Secret Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)
Secret Obsession: Chapter 45

He drops to his knees in front of me. My breath catches when he grips the waistband of my leggings and drags it down. I reach out and touch his shoulder, because I know he just said exactly what he’s going to do to me, but I’m not sure I believe it.

He gets my leggings down to my ankles and pushes me backward. I sit on the bench hard, my back hitting the wall again.

“Ready, wild girl?”

I’m not quite sure I am.

But he’s still on his knees, and he parts mine with gentle pressure. And then he’s scooting closer, running his nose up my inner thigh.

“Miles,” I murmur. “I don’t think—”

“Don’t think,” he agrees. “Just feel.”

I take a deep breath and try to do just that. It’s not a crime to feel pleasure, is it? To steal it like moments of time that don’t belong to either of us. The way his bright eyes are boring into me, for once waiting for a modicum of agreement, makes my decision that much easier.

“Okay,” I reply.

He smiles.

Brilliant. Blinding.

And totally not like his brother’s.

This one makes me feel something. That’s the whole point.

But then he’s leaning down, and his tongue is tracing a path that makes me feel something else entirely. I tip my head back and widen my legs, my knees falling open, and his shoulders brush my bare skin as he gets closer. His tongue flattens over my clit, and his hands grip my ass, pulling me to the edge of the bench.

Everything he does is designed for him to get closer to me.

His teeth graze my inner thigh, and I shudder.

“Fuck,” I groan.

He takes my wrist, guiding my hand to the back of his head. “Show me where you like it,” he orders. “Because you’re so fucking wet, I’m going to lose my mind.”

I slide my fingers through his curls, ruining how neat he had it. It’s hard to think straight, let alone concentrate on what I like. But he moves away from my clit, inching lower, and I tug his hair. His voice hums through his lips, his amusement clear. He licks and sucks everywhere but my clit.

“Stop messing around,” I snap.

He pushes a finger inside me, and I arch backward. My nails dig into his scalp, hard enough for it to bleed. He adds a second finger, thrusting and twisting slowly, hitting the spot inside me that makes me shudder over and over again.

“Miles.” It’s a plea and a demand, and fuck it, maybe I’m begging, I don’t know.

I’m unraveling.

“Louder.” He lifts his head, eyes snapping to mine. “Louder.”

Oh, fuck.

I push his face back down. I’m not the shameful sort when it comes to sex. Not that I ever put on a show with Knox, but with Miles…

Well, I don’t think he’d mind. Even though he’s still fucking messing with me, avoiding my clit until I’m trembling and squeezing his shoulders with my knees like my life depends on it. So when he traces the tip of his tongue over my clit, so fucking slow, I do scream his name.

Without shame.

I scream his name, and whatever else comes out of my mouth isn’t my fault—it’s his. Especially when his lips close around my clit and he sucks, shoving me over the edge into oblivion.

My ears are ringing by the time I come back to my body, and I only realize that he’s shifted us when my eyes crack open. My legs are closed, my underwear and leggings back in place. And he’s watching my face with an odd expression.

“What?”

“Don’t ruin it by putting your guard up.” He cups my jaw. “Because for a second there, I think you forgot about all the shit you’ve been through, and you actually felt something.”

I shake my head, my throat closing up. “Just an orgasm. Nothing to freak out about.”

He scoffs. “One day, you’ll admit the truth to yourself.”

“And what’s that?”

“That you do know how to love and you’ve fallen head over heels for me.”

“That’s not the truth.”

“It’s the only piece of truth that matters, Willow.” His thumb coasts under the edge of my jaw, forcing my head up. So I can’t hide from him. “And I’m catching you. Every time you feel unsure or afraid or like you want to climb out of your skin with terror and doubt.”

I don’t want this conversation.

Maybe he realizes it, because he drops his hand and turns around, opening the door onto the ice. Without a word, he steps out of the penalty box and skates toward the players’ benches. I follow more slowly, still half-dazed by the orgasm and conversation.

