Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
She came, yelling my name before muffling her cries with a fist. Her knees buckled, but I kept her pinned to the door as I licked her clean for long moments, bringing her through the aftershocks.
“Nixon!” Hendrix shouted, pounding on the door. “Are you in there?”
We both stilled.
“Yeah, what’s up?” I managed to answer as Liberty looked down at me with wide, hazy, satiated eyes.
“Post-game wings, or what?” he asked. “First home game, remember?”
“Right.” Shit. That had been our ritual since the year he’d signed with the Raptors. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to get my breathing—and my cock—under control.
“Roman’s already heading for his car. Let’s go,” Hendrix said with a double slap on the door.
The last thing I wanted to do was leave the sweetness of Liberty’s swollen pussy, but I wasn’t going back on my earlier thought, either. I wasn’t fucking her in my dressing room.
“We’ll be right there,” she answered for me, a smile tugging at her lips.
“Excellent.” Footsteps sounded as he walked away.
I helped her back into her underwear and tugged her dress back into place, then rose slowly.
She brushed her thumb over my lips and shook her head slowly.
“What?” I asked.
“Everyone always says how your arm is magic, right?”
My brow puckered. “Yeah?”
“It’s got nothing on your tongue. Holy. Shit.” She bit into her lower lip.
I laughed, then adjusted my dick and swept her under my arm as we headed out to keep the tradition of post-game wings alive. But I knew nothing we had there would even come close to tasting as good as Liberty.
I was fucking hooked.
8
Liberty
Crack!
The small black disc hit the partition near the family box we occupied, and I just about jumped out of my seat. Before I could catch my breath, the hockey players were already all over it—a blur of color and ice and smacking sticks.
Nixon’s hand slid over the small of my back, effortlessly settling me back into the seat next to his. He’d flown us to Charlotte to watch the Reapers, his twin brother—Nathan Noble—a defensemen of some kind on the ice.
“You good?” he asked, his eyes falling to my stomach for a moment and then back up to my face.
I nodded, resting my hand on his muscled forearm to reassure him. “A little excitement isn’t going to hurt us,” I said. Nixon blew out a breath, and I leaned my forehead against his. “Besides,” I continued. “You should’ve seen me when you were on the field.” I grinned as his eyes lit with that fire that melted my insides. “Ten times more excited than this.”
Nixon smiled as I settled back in my seat. “I can’t help it. I want to protect you both.”
And that raw honesty? That genuine concern for my and the baby’s well-being continued to tear down all the walls I’d tried to build around my heart since having slept with Nixon in Vegas.
His lips were doing a great deal to break down those walls, too.
And his tongue.
Warm shivers danced over my skin, the memory of his mouth between my legs doing everything to tear my focus from the hockey game. Who could use their tongue like that? It’s like he had a map for every spot to drive me to that sweet edge and hold me there in exquisite torture before pushing me over. Those strong hands—the ones that made him a professional NFL star—had held me effortlessly with a primal claiming that shook every cell in my body. He was used to calling the plays, was paid millions for it, and goddamn the man had played my body like a mastered instrument.
Heat flared over my skin, my body coiling with a tight hunger that was so overwhelming I had to shift in my seat.
Nixon returned his focus to the game but covered my hand on his arm with his free one. I watched him while he tracked the movements on the ice with a prideful precision that spoke volumes about how much he adored his twin—not that he’d opened up a ton about his family. Even in our numerous get to know you texts and conversations, he tended to avoid any serious details when it came to family—beyond the lake house and the fact that his mother had taught him how to cook.
The Carolina Reapers were ruthless on the ice, but in a beautiful way that reminded me of a synchronized dance. The players were so in tune with each other’s needs, they almost anticipated it before the move needed to happen. Not unlike football, but with a slab of ice beneath them and blades on their feet.
A few hours later, we settled into a comfortable booth at a quiet restaurant in the small town where Nathan lived with his fiancé, Harper.
“What’d you think of the game?” Harper asked after she sat across from me, Nathan scooting in close to her. She’d greeted me with a huge hug like we were the oldest of friends, despite only having met that one time in Vegas. Considering the results of that trip, and her graciousness surrounding everything that had gone down that weekend, I was keen to return her kindness.