A tiny flicker of fear moves through me, because this is going to change things with us. It was so much easier to lump Rory in with the rest of the guys I didn’t care about.
Like he can sense my worry, he yanks my panties down so he doesn’t have to pull them aside. They pool at my feet as he takes one of my hands, interlacing our fingers. My lips part. His hand swallows mine up, but the contact of our palms together while he’s on the floor like that in front of me, while he pulls on my clit and looks up at me like my pleasure is his pleasure?
My mind goes blank, and I sink into the needy, intoxicated feelings in my blood.
He sucks on the sensitive bundle of nerves rhythmically, and my fingers tighten against his. My hips tilt against his mouth, desperate for more friction, more pressure.
The first flutters start, but that stubborn part of me digs her heels in. No, no, no. If he actually does make me come, I don’t know what that will mean, and I hate that he’ll get the satisfaction of winning.
“Stop holding back, Hartley.”
His tongue sweeps fast, so hot and slick. The heated look of ecstasy in his eyes sends a streak of pleasure through me. His face is flushed, and why is that so hot? He’s wearing an expression like my pussy is the best thing he’s ever tasted, like he’ll die if he can’t keep doing this. Inside me, his fingers crook, finding my G-spot.
My release closes in on me, building, expanding, boiling over.
“I’m coming,” I choke out, working myself over his mouth, and his fingers squeeze mine as searing, blinding heat twists and coils through me. “Rory.”
His groan reverberates against me, and I’m