The Fake Out (Vancouver Storm, #2)(80)

His other hand sneaks into my leggings, stroking over me. Sparks jolt through me at the contact, and I arch against him.

“How about that?” His tone is so cocky and smug.

I clutch his arm across my chest and my breath catches when he pinches my nipple. This is fooling around on another level. I’m somehow insanely comfortable and aching with need, inhaling his masculine, clean smell with every breath.

“You know it’s good,” I bite out, sounding breathless. “I need more.”

His hand stills between my legs, and his finger rests on my clit. Not moving. Just touching lightly. I buck against him, seeking friction, but he pulls away, still barely touching me.

“Rory,” I whine, writhing.

“You going to be good for me over the next few days?’

I growl, and his laugh grazes my cheek.

“You going to stay off your ankle and let me take care of you?”

“I swear to god, Rory—”

He pinches my clit, and my teeth clench at the lust roaring through me. “Fine. Yes. Okay. I’ll be good.”

It’s not fair that messing around with him is both the best sex I’ve ever had and the most fun.

His lips skate over my neck, and he nips me. “You sure?”

“Rory.”

He laughs, and his fingers start to swirl. I sink against him as warmth courses through me and my muscles tighten.

“How’s this?”

“So good,” I moan. My heart races, and Rory’s hand works faster, circling exactly the way I like it, flat fingers, not too fast, not too hard.

“You going to come for me?”

“Of course.” I can already feel myself fraying, nerves firing with sensation.

He makes a low noise of pleasure. “Good.”

The pressure builds between my legs and I turn my face into the pillow. When I suck a sharp breath in, Rory’s scent goes straight to my brain, and I clench up. In my ear, he groans with pleasure as he touches me, and the heat between my legs spills over, coursing through me, radiating through my limbs. The entire time, Rory holds me tight against him, whispering in my ear about how much he likes being here, how pretty I am, and how much he loves watching me come.

“Oh my god,” I whisper as my release subsides. “You’re so good at that.”

Rory smiles against my neck, but when I turn and reach for his erection, he’s off the bed in a flash.

I arch a brow, feeling cold without him against me. “Get back here.”

“No.” He leans down to give me a kiss but steps away when I reach for him again. “I have errands to run, and you’re going to rest like you said you would.”

I blink in outrage, gesturing at the thick ridge between his legs. “You’re hard.”

“I’ll survive, Hartley. You’ve been making me hard for years, and it hasn’t killed me yet.”

A laugh falls from my lips. My mouth is watering, thinking about him fucking it again.

“We had a deal.” He gives me a hard look, but he’s smiling as he drops another kiss to my lips. “So be a good girlfriend and stay off your ankle so I’m not worried about you.”

Girlfriend, he said. Not fake girlfriend.

“I was coerced,” I call after him as he winks and strides out of the room.

I should be warning myself that this has an end date, and that we haven’t addressed what’s going on with us. I should be freaking out because Rory fits into my life seamlessly, and if it goes south, he’s going to tear a hole so big it’ll be impossible to repair. I could do my typical mental gymnastics, telling myself that he didn’t mean to say that, that it was just a mistake.

Instead, I smile out the window and listen to the front door close, already excited for him to get back.





CHAPTER 57





RORY





Christmas carols play in the grocery store while I load things into my overflowing cart.

Keep Hazel warm, keep Hazel fed, keep Hazel happy. I’m in protector mode, and I love it. Taking care of her feels right and natural.

I normally spend the Christmas break in the gym or taking advantage of the empty rink schedule, but the idea of curling up on the couch with Hazel tonight blows all of that up. I used to hate my apartment, actively avoiding the empty, lonely penthouse overlooking the city, but with her there?

I can’t wait to get home.

I’m loading the groceries into my car, snow falling around me, when my phone buzzes with a call. I’m expecting something regarding the dinner I’ve ordered for us from a local restaurant, but my stomach tightens when I see the name flashing across the screen.

Dad.

Already, the weight settles in my gut. We haven’t talked in a couple weeks, and I forgot this feeling that floods my system when we do.

“Rory,” he says when I answer. “I’ve been reviewing your recent games.”

My eyes close. All we fucking talk about is hockey.

“I’m coming to a practice,” he says. “I need to see what Ward is putting in your head.”

“No.” Anxiety shoots up my throat. “He runs closed practices. He doesn’t like spectators. He says it’s distracting.”

I don’t know if that’s true, but I’ve never seen someone outside of the organization watching our practices, and I sure as fuck don’t want my dad there taking notes.