Page 176 of Undone

This is often his postgame routine, especially if it’s a late game, now that he plays so much more. But waking with him inside me is just as exciting now as it was the first time. So intensely that I’m ready to come now.

Desperate for him, I grasp his bicep, nails biting into the hard muscle. I turn on my stomach and pull at him.

“Harder, please.”

He laughs, a grating, mocking, confident sound. His grip turns punishing, body moving just as infuriatingly slow. “I was trying to be sweet, doll. But of course, you’re too fucking needy.”

“I am, I am.” I nod into my pillow, clutching it as he pulls entirely out. “Please, please.”

Toren presses a kiss to the back of my head, hand caressing my cheek. “Shhh. I’ll give you what you need, Lil.”

He does, just as he always does. My husband is nothing if not good on his word. Stronger and bigger, too, now that he’s in the NHL, which leaves my body sore and aching after the rougher sex I tend to beg for.

Sometimes he runs me a bath and holds me, washing my body. Sometimes he rolls me onto my stomach for a massage as I fall back asleep.

But my favorite nights are when he indulges in a glass of whiskey and uses an ice cube to soothe the skin of my most intimate areas. Which only starts me up again, until I’m whimpering and begging for him, lying over his lap while he barely acknowledges me, game tape playing softly as he quiets me while focusing.

And that makes it so much hotter.

“Did you win?”

I fell asleep before the end of his game; the television is still on, though a different game is playing. He smooths my hair back and kisses my forehead.

“Not tonight.” He kisses me again, on the neck, then my mouth. “Good thing you didn’t see.”

Once he pulls away from me and heads naked to the bathroom for a damp, warm cloth, I sit up and flick on the lamp. Not for a moment do I want to miss the sight of him.

Nearly four long years later, he’s just as perfect, beautiful—if not more so. Tattoos dazzling in the low light, black hair longer, tucked behind his ears, not an ounce of stubble on his face despite the beard I saw Rhys Koteskiy sporting last week for playoffs.

Rhys Koteskiy, who joined Toren’s team this year after a trade.

It’s kind of beautiful, I think, to see them together now, roles entirely reversed. Toren as the captain and Rhys as the new guy. But they’re close—like, surprisingly close. They go out for beers once a week just the two of them, which started at the beginning of the season when Toren was worried about making sure Rhys felt welcome.

His team trusts Toren. They don’t see him as an enforcer, or the big scary guy who likes to fight. He’s a teddy bear with everyone off the ice. They really see him, like I’ve always seen him.

Not to mention, with Sadie close by, I have a friend I go to the games with. Though, she likes to sit in the stands close to the glass and yell at the referees for Rhys. And then get snippy and bossy with him afterward about how “shit” he played. It’s weird, because he starts kissing her as soon as she’s mean to him.

“You hungry?”

I nod rapidly as he puts the takeout on the ridiculously large king-size bed.

“How was work?” he asks, pulling out all our favorites from the Mediterranean place down the street.

“Good,” I say between a bite of a stuffed grape leaf. “Tiring, but today was the class with kids.”

I still paint. I have a studio here in our apartment, as well as a rented space where I teach free art classes. Those are some of my favorite days—and ever since my show that went a bit viral, my work has been selling extremely highly priced, and my classes are full.

I love Boston. I love the city feel, walking to my studio and to the place I get juice and breakfast. I love running in the park nearby with Toren in the early mornings. And I love our fancy, ridiculously large, penthouse apartment that his body and skill have paid for. I contribute, even more now that my art has made a career for me, but I know there’s a part of Toren that enjoys caring for us in this way.

“And how did Van do?”

“Great.” My grin is bright as I say it.

I’m a good mom, even if I don’t really know what I’m doing half the time. Sahara says that’s normal. She’s something of a mother to me, or a mother-in-law more appropriately. Toren even calls her Mom now, as well as calling Harris his dad. Watching the way they all seem to glow around one another makes my heart almost burst with aching.

They are our family. We spend holidays and birthdays with them, and they never miss one. Harris still coaches at Waterfell, but Sahara might as well live in the city now that she wants to be around her grandchild so often.

“Did he go with you? Or did Sahara have him today?”