Ares

I can’t resist her.

I know I should, but I can’t.

She makes me okay.

Sees through the bullshit. Through the quiet. Through the face the world expects.

Sees me as something more than a great hockey player.

No one ever looks that deep.

But she does. She’s learning to watch. Learning to see.

And I can’t hide like I usually do.

Can’t guard myself from her.

“Sit,” she orders.

The bed’s small. Double bed, not even a queen.

And I don’t want to sit.

Since I saw her jerk away from that reporter, all I’ve wanted—needed—is to know she’s okay. For her to know she’s perfect.

That I’ll keep her safe.

I turn and put a hand to either side of the wall behind her. She’s small. So small.

And I leave room for her to escape.

She could slip under my arms almost without ducking.

But she doesn’t.

Her fingers go to my chest, nimble and eager, tracing, exploring, her eyes drinking me in.

Like I’m somebody.

Somebody special.

I matter.

I matter to her.

“You need to get off your foot,” she whispers again.

I bend. Reach over and shut the door. Her breath wobbles at the click.

Old door.

Know it might not stay shut. Gammy’s ghost. Loki. Whoever.

Don’t care.

Because she’s stroking my arms. Tilting her head. Offering me her neck. Her bare skin.

I bury my nose in that sweet spot between her neck and shoulder and just breathe.

Sweet. Like lemonade in summer. Laughing in the lake.

Home.

“Ares,” she whispers.

I lift my eyes to hers.

So bright.

So wide.

Wavering. Dancing on that line between lust and madness.

Thinking.

So much thinking.

Logic versus heart.

I fucking hate logic.

There’s no magic in logic. No heart in logic.

And this? Tonight? Here?

This is all heart.

“Felicity,” I answer.

That’s all it takes.

Her name.

She pushes up on her toes. Grabs onto my cheeks. Those eyes slide shut, one lid smooth and pale, one streaked with the healing bruise, and then she’s kissing me.

Hot, firm lips. Eager tongue. Strong hands, holding my head.

She doesn’t kiss me like she wants to fuck me.

She kisses me like she wants to own me.

And I want to let her.

There’s no halfway. She’s my teammate’s sister. She’s my friend.

She’s Felicity.

She could break me. Destroy me.

Or she could love me.

No halfway. I’m all in.

No risk.

No reward.

And she’s worth it.

Her kisses are frantic. Desperate. Searching.

As though she needs to have all of me before I disappear. But I’m not going anywhere.

I can’t.

I’m finally where I’m supposed to be.

Where I never thought I’d find.

A home.

For my heart.

“Touch me,” she gasps into my mouth.

I slide my thigh between her legs, run my hands from her shoulders, my thumbs over her breasts, my fingers down her ribs, to grip her hips. She rolls against my thigh, riding me. My cock’s so hard it’s on fire.

I want to take her here, against the wall. On the bed. On the floor. In the shower. On the table. On the roof. Under the stars. On a mountain. In the ocean.

My hands find the hem of her shirt, and I pull it off, breaking the kiss. She grabs my shirt and claws it off. “Off your foot,” she orders again.

Her nails rake down my bare chest, and fuck, yes, for her, anything.

I drop to my knees, the fucking boot awkward as hell, but I’m off my foot. I kiss and lick a path from her neck, between her breasts spilling out of her black lace bra, down her belly, to her belly button, to the button on her jeans.

Her fingers dig into my shoulder. “Ares.”

She says my name like it’s a prayer, a plea, and an order all at once.

I unbutton her pants. She arches into me, so I tug down her zipper. Peel her jeans over her hips and thighs.

Inhale that heady scent of aroused Felicity.

That scrap of black lace hiding her sweet pussy is making my cock roar in approval.

Want.

More.

Need.

More.

I nip at the lace, she gasps and offers me more.

“More,” she gasps.

Have to get her out of these shoes. The jeans. They all have to go. I tug. I pull.

Shoes gone.

Jeans gone.

I guide her legs over my shoulders, so she’s sitting, hold her to the wall, and I lick the lace.

“Ares!”

That wasn’t a stop, so I lick her again.

She’s wet.

Earthy.

Her thighs tremble. Her hips tilt up. And I lick again.

Too much lace.

One quick yank, and it’s in my hand, and my tongue is on her pussy. Licking. Suckling. Searching for that magic pearl.

She’s panting.

Moaning.

No words.

Just music.

Fingers tugging my hair.

I suck her clit between my teeth, careful, teasing, and she bucks off the wall. “You—yes—more—there—Ares, I’m coming, I’m—ooooh.”

She’s coming.

She’s coming apart in my hands. In my mouth. On my tongue.

Her thighs squeeze my head, and fuck, I could go right here.

Die.

A happy man.

My tongue still on her pussy.

Her hips still thrusting.

Her moans still filling the night.

I’ve never been this hard in my life. Never ached to the point of going numb.

But I don’t care.

Just want her to be happy. Satisfied. Free.

Her thighs go limp around me.

Without the boot, I could be fucking smooth about sweeping her up and into bed. I’m still not half-bad.

“Off. Your. Foot,” she murmurs.

Her lids are sliding shut over glassy eyes, her smile soft and glowing, her skin pink and happy.

I did that.

I made her come.

Feels better than pulling a hat trick. Better than making the playoffs. Better than taking home the cup.

So I assume.

Rather have Felicity in bed than a cup in my hands.

She hooks one arm around my neck when I settle her on the bed. “Stay,” she says. Her other hand trails down my chest to the button on my jeans. “Lose these. And stay.”

Stay.

Oh, fuck yes, I’ll stay.

I’ll stay with her all night long.

No regrets for me.