Morning sex is something I don’t get to indulge in very often. Which is a damn shame, because I love it. There’s nothing better than an orgasm first thing in the morning to set the tone for the rest of the day. But since I never have women stay over, nor do I crash at their places, I’m constantly missing out on one of my favorite activities. Until now.
For the past three days, I’ve woken up with my morning wood nestled between Brenna’s firm ass cheeks, one hand cupping a warm breast, my nose buried in her hair. It’s the best feeling in the world. No, scratch that—the best feeling in the world is when Brenna climbs on top of me and seats herself on my dick. We’ve been sleeping naked since she got here, because whenever we’re in my bed, our clothes end up coming off anyway.
“Don’t kiss me,” she warns, as she has every morning since she got here. She has a strict rule about not kissing with morning breath, which I guess I’m down with. But I’m also too impatient to get up, go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and then fuck her brains out. I’d rather kick off with the fucking.
There’s something different about this morning, though. It feels like more than fucking. Feels more intimate.
Maybe it’s because of the confession she made last night. Opening herself up to me, allowing me to experience, at least secondhand, the traumatic events she’d gone through. She’d been so vulnerable, and for a moment I’d almost felt inadequate. As if this glimpse into her soul that she was trusting me with was beyond what I was capable of taking on.
I’m seeing the same vulnerability in her eyes right now, and it’s making the sex feel—
Nope, it’s not our locked gazes heightening the intimacy. It’s the fact that my dick is surrounded with warmth and wetness.
I’m not wearing a condom.
“Babe.” I groan, stilling her by grabbing her hips. “Condom,” I remind her.
She looks stunned that we’d forgotten. And I know it’s a big deal for her, because she’s typically such a stickler for condoms. After her confession, I understand why.
“I’m on the pill,” she says in assurance, and her expression becomes unusually shy. “I get tested twice a year. My last results were all clear…” There’s an unspoken question there.
“Mine too,” I say huskily.
“So maybe we should…” She visibly swallows. “Keep going?”
My pulse quickens. “You sure you want to bareback it?”
She nods slowly. “Yeah. But maybe you can pull out at the end, if that’s okay?”
The fact that she’s even allowing me to be inside her this way is a beautiful gift. And my mother always told me to never look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Of course it’s okay.” I roll us over so that she’s lying beneath me, her dark hair fanned out across my pillow. Jesus, she’s beautiful.
And because I don’t know when or if the bareback gods might bless me again, I drag out the out-of-this-world sensations for as long as I can. I fuck her impossibly slow. My hips move in a lazy rhythm, and so does my tongue as I slide it between her parted lips. We kiss and fuck and fuck and kiss, for what seems like forever.
It almost becomes too much to bear. I bury my face in the crook of her neck, kissing her there. She squeezes my ass and rocks upward, meeting me thrust for thrust. By the time I finally increase the tempo, we’re both moaning with impatience.
“Dammit, Connelly, stop taking your sweet-ass time and move.”
I choke on my laughter. “Jeez. So bossy,” I chide.
“Move,” she growls.
I stop completely. “I’m not your sex toy, Jensen. I don’t fuck on command.”
“You’re such a baby. Are you going to get us off or not?”
I love that she says us and not me. Brenna isn’t selfish in bed. She doesn’t lie there like a starfish and make me do all the work like some women I’ve slept with in the past. Brenna is an equal participant, and I love it.
I gaze down at her with mock seriousness. “I’ll let your insolence slide. This time,” I warn. And then I pound into her until we’re both coming.
Afterward, we lie on our backs, naked, and I can tell without even looking at her that her mood has shifted. Tension rolls off of her. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I was thinking about my dad.”
“We just had sex and you’re thinking about your dad. Awesome.”
“We just had sex. Period. And now I’m thinking about my dad. Period. Those are two unrelated events,” she assures me.
“What’s troubling you?”
“I want to go home and talk to him about everything, but I’m worried because I have such bad luck initiating heart-to-hearts with him. He’s so hard to talk to.” Her sigh heats the air between us. “But I think it’s time to have a real conversation about everything I’ve been feeling. Maybe for once he’ll actually listen to me, you know? Maybe I’ll finally be able to get through to him and convince him I’m not the same person I was back then.”
