Page 89 of Slap Shot Surprise
Fuck that guy. I was here first.
I couldn’t pull back from it. It was stronger than the rush I got on a breakaway, bigger than the adrenaline spike after a goal, better than the euphoria from a critical win. When she came, my name dripping from her lips, her heels digging into the backs of my thighs, the feeling intensified. It drove me higher and faster and harder until I lost myself to it, my body throbbing inside hers in hot, explosive bursts.
I caught myself before I collapsed on top of her, rolling to my side and bringing her with me, one leg flung over my hip. Still connected, I held her close to my chest, both of us breathing hard.
For a few moments, my un-evolved inner caveman tried to stand his ground with my modern, rational self.
You can’t let this woman leave tomorrow. You have to keep her here. You have to protect her. She’s carrying your son, and that makes her your responsibility. Where’s your honor?
It’s her choice to go. She’s not my prisoner. I can’t keep her here against her will. And neither of us wants that. I’m taking responsibility the best way I can. But women don’t need men telling them what to do. My honor is in respecting her decisions.
The caveman harrumphed and slunk away, but I had a feeling he’d be back.
Mabel used the bathroom off my bedroom, and when she came out, she scooped up her T-shirt from the floor andpulled it on. “Any idea where my underwear went?” she asked.
“I think they might still be on the bed.”
She felt around. “Found them.”
I watched her tug them on from where I lay on top of the twisted sheets, strangely reluctant to let her walk out of my room. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“Areweokay?”
“Yes.” She played with the hem of her shirt. “Joe, I knew what was likely to happen if I knocked on your bedroom door tonight. And I still knocked.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“I am too. But I don’t think we should do this again. Not that I didn’t love every second of it,” she went on quickly, “but things are good with us, you know? And I just don’t want to muddy that water.”
“Does that mean you don’t want to sleep in here tonight?”
She didn’t answer right away. “Like, with you? In your bed?”
I laughed at how surprised she sounded, although I’d surprised myself by asking the question too. “Yes.”
“But you hate sharing a bed.”
“I never said I hated it. I said I wasn’t good at it. But for you,” I said dramatically, like I was doing her a big favor, “I will try.”
“Joe, you don’t have to. I can just go sleep in the guest room.”
“I want you to. Is that better?” I put my hand on the mattress beside me. “I want you to sleep in here with me.”
“Okay,” she said, climbing onto the bed. She fluffed the pillow on the far side, her back to me. “Ipromise I will stay over here and not take up your space. I won’t make you cuddle.”
“What if I want to cuddle?” I hooked an arm around her hips and pulled her against me, curling my body around hers. “Is this okay?”
“Yes,” she said, laughing a little. “I like cuddling. I just didn’t think you did.”
“Normally I don’t. But this is a special occasion—our one and only sleepover. I’m a special-occasion cuddler.” Somehow my hand found its way inside her T-shirt and rested on her belly.
“I like it.”
I closed my eyes and breathed her in, the honeyed taste of her still on my tongue. Her breathing slowed, and she sighed softly. I sensed her body relaxing as she fell asleep in my arms.
But just as I was drifting off, I felt a tiny thump beneath my palm that kept me awake well into the night.