Like, damn. Why does he have to go and insinuate what I feel? No—he doesn’t fucking insinuate. He goes out of his way to tell me exactly where I am with my emotions.

He can’t know more than I do about myself.

“Willow.”

I jerk to attention, refocusing on Miles. He’s got gloves and pads on, a goalie stick in one hand and a regular stick in the other. I belatedly register the pucks sliding across the ice around him, like they’ve got little minds of their own and want to follow.

You’re being stupid.

“What’s this?”

“The next part of our date.” He holds out the regular stick. “You’ve got the skating part down. But can you get the puck past me?”

I perk up. “What do I get if I do?”

His eyes darken. “What do you want?”

Something that’ll knock him off his high horse.

Wait. “What do you want if I can’t?”

He grins. “Ah, I was wondering if you’d ask. I want a second date.”

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He shrugs. “Yeah, but I’d prefer to guarantee a continuation.”

I take the stick from him and glide backward, out of reach. “I don’t know,” I hedge. “I’m already sleeping in your bed. Isn’t that enough?”

“You could give me everything in the world except your heart, and it wouldn’t be enough.”

I snag a puck and fling it toward the far net. It slings far and wide, hitting the boards with a resounding crack. Well, okay, no shooting from the center line.

“Is that what you’re asking for? According to you, you already have it.”

He laughs. “You’re fickle, you know that?”

“My parents tell me I’m hard to love all the time,” I comment.

Violet says my parents do love me. That their love is in their acts of service, or whatever bullshit that is. And yeah, maybe they do care enough to do those things for me. But it doesn’t mean anything when I don’t hear the words or feel their touch. When I grew up without knowing in my heart that that’s what they were giving me. My house has always been cold.

I mean, it could be a fantasy that Violet cooked up all on her own. A way to heal me.

Newsflash: I’m unhealable. I’ve got ugly scars all over my insides from a weird, draining childhood. Nothing particularly bad happened, but it left me traumatized all the same.

How fucked up is that?

Maybe it has nothing to do with my parents, and it’s just a personality defect. Or a chemical imbalance in my brain, like depression or anxiety.

Here, have a totally fucking normal childhood, and we’ll watch as your insides get scrambled up anyway.

“You’re not hard to love,” Miles interrupts. “I don’t know how you could think that.”

I fold my arms over my chest. “Do you know how reinforced that is? Your brother did everything he could to make me fall for him, and I fucking did. Past all the fucked-up mind-bending, I actually did think I loved him. And he laughed. He told the whole room what I said and made me the punchline of a joke.”

“I hit him in the face for that,” he admits. “You’re not a prickly cactus, Willow. You’re not any harder to love than I am.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. He passes me another puck and heads toward the goal crease. “I’ll prove it to you.”

I tighten my grip on the stick. “If I get a goal, I want you to get my name tattooed on your dick.”

He spins to face me, continuing to skate backward, and smirks. “That won’t convince me to try very hard.”

My jaw drops.

“Matching tattoos,” he declares. “If I stop your shots, you get a tattoo with me.”

I’m already shaking my head before he finishes.

“Come on, Willow,” he goads. “Are you scared?”

“I’m not getting your name on my face or neck or anywhere visible—”

His smile is positively wicked. “I was thinking about a spot I was licking earlier…”

Oh, fuck.

Well… that would be interesting. And I find that I’m not entirely against that idea. I mean, I don’t want his name tattooed on my pussy. Right?

No, Willow, you don’t. And the renewed pulse between your legs is just a coincidence.

I retrieve a few pucks, angling them toward the center of the rink. I practice taking one around in a circle, experimenting with how the fuck I’m going to get it past Miles. He’s got the pads on his arms and legs, plus the stick—but none of the padding protecting his chest.

How badly do I want a groin shot?

And then something else occurs to me. “How many chances do I get?”

He scans the ice, then shrugs. “You can use all the pucks I set out once. Fair?”

“Enough,” I mumble, counting how many that gives me. Twelve. Not terrible. Maybe I’ll get lucky… A girl can dream, right?

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