I trail my fingers over her shoulder. “I have the utmost confidence you’ll make him see the light, Hottie.”
“That makes one of us, because I’m not confident in the slightest. Like I said, I have terrible luck when it comes to conversations with Chad Jensen.”
I purse my lips for a moment. “I have an idea.” Then I hop off the mattress and onto my feet.
“Where are you going?” she demands as I duck out of the room.
“Hold tight,” I call over my shoulder.
In the front hall, I throw open the closet door and drag out my hockey bag. I unzip it, ignore the rising smell of old socks, and rummage around until I find what I’m seeking. As I saunter back to my room, something nags at the back of my mind, but I can’t quite bring the thought to the forefront.
“I’m about to do you a huge solid,” I tell Brenna.
“Oh really.” She sits up, and my attention is instantly drawn to her bare breasts. They’re round and perky, and her nipples are puckered from being exposed.
I have to snap myself out of it before the lust takes over. “I’m going to lend you my good-luck charm,” I announce, holding up the tacky pink-and-purple bracelet.
She gasps. “Seriously?”
“Yup.”
“But how is your good-luck charm going to help me? Aren’t all the mojo and good vibes it holds associated with you?”
“That’s not how it works, babe.”
She seems to be fighting a smile. “Uh-huh, how does it work, then?”
“It’s a good-luck charm. It brings luck to whoever is wearing it, not just me. Jeez. Don’t you know anything about charms and superstitions?”
“No!” she replies. “I don’t.” Despite the humor in her tone, her eyes soften. “But I’m willing to give it a shot if you think it will help.”
“I don’t think, I know.”
I sit at the edge of the bed, naked as a jaybird. I take her hand and slip the beaded bracelet onto her delicate wrist. It sits a bit looser on her than it does on me, and when she lifts her arm to admire it, it slides halfway down to her elbow.
“There,” I say with a pleased nod. “You’re all set.”
“Thank you. I’ll probably head over there and talk to him while you’re at—” Her face suddenly pales.
Mine does too, panic careening up my throat. Shit. Shit. I glance at the alarm clock, which confirms my worst fear. It’s nine thirty, and I’m an hour late for practice.
Coach doesn’t let my tardiness go unpunished. After I’ve suited up in the empty locker room, I sprint down the tunnel—on skates—and practically hurl myself onto the ice. My teammates are running a shooting drill, but Coach blows his whistle when he spots me. He doesn’t even let the guys finish what they’re doing. He abandons them mid-drill and skates over to me.
His dark eyes burn like hard, angry coals. “You’d better have a damn good excuse for this, Connelly. We’re facing off against Michigan in three goddamn days.”
My shameful gaze drops to my skates. He’s right. This was a colossal screw-up on my end. The regionals are being held in Worcester this weekend. We’re the number-one seed, playing Michigan, the number-four seed. But that doesn’t mean we’re guaranteed a win. Anything can happen in the national tourney.
“My alarm clock didn’t go off,” I lie, because the alternative is not an option. I was having sex with Chad Jensen’s daughter who I’m pretty sure I’m in love with. Coach would have an aneurysm.
“That’s what Weston said probably happened,” Coach mutters.
I force myself not to send a grateful look in Brooks’s direction. He didn’t come home last night, otherwise he would’ve been pounding on my door earlier reminding me about morning skate. And obviously Brooks knows that Brenna is staying with us, so I’m beyond relieved he kept his mouth shut about it with Coach. I make a mental note to stop calling him Bubble Butt around the house. At least for a few days.
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I’ll set three alarms tomorrow.” Fortitude rings in my voice. The reason I gave for being late is bogus, but that doesn’t alter my determination to never let this happen again.
“You’d better.” Coach spins around and blasts the whistle a couple times. “McCarthy! You’re up!”
Practice is particularly draining, since I’m going out of my way to kick ass. I need to make up for what happened this morning, to absolve myself of this cardinal sin.
