Page 208 of On the Breakaway

Who knows what the hell is going to happen with hockey, but I already know getting Avery Holt to love me is the biggest achievement of my life.

She lifts her hips and slides back down onto me, and I almost come right then and there. She purses her lips. “Grayson, baby, you don’t get to come until I do.”

Then she does it again, harder. I’m so fucking close it’s unreal. I close my eyes, head shifting back on the pillow, and she stops moving altogether.

“Fucking hell, baby,” I murmur. “Are you trying to kill me?”

I slide my hands up her sides, cupping her breasts as she starts moving again.

She licks her bottom lip. “Maybe I’m just teaching you a lesson.”

I shift up, sucking a nipple into my mouth while she rides me at a pace just slow enough to keep me on edge.

“Feels more like a reward,” I tease, wrapping my arms around her and flipping us in one fluid motion.

Her eyes widen, but her hands dig into my shoulders, pulling me closer. My hips move on instinct, thrusting into her at the rhythm that never seems to fail at getting her close.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” I groan into her neck.

She moans, pulling my hair until my head tilts back far enough that our lips finally find each other, tongues frantically twirling together as we move together. It’s always like this with us; a delicious push-and-pull that I’m positive I could never possibly tire of.

“I need you,” she mumbles in the breaks between kisses.

I kiss her again, thrusting into her harder. “You have me. All of me.”

Her eyes open, focusing on me with a softness that I couldn’t have fathomed having been directed my way only months ago.

“I love you,” she says, her palms sliding to my cheeks, holding my face.

I slide my hand between us, fingers working her clit in slow circles until I feel her tightening around me.

“I love you, too,” I whisper, kissing her again.

The orgasm rocks through her, and I thrust once more, following right behind her.

I collapse onto my side, but she turns with me, our bodies still pressed together as we kiss lazily. Our hands venture out in a lazy exploration of each other’s skin as if we can’t resist the contact.

She stays tucked against my side, tracing lazy circles over my ribs with the tips of her fingers. They’re absent-minded movements, but they’ve become my favorite kind. The kind that doesn’t ask for anything. The kind that simply says she’s here.

“So,” she murmurs.

“So?”

Her fingers still. “Are you okay?”

I don’t have to ask what she means.

Hockey.

The question hangs between us longer than it should.

“No,” I finally answer, staring at the ceiling. “I’m pissed. I let everyone down. I keep replaying it in my head, wondering why I didn’t just walk away."

Her hand finds mine beneath the blankets, threading our fingers together.

“But,” I continue, squeezing her hand once, “The damage is already done, so I can either feel sorry for myself or accept the consequences and do better next time.”

She kisses my shoulder, her eyes watching me with an openness that’s new. “They’re lucky to have you.”