Page 27 of Puck Me Twice

And as I touch myself to the memory of that night nine years ago, my thoughts drift to the woman on the other side of my wall.

Vanessa Morgan.

She’s been off limits for so long. First, I was with someone. Then, once that ended, she made clear she didn’t get involved with hockey players.

But she is involved now. She is dating me.

She said so herself. She certainly seemed confused when I blurted out that we’re just dating for appearances.

Shifting my grip, my strokes slow as I consider the possibilities here. She’s so close but still so far away. How do I transverse this distance between us? How do I prove to her my intentions are pure? How do I convince her that I want to protect her from Andrews?

My cock jerks, and I curse under my breath, remembering the way she sucked me down. Maybe my intentions aren’t so pure after all…

Pleasure bursts along my spine, coiling low in my gut, and as my cock spills into my hand, I let out the quietest grunt, and then my body sags with a sigh.

My bones feel loosey-goosey, like marshmallows. Or maybe like Twizzlers. Ooh, Twizzlers sound good right now.

It takes considerable effort to get to my feet, and as I clean up, the bone-deep exhaustion hits. I’m so fucking tired.

It’s not that I’m sleepy, although I am. It’s more of a soul-crushing, spirit-destroying, body-melting kind of exhaustion.

My body is bruised from the game, my muscles ache, and I have a scratch on the inside of my forearm from a high-sticking penalty that didn’t get called.

I don’t know how to do this.

How do I tell the woman I’m faking a relationship with that I want it to be real?

How do I tell the woman I’ve had feelings for since our one night together almost a decade ago that she is still incredibly meaningful to me?

How do I tell the woman I called my engagement off over that once she walked back into my life, I couldn’t stand the thought of being with anyone else?

ten

. . .

Vanessa

The hangover wakes me up before I’m ready. My brain pounds inside my skull, desperate for freedom. Can brains ever be truly free of our skulls?

Fuck, am I still drunk?

Lurching toward the en suite bathroom, I take care of personal business and then crawl back into the nice and comfortable bed.

Why did I come to Sven?

And more importantly, why did he want me to stay?

I wish I knew how to read him. He’s as opaque as a brick wall. Hell, sometimes I think he might be a brick wall.

The bed I’m in is plush with thick blankets; white linens, white duvet, and white blankets. The walls are painted a light gray, just a shade darker than white, and there’s a spotless white rug on the black wooden floors. A small aloe plant sits on the bedside table, and there’s an orange and pink orchid on top of the dresser. Not a lot of greenery otherwise, unlike downstairs.

The floorboards creak and the pipes run. Sven must be up. I can hear him puttering around in his room, and when he opens his door, his footsteps pause outside mine before descending the stairs.

I wait a few minutes. Briefly, I debate climbing out the window. That’s a little much, I rationalize. He knows I’m here. He expects me to be here.

I can’t run from this any longer.

Making my way downstairs, I’m surprised again at the amount of greenery in the stark black and white apartment. The blinds are drawn and the midmorning sunlight sends sunbeams across the room.