I’ve only been late to practice twice in my entire athletic career—and to put that in perspective, that career began when I was five years old. Both times I was late occurred in high school. The first time, I had the stomach flu, yet I still dragged myself out of bed and drove to the rink. I was thirty minutes late and my coach took one look at me and ordered me to drive right back home. The second time, the coast was hit by an unexpected blizzard and I woke up to a foot and a half of snow outside the door. I spent most of the morning shoveling the driveway and trying to dig our cars out. And even then, I was only forty minutes late.
Today? There was no stomach bug, no blizzard. I was an hour late because of a girl.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not blaming Brenna. And despite my complete dissatisfaction with myself, I don’t entirely regret what happened this morning. The sex was goddamn spectacular. It was our first time without a condom, and I shiver at the memory. Her tight heat surrounding me…fuuuck. So hot and so good.
I’m about to leave the ice when I glimpse a familiar figure waving at me from the stands. Fans are allowed to come and watch us when it’s an open practice, like today’s.
I execute a sharp turn and skate the opposite direction from the boards. Hazel descends the steps, her blonde braid swinging as she walks. She’s wearing a light jacket, and, as usual, her fingers are stacked with rings, including the one I got her for Christmas. She smiles at me through the plexiglass, reaching the little door on the boards at the same time I do.
“Hey. What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I didn’t get to properly congratulate you for winning this weekend.” Her expression becomes rueful. “You were a bit occupied, what with that little scene between your coach and your girlfriend.” The last word—girlfriend—has a slight bite.
I stifle a sigh. “Yeah, that was awkward, to say the least.”
“Anyway, I owe you a celebratory meal, so I thought I’d surprise you with brunch at that place we both like in Central Square.”
“Sounds good.” I hope she doesn’t notice that I’m not as enthusiastic as I usually am at the idea of eating food. I’m just eager to see Brenna and find out if she spoke to her father yet. “Let me hit the locker room and I’ll meet you out front in ten.”
A short while later, Hazel and I are seated across from each other at a small table in the cheesy breakfast place we discovered sometime last year. It’s called Egggggs, and although all the dishes have silly names and the way-too-colorful decor is an assault on the eyes, the food is actually excellent. Or eggcellent, as Hazel likes to say.
“Thanks for surprising me,” I tell her as I set down my menu. “Please don’t tell me you showed up at eight thirty, though.”
She blanches. “God, no. The world doesn’t exist before nine a.m., remember?”
A waitress comes by to take our orders. And we’ve been friends for so long that I know exactly what Hazel’s going to get before she even says it—two eggs, scrambled. Brown toast. Sausage, because she’s the one person in the world who doesn’t like bacon. And coffee, two sugars, no milk or cream. And I’m sure she knows my order, too: whatever the biggest breakfast on the menu is, because I’m a total pig.
I wonder what Brenna’s breakfast preferences are. She’s eaten eggs and fruit for breakfast since she started crashing with me, but I wonder what she’d order at a place like this. Probably makes me a massive loser, but I’m excited to find out. I’m enjoying getting to know her.
Hazel and I catch up as we wait for our food, but it’s all very surface level. We talk about our classes and hockey, her mom’s new boyfriend, how neither of my parents showed up for the conference finals. That last one still grates. I’m used to them being no-shows, but I had really hoped they might surprise me this time, especially because it was such a big game.
We’re about halfway done with our meals when Hazel sets down her fork and demands, “So are you with her now?”
“You mean Brenna?”
“Who else would I mean?”
I chuckle. “Yes. I guess I am. She’s actually been staying with me and Brooks since the finals.”
My friend is shocked. “You’re living together?”
“We’re not living together,” I answer quickly. “She’s just crashing at my place until hers is ready. She got flooded out.”
Hazel is quiet for a beat. She picks up her coffee. Takes a long sip. “This is very serious,” she finally remarks.
Slight discomfort makes me shift in my seat. “It’s not ‘very serious.’ It’s just…” I rely on my trusty motto. “It is what it is.”
“Yeah, and what it is, is serious, Jake. I don’t think you’ve ever had a girl spend one night at your place, let alone several nights.” She watches me pensively. “Are you in love with her?”
