just looks at me—really looks—like he's memorizing every detail.
Then his mouth is on mine, and my world narrows to just this.
The warm press of his lips, gentle at first, then more insistent.
I feel Killer squirm away from my lap, scampering off to who knows where, because I can't focus on anything except Barrett.
His mouth moves against mine with a hunger that makes my skin burn, and I'm kissing him back with equal fervor.
This isn't the frantic, angry collision we shared in the arena hallway. This is something else entirely. It’s deliberate, searching, almost reverent. His hands slide into my hair, cradling my head like I'm something precious, and I melt against him, my fingers clutching at his shirt.
"Bear," I breathe against his lips, his name a prayer and a plea rolled into one.
He makes a noise—half growl, half groan—that vibrates through my entire body.
The sound breaks something loose inside me, and suddenly he’s lifting me, pulling me across his lap until I’m straddling him, his back against the kitchen cabinets.
His hands slide around to grip my hips, fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp.
My thighs tighten around him as I sink farther into his lap, the cold tile of his kitchen floor barely registering against my knees.
He tastes like beer and something uniquely him, something I've been craving since that stolen intimate moment between us.
"Jesus, Blakely," he murmurs against my mouth, his voice ragged. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."
I pull back just enough to look at him, my hands framing his face. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but there's something else there too. A vulnerability that makes my chest ache.
"Show me," I whisper.
And he does.
His mouth crashes back into mine with renewed hunger, one hand sliding up my back to tangle in my hair while the other slides down to grip my thigh, pulling me tighter against him.
The hard ridge of his arousal presses into me, sending a jolt of heat straight to my core, and I can't help but rock against him, chasing the friction. I also can’t hold back the whimper that escapes my lips.
"Fuck, the sounds you make," he whispers. "I could listen to them all night."
His lips travel from my mouth to my jaw, trailing hot kisses down my neck, and I tilt my head back, giving him better access. His teeth graze my pulse point and my whole body shudders, a soft moan escaping me when he finds that spot just below my ear.
My hands find their way under his shirt, and he gasps audibly at my first touch, like he hasn’t been touched in so long he forgot what it feels like.
I trace the hard planes of his abdomen, feeling the muscles tense beneath my touch.
He's so warm, so solid beneath me. Nothing like the cold, aloof man I thought he was.
"Take this off," I murmur, tugging at his shirt.
He obliges immediately, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion and tossing it aside.
I can't help but stare. I've seen him shirtless before—glimpses in the locker room when I was rushing through interviews and a few times on the plane—but never like this.
This is different. This is Barrett offering himself to me, vulnerable and wanting.
His body is a masterpiece of strength and scars, each one telling a story of sacrifice and pain. I trace a particularly nasty one that runs along his collarbone, feeling the raised ridge beneath my fingertips.
"Skate blade, 2019," he explains quietly. "Twelve stitches."
I lean down and press my lips to it—a gesture so intimate it makes him shudder.
“Fuck, Blakely.”
His hands tighten on my hips, and then they're moving again, sliding under my blouse, his calloused palms rough against my skin, my body arching into his touch like it's been starved for him. His fingers dance along my ribs, tracing patterns that leave goosebumps in their wake.
"This okay?" he asks, his voice rough with desire but still careful, still checking.
"More than okay," I breathe, and then I'm reaching for the buttons, suddenly desperate to feel more of his skin against mine. My fingers fumble in my haste, and he gently pushes my hands away.
"Let me," he murmurs, taking over with surprising dexterity, and there's something about the reverence in his voice that makes my heart stutter.
Button by button, he undoes my shirt, his eyes never leaving mine. When he finally pushes the fabric from my shoulders, his breath catches audibly as he takes in my lace-covered breasts.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he says, voice thick with desire. "Even more than I imagined."
"You imagined this?" I ask, breathless at the thought of Barrett Cunningham fantasizing about me.
His laugh is low and rough. "Every damn day since I met you."
His confession sends a wave of heat through me.
The idea that this man—this frustrating, complicated, beautiful man—has been thinking about me this way all along makes my head spin.
His eyes hold mine as he reaches behind me, fingers finding the clasp of my bra with practiced ease.
He pauses, waiting for my permission, and I nod, unable to form words as desire floods through me.
The straps slide down my arms, and then I'm exposed to him, vulnerable in a way I've never been with anyone else.
"Fucking Christ," he breathes, as his hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they harden beneath his touch.
“Oh, my God, Bear,” I whimper as I arch into him, gasping when his mouth replaces his fingers, hot and wet and perfect.
His tongue flicks against my nipple and I nearly come undone right there on his kitchen floor.
My fingers thread through his hair, tugging on the strands, holding him to me as pleasure spirals through my body.
The cold tile beneath my knees contrasts with the burning heat of his mouth, creating a sensory overload that has me trembling.
