Meet Your Match (Kings of the Ice, #1)(76)

“You okay?” she asked with a curious grin.

I swallowed down the truth, shoving Will’s words out of my head before they could echo any louder.

“Never better,” I lied. “Now bring that sweet ass back to bed.”

When she did, I peeled my t-shirt off her body and slid inside her until I felt whole again.





Making a Mess



Maven



The night before we had to travel to Ottawa, I showed up at Vince’s door in nothing but his jersey.

Christmas was just around the corner, and I wanted to give him a gift. Of course, giving him an actual gift would cross over our friends with benefits boundary and head right into relationship territory. So I wrapped myself up in the package he’d been dying to see me in, finding a creative way to have the best of both worlds.

I was barefoot, looking up and down the hall and praying no one would come out of their condos and see me. They might assume I had on shorts underneath, but I didn’t — nor was I wearing a bra or panties. I swallowed down the nerves I still got every time I anticipated being touched by Vince, smirking at the peephole until the moment the door swung open.

As soon as it did, a sturdy hand wrapped around my wrist and pulled me inside, and then I was pressed against the door when it closed behind us, and Vince was everywhere.

His hands pinned my hips to the wood, one thigh sliding between mine as he kissed me with a low, deep growl rumbling out of his throat. He slid his hands up to palm my breasts through the jersey next, and I moaned into his mouth, threading my arms around his neck.

“Woman,” he said when he pulled back, his eyes taking in the full sight of me. “You’re wearing my jersey.”

“I am.”

He shook his head, fisting his hands in the fabric as his eyes grew hungrier. “This makes me fucking feral, Mave.”

“I thought it might be good luck,” I said, heating under his stare. “Letting you win a bet the night before we go to Canada.”

He wet his lips. “I did bet that I’d have you in this one day, didn’t I? Past Me was a genius.”

“Maybe it can be a new tradition,” I said, linking my arms around his neck again. “Me wearing your jersey to the games.”

His nostrils flared, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of my neck and bring me into him. “Careful. People might think you’re mine.”

My lips parted when he hovered his just an inch away, my heart thundering in my ears.

“They’ll just think it’s part of the gig,” I assured him, even as it made my chest squeeze painfully around my lungs. “Don’t worry. Your bunnies will only take it as motivation to try harder.”

I didn’t know why the joke fell so flat, why it didn’t land with the sassy bite I intended. It sounded almost… sad, petty, and I shook my head and smiled quickly to cover it.

That’s when I noticed Vince was speckled with clay, and that now, the jersey I wore was, too.

“Shit,” he said, following my gaze and looking down at his hands. “I’m sorry, I ruined it.”

“Or did you make it better?” I asked, thumbing over one of the places where his fingerprints were etched in a rust orange clay against the white jersey fabric. I smiled up at him next. “Are you making something?”

He shrugged, nodding to where he’d left a heap of clay wet and ready to be molded on the wheel. “Not yet. Just… fucking around.”

“Stress relief before the big game?”

He swallowed. “Something like that.”

I knew there was a lot riding on this trip. The Ottawa Otters were currently first in our division, and everyone assumed we were flying up to get our asses handed to us. They’d beat us in a shutout when they came to Tampa earlier in the season, and the Ospreys wanted a redemption game.

That had to be a lot of pressure on Vince.

So I grabbed his hand in mine and tugged him toward the wheel. “Teach me.”

“Teach you?”

I nodded, pushing gently on his chest until he sat on the stool by the wheel. Then, I carefully sat in his lap, rolling the sleeves of my new jersey up several times until they stayed above my elbows.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to focus on pottery when you’re in my lap.”

“Did I mention I’m not wearing a bra?” I asked, sneaking a peek at him over my shoulder.

He groaned, wrapping his hands around my hips and grinding into me.

I swatted his hands away. “If you want to touch me, you have to teach me.”

His head hit the top of mine on an exasperated sigh, and I smiled, flicking on the button that made the wheel start to spin. Of course, I had no idea what I was doing, and apparently you needed to have your hands ready because the clay began to wobble and spray over both of us and the table and the surrounding area, too.

Vince thumbed it off quickly, laughing and digging his fingers into my side to tickle me.

But then, he trailed his hands up and over my shoulders, palms floating down every inch of my arms until they covered the backs of my hands. He threaded his fingers over mine, moved us closer to the wheel, and started it again — this time, bringing my palms to the clay.

He didn’t actually explain anything, just used his hands to guide me. He’d dip our fingertips in the bowl of water at the station before showing me how and where to press against the clay to shape it. We molded it into a fat, shallow shape before he showed me how to lengthen it, to make it deeper and more narrow.