Same Time Next Year

SUMNER

I’m going to regret conceding in the morning.

You can’t read anything into it, she warns me, while stuttering and blushing and all but climbing into my lap, her heart in her eyes. This girl feels something for me. She’s lying to me and herself if she believes otherwise. I shouldn’t let this kiss happen, because she is slapping a disclaimer on it, which will allow her to deny it meant something afterward, but dear God, I am weak when it comes to her. My body is starved; my heart is sick over her—and I can’t pull away.

“Done. Fine.”

The lights go out in the arena, and the crowd begins to scream for the opening act. The first few guitar strains of a song emerge from the darkness, and the volume of the cheers increases, but we’re looking at each other.

Like adversaries who want badly to be on the same side. And Britta, my wife, she finally sips at my mouth, lets out a shuddering breath, then suctions onto me, drawing on my upper lip first, then my lower one, before easing her tongue into my mouth and stroking mine. Whispers my name like she’s scared.

Someone sticks my heart in a blender and hits the puree button.

Any remaining desire I have for self-preservation goes speeding away on a go-kart, and I kiss my wife like I was born to do. I sink my fingers into her hair, tilting her head for me while I ride her mouth with my own, circling our tongues, reeling from the sweet taste of her. She explores me with increasing enthusiasm, her fingers twisting in the front of my shirt, our teeth nipping, tugging, mouths surging back together. A moan comes from deep in the pit of my stomach, and she answers it without shyness. And speaking of my stomach, my erection is mashed up against it, trapped in my jeans, but it feels kind of incredible because it’s the pressure I haven’t been able to apply for the last few days.

God, I would give anything in the world to stand her up and walk her forward to the waist-high mezzanine wall, flip up her dress, jerk her panties to the left, and bury myself in her cunt. It’s a good thing we’re surrounded by an audience, because I wouldn’t last three seconds in there. I am an athlete in peak physical condition, and I need to jack off at least twice a day.

Right now, the backup down there isn’t a joke. Like even thinking about her pussy is triggering my balls, squeezing them up into my stomach. They’ve never been so stiff.

“Uh . . . Britta. Sweetheart.” I pull back with a grimace, shifting in my chair and making it ten times worse. “Believe me, I want to kiss you forever, but I have a problem.”

I can’t help but feel a kick of pride when it takes her a full five seconds to focus her glazed eyes. “What p-problem?”

“You know how my wrist is sprained?”

She nods.

I give her a meaningful look that is no doubt brimming with pain.

She sucks in a breath. “How long since you’ve . . . ?”

“Three days.”

Her looking down at my lap and biting her lip doesn’t help matters whatsoever. “Um. Okay. That’s unusual for you?”

“Severely.”

Her eyes are slow to leave my lap, and when they do, they’re a little unfocused. “Your left h-hand doesn’t cut it, huh?”

“It’s like buttering toast with a spoon, if that makes any sense.” Don’t look at her mouth. Or her tits. Too late, I’m devouring the sight of both.

Holy fuck, my wife is so hot. “Bottom line, I’m a little too keyed up to be kissing you in public.”

What is that expression on her face? “How much longer until you can

. . . ?”

“About a week,” I say thickly. “If I live that long.”

“Oh.” Abruptly, Britta sits back in her seat and crosses her legs, delicate muscles shifting in her throat. That’s when I notice how fast the pulse is beating a few inches above her collarbone. Her dress is too thin to hide her puckered nipples, too, and I nearly crush my knees to death to keep from reaching for them.

“That kiss made you horny, didn’t it?”

“Why do hockey players have to be so blunt?”

“Have you seen a hockey net? There is barely a sliver of daylight between it and the goalie. You can’t hesitate when you see opportunities.

There is never time for finesse. Hence the tendency to be blunt.”

“That’s a game. This is real life.”

“You’re right, I’d use a lot of finesse with you, if given the opportunity.” My head falls back, the agony in my nether regions still very much alive and kicking. “But there wouldn’t be any finesse tonight, believe me. I’d probably snap your headboard in half.”

She moans.

The very distinct sound cuts through the crowd and pops my head up like rye bread in a toaster. Is that a tremble flowing through her thighs?

What is going on with her? Sure, I’m going through hell, but we stopped kissing a few minutes ago, and she’s still out of breath. Sure, the swimsuit edition in the trash was a strong hint that Britta is attracted to me, but something more specific is going on here.

“It turns you on to know I’m one stroke from blowing up, doesn’t it?”

Pink drenches her cheeks. “Sumner.”

“Tell me I’m right.” I reach over and settle a hand on her thigh, even though it makes my situation worse. “You love that I’m down bad, don’t you?”

“I-I don’t know. This kind of thing has never turned me on before.”

“It’s okay that it does. I’m just wondering why.”





Eyes downcast, she starts to answer and stops. “I don’t know.”

I turn slightly and lower my mouth to her shoulder, kissing the soft skin beside the strap of her dress. “Because you’re the only one I get hungry for. And you know it.”

Her hips twisting sensually in the seat. When she attempts a laugh, it’s shaky. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to seduce me.”

That sentiment is still hanging in the air when the house lights in the arena drop even lower, and everyone stands, screaming. The headliner is walking out onto the stage, guitar in hand, his backup band throwing themselves into the first song. It’s rock music, but it’s a little smoky, with a drumbeat in the rhythm of a heartbeat. A lot of bass.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to seduce me.

Those words continue to ring in my head. I’d never consider myself seductive. Not on my best day. Seduction is for women, isn’t it? It’s for Britta. Not a giant, like me. Her very existence is seductive. No one has ever used that word to describe a six-foot-five hockey player. But I remind myself of the swimsuit edition she threw away. I think of the way she kissed me. I hear her moaning over the fact that I’m stiff as nails. And I start to wonder if I might be able to seduce her after all.

On a scale from one to ten, how much heartache would that cause me?

They don’t have a scale big enough to measure it. Because sex wouldn’t change the fact that she doesn’t want a real relationship.