"Barrett," I gasp, grinding down against him, desperate for more friction. "I need?—"
"I know what you need," he murmurs against my skin, hands sliding down to grip my ass, guiding my movements. "I can feel how wet you are through your clothes."
The words send another rush of heat between my legs, and I'm not even embarrassed by how desperately I'm rocking into him now. His mouth captures mine again, swallowing my moans as his hands continue their exploration, sliding around to the button of my pants.
"Can I touch you?" he asks, fingers hovering at my waistband, his voice rough with need but still seeking permission.
"Yes," I breathe, the single word barely audible over the pounding of my heart. "God, yes."
He makes quick work of the button on my pants, and I lift myself off his lap enough to get them off.
The cold air hits my thighs as I'm left in just my underwear, straddling him on his kitchen floor.
His hands slide up my bare thighs, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
When his fingers finally brush against the damp fabric between my legs, I gasp, my hips jerking involuntarily against his touch.
"So, fucking wet," he groans, his stroke gentle but insistent as he explores me. "Is this all for me, Blakely?"
"Yes," I admit, past the point of pride or pretense. He makes me feel primal. "All for you."
His finger hooks the edge of my underwear, sliding it to the side with agonizing slowness. I can't breathe, can't think. I can only feel as he runs one thick finger through my arousal, exploring every inch of me.
"Fuck," he groans, his forehead pressing against mine. "You're soaked."
When his finger finally circles my clit, I cry out, my whole body trembles at the contact. He watches my face intently as he touches me, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me moan, what makes me dig my nails into his shoulders enough to leave marks.
"More," I demand, my voice unrecognizable to my own ears. "I need more."
Something shifts in his eyes, a predatory gleam that sends a thrill through me.
Without warning, he lifts me and flips our positions, laying me back on the cold kitchen tile.
The change in position sends a rush of adrenaline through me as my back hits the floor.
Barrett looms above me, his massive frame caging me in, and the look in his eyes is nothing short of feral.
Gone is the careful, gentle man from moments ago, now replaced by something primal and hungry.
"I've been thinking about tasting you since that night in the hallway," he growls, yanking my underwear down my legs in one swift motion. Before I can respond, he's spreading my thighs wide and positioning himself between them.
The first swipe of his tongue against my core nearly sends me off the floor. "Fuck!" I cry out, my back arching as pleasure rockets through me.
He devours me like a starving man, his strong hands pinning my hips to the tile as I writhe beneath him.
His tongue explores every inch of me, lapping at my pussy with the precision of a man who knows exactly what he's doing.
His tongue flattens against my clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make my thighs tremble.
When he sucks the sensitive bundle of nerves between his lips, I nearly scream, my hands flying to his hair and gripping tight.
"Bear, oh my God," I gasp, my hips bucking against his mouth.
He groans against me, the vibration sending shockwaves through my body.
I feel him smile against my center, clearly pleased with my reaction.
His tongue circles my entrance before pushing inside, and I'm lost, completely at his mercy.
He alternates between fucking me with his tongue and sucking on my clit until I'm a writhing, begging mess on his kitchen floor.
"Please," I whimper, not even sure what I'm begging for. “Bear, Please!”
He rises up, his muscled body glistening with sweat. “Tell me what you need, sweetheart.”
“I need you to fuck me, Cunningham,” I demand, bringing back my professional tone for good measure. “Are you up for the job or not?”
He responds with an outward laugh and a carnal smirk. "I know exactly what you need. I need it too.” He kisses me deeply and then tugs on my bottom lip with his teeth. “I was just waiting for you to beg,” he growls, his voice so deep it reverberates through my core.
I fumble with his belt, fingers trembling with urgency, and he helps me, shoving his jeans and boxers down his hips.
When he springs free, I can't help but stare. He's magnificent. Thick and hard and so much more than I imagined in my most private fantasies. My mouth goes dry at the sight of him, and any lingering thoughts of professionalism or propriety evaporate instantly.
"Now," I demand, reaching for him. "I need you now."
Something wild flashes in his eyes and then he reaches for his pants, pulls out his wallet, and extracts a condom.
"Always prepared?" I ask, breathless and aching.
"Hopeful," he corrects. “I put it there after that night in the arena.”
He starts to tear open the packet but I grab his wrist. "I'm on birth control. And I'm clean. I got tested after my last relationship.”
His eyes darken as he stares back at me. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I promise I’m clean. Do you need me to log in to my medical records?”
He laughs and shakes his head, holding up the condom. “No silly, I meant are you sure you don’t want me to use this?”
“Are you clean too?”
"Yes," he says immediately. "Tested all the time whether I like it or not. I’m clean.”
“Then throw that thing away and fuck me like you mean it, Bear.”