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The shelf groans now, and I’m half-afraid it’s going to collapse, but I don’t care. All that matters is the thick cock pistoning in and out of me, the expert fingers on my clit, and the raw, filthy words he’s whispering in my ear.
“That’s it, baby,” he pants. “Come for me. I want to feel this tight little pussy come all over my dick. Let me feel you.”
His words are the final push.
The coil inside me snaps, and my orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave. I scream, my body convulsing, my pussy clamping down on his cock in rhythmic waves. My vision blurs, and for a moment, the only thing that exists is blinding, all-consuming pleasure.
He fucks me through it, his thrusts never faltering.
As the last tremors wrack my body, he slams into me one last time, burying himself to the hilt. He holds himself deep inside me, his body burning hot against mine as he pulses violently against my core.
He groans, a long, guttural sound of release, his body collapsing against my back.
I don’t think we’ve ever had sex quite like this.
We’re both a sweaty, panting mess in a supply closet at Wyatt’s workplace, with the team and my dad probably not that far away. But I couldn’t care less.
Slowly, Wyatt pulls out of me. He disposes of the condom and tucks himself back into his jeans, the sharp zip of his fly bringing us back to reality.
He turns me around to face him. His eyes are dark, his hair a mess. He looks almost feral in the aftermath.
He reaches out, his touch oh-so-gentle as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear, and smiles.
Epilogue - QUINN
End Game
Three months later
I have officially become one of those women.
The kind who stands up in the middle of a hockey game, screams at the top of her lungs, and threatens a referee's eyesight when he fails to call an obvious penalty.
In my defense, the guy practically tried to murder Wyatt.
“That was a fucking trip!” I yell, pointing at the ice.
Beside me, Nadia bursts out laughing. “Oh my God. Listen to you.”
“What?”
“You sound exactly like your dad.”
I drop back into my seat. “Take that back.”
“Can't. It's already out there.”
On the ice, Wyatt gets back to his feet, exchanges a few words with the opposing defenseman, and gives him that obnoxious grin I know far too well.
The defenseman shoves him.
Wyatt laughs.
“He's going to get himself punched,” I mutter.
The whistle blows, and the players line up for the faceoff.
I settle back into my seat, pulling the sleeves of my LA Ice jersey over my hands.
