Ares

Need Felicity.

She’s smart. Smartest girl I know.

She can fix my foot.

I trust her. Team doesn’t know me. Not yet. Doesn’t know what I can do.

She’ll believe me.

She listens. She gets me.

I crash into the back door. Her car’s here. She should be here.

“Felicity!” I bellow.

She spins into the kitchen, big green eyes wide, nose still bruised, black eye turning purple, golden red hair back in a ponytail, wearing her plain black polo shirt and work jeans. Loki takes off for the stairs without throwing anything or pooping in anyone’s shoes.

“Fix me.” I point to the fucking boot. “Fix me.”

She puts a hand in the doorway and looks down at my foot.

My shoulders bunch. My arms bunch. Even my butt muscles bunch.

If she tells me no—

Fuck.

“Come sit,” she says softly.

I eyeball her. If she’s trying to calm me down without fixing me—

“Do you want my help or not?”

“Oh, oh! Take her help! She’s awesome and amazing and the best ever!” she adds as Lucy.

“You’re so fucking biased, you irritating cat,” she replies as Harold.

“Shut the fuck up, Assopotamus. This situation calls for positivity,” she chimes in as the goat.

For the first time since I left the arena, I draw a full breath.

She steps out of the doorway and gestures to the couch.

Shards of hot glass splinter inside my shin as I limp into the room.

I collapse on the couch, it squeaks, and I freeze. My lungs, my ass muscles, my arms—everything freezes.

“Breathe.” Felicity settles on the edge of a cushion. “Gammy likes you. She won’t let her couch break.”

She takes my hand in both of hers, watching me, and I feel like I’ve just been slammed into the boards by a thunderbolt.

Not helping with the breathing.

Nor does the soft stroke of her thumb over my wrist.

“Better?” she asks.

Her eyes remind me of the northern lights. Green and glowing, dancing. Beauty in the midst of darkness.

A natural wonder.

Time stills. The pain fades.

She rubs her palm over the back of my hand, doesn’t blink, lets me watch the show shimmer in her eyes.

I don’t want to look away.

Don’t want to break the spell.

She’s not afraid.

Not sorry for me.

Her touch is making my pulse race and my mouth dry and my cock rock hard.

“What did they say?” she whispers. Like if she talks any louder, she’ll break the spell.

“January.” I choke on the word, but she holds me captive with her gaze, doesn’t let me fall.

Doesn’t let me break.

“Ares—”

“Last team let me play.”

Her brows are like fairy wings. Light. Delicate. Art. They wrinkle. “Chicago let you play on a bad ankle?”

“Not bad.”

“But it wasn’t good.”

“Mind over matter.”

Her eyes tighten.

She’s mad.

At me. For me. I don’t care.

She cares.

Her fingers are stroking up my arm. Lighting my skin on fire. Giving me ideas.

She wants me.

Not the big dumb ape who can’t talk.

The fast, strong, capable hockey god.

I’m not broken here.

Not in her eyes.

“I can help you, but you have to do exactly what I tell you to.”

I nod, still watching those eyes.

So pretty.

Like spring. Early spring. Soft. Fresh.

Full of promise.

“It’s going to take some time,” she whispers.

I start to rise, but she grips my hand and forearm, and a shower of firecrackers erupts on my flesh. “Look at me, Ares. Look. Listen. Don’t think about tomorrow. Think about now. Right now. Just this moment. You’re okay. You’re okay here right now.”

She’s here.

I’m here.

I don’t hurt.

My junk hurts—wants her—but she’s right.

I’m okay. Right now.

Better than okay.

She’s nodding. She’s here.

She shifts her hips, scoots closer. “Still okay?”

My heart’s trying to beat out of my chest.

I want to kiss her.

I want to savor her lips. Lose myself in her touch. Exist in her world. Only in her world.

“Good.” Her voice is going breathy.

She feels it.

She wants to lose herself too.

She wants me.

There are reasons. Reasons pushing against my brain. Shouldn’t do this.

But I don’t care.

I want to be whole.

Want to be right.

Want to be able.

She brushes a hand over my forehead. Tickles my hair. Makes my skin itch.

The good itch.

An eager itch.

I grip her thigh. Delicate. But strong.

Like all of her.

She’s searching my eyes. Looking. Probing.

Not much to see.

I’m a simple guy.

Hockey.

Family.

Food.

Sleep.

Her.

I want her.

“You’re a mystery, Ares Berger,” she whispers.

I shake my head.

She’s the mystery.

Kind. Talented. Smart.

Wants me too.

Not like other women. They don’t see me. See the flesh. See the talent. See the big dick. But they don’t look any deeper.

She sees me.

She’s close.

So close. Her chest rises against my arm. Her breath quivers. Her eyes ask questions.

So many questions.

Too much thinking.

Her lips part. I put my fingers to her mouth.

No more talking.

Soft skin. Plump lips. Hot breath.

I’m hard as iron. Aching. Heavy. Wanting.

Mind over matter. Mind over matter.

She sucks my fingertip into her mouth, holds my gaze, the green disappearing into big black desire, swirls her tongue around my finger, and fuck mind over matter.

Simple.

Easy.

Right.

I want her. She wants me.

“Felicity,” I growl.

“You said my name,” she whispers.

And then she’s straddling me, her sweet center cradling my aching dick, her mouth devouring mine, her arms wrapped tight around my neck.

Her tongue.

Her breasts.

Her legs.

Mine.

I grip her hips, trace the swell of her ass, the curve of her thighs.

Strong. Sexy. Eager.

She grinds against my cock.

Whimpers.

Slides her tongue against mine.

Presses her soft chest to me.

Strokes my neck, my shoulders, drags her fingers back up to my hair.

Feelings.

Everywhere.

Hot. Pulsing. Want.

Want to feel her. Touch her skin. Taste her breasts.

Taste her pussy.

Make her moan.

Make her scream.

“Ares,” she gasps into my mouth. “More.”

Fuck.

She breaks the kiss, straightens, and sends her shirt flying. Somewhere. Gone.

All that’s left is smooth Felicity skin.

Soft freckles dot her chest. Black lace covers her nipples. My cock surges against her pussy. I stroke her sides, trace her ribs.

Kiss the hollow between her breasts.

Breathe in the music of her gasp.

Lick her.

Taste the sweet salty temptation of her skin.

Squeeze her breast, the lace rough, the plump heaviness beneath a perfect pillow.

Rub her nipple.

She jerks against my steel rod.

Pants too tight.

Too much fabric.

Want to feel her.

Not this moment though.

This moment, I lick a path along her collarbone.

Pull on the band in her hair until her ponytail comes loose.

Caress her breast. Tease that hard point.

Her gasps, her body, her touch are my world.

Nothing else exists.

Just Felicity.

Hot skin.

Firm curves.

Delicious neck.

Fuck.

I want inside her.

To taste her. Stroke her. Claim her.

I want to be hers.