I fidget with my fork, pushing some hash browns around on my plate. My appetite is slowly abandoning me. I don’t like talking about this. Or rather, I don’t like talking about it with Hazel. For a while now, it’s felt as if she’s passing judgment on me, disapproving of my actions, and I’ve never felt that way in all the years we’ve known each other. Even when I did dumb shit like get wasted at a party and throw up in her bushes, or indulge in a one-night-stand, I didn’t feel judged. But I do now.
“It’s fine, you don’t have to tell me,” she says when I remain silent.
“No, it’s… It’s awkward for me, I guess,” I say sheepishly. “I’ve never really been in love before.”
Something akin to pain flashes on her face, and suddenly I’m reminded of Brenna’s insinuation that Hazel has feelings for me. There’s no way that can be true, though. Wouldn’t she have given some indication of it in all these years? Before Brenna planted the idea in my head, it hadn’t crossed my mind, because Hazel never once acted like she was into me.
“That’s a big deal,” she says quietly. “Being in love for the first time. This entire thing is monumental whether you want to admit it or not.”
“I wouldn’t call it monumental.”
“You’re in a relationship. Relationships are huge.”
Christ, I wish she’d stop using words like huge and monumental. “It’s really not the big deal you’re making it out to be,” I say awkwardly. “We’re just going with the flow right now.”
My friend snorts. “The mantra of fuckboys everywhere.”
“I’m not a fuckboy,” I return with a dark scowl.
“Exactly. You’re not. Which means this isn’t about going with the flow. You’re in this. You’re dedicated to this girl, and that is a big deal, because you’ve never been in a real relationship.” She sips her coffee again, watching me over the rim. “You sure you’re ready for this?” she asks, her tone light.
My palms are unusually damp as I pick up my own coffee cup. “I can’t decide if you’re purposely trying to freak me out,” I say dryly.
“Why would you be freaked out? I’m simply asking if you’re ready.”
“Ready for what exactly?” I ask, then release a clumsy laugh and hope she didn’t notice how confused I sounded just now.
She’s right—I haven’t been in a real relationship before. I’ve fucked a lot of women. I’ve had some flings that lasted a few weeks or months. But I never developed deep feelings for anybody until Brenna. I never wanted to say the L-word to anybody until Brenna.
“Jake.” There’s a note of pity in her voice, which gets my back up. “Relationships are work. You realize that, don’t you?”
“What, you’re implying I’m incapable of working hard for something?” I roll my eyes and point to my chest. “Hello, going to the NHL over here?”
“Which raises another issue,” Hazel says. “And tell me, how is that going to affect this relationship? She’s a junior. She has another year at Briar. And you’re going to be in Edmonton. How exactly is this going to work?”
“People make long-distance relationships work all the time.”
“Yes, they do, but those are even harder. Now we’re talking about twice the work. Twice the effort to try to make the other person feel like they’re still a priority for you even though they’re in another country. And now we’re at our next issue—how can she possibly be a priority when you need to be focusing on the new job?”
An itchy sensation crawls up my spine. Hazel raises some good points.
“Which brings me to my last concern,” she announces, as if she’s presenting a thesis titled Why Jake Connelly Will Make A Shitty Boyfriend. “Hockey is your life. It’s all you’ve ever cared about. You’ve worked your ass off to get to this point. And I still have reservations about Brenna. Despite what you think, I still think she had an ulterior motive when she got together with you.”
“You’re wrong,” I say simply. At least that’s the one thing I’m certain about. Everything else…not so much.
“Fine, maybe I am. But am I wrong about the fact that you spent, what, seventeen years concentrating on hockey and preparing for this moment? You’re about to make your professional hockey debut. I guarantee that a long-distance relationship will distract you, and it’ll frustrate you, and you’ll end up spending an inordinate amount of time thinking about this girl and obsessing and assuring her you still love her when she reads articles or sees pictures on the blogs of you and whatever puck bunny throws herself at you that week.” Hazel shrugs, cocking a brow at me. “So I repeat, are you ready for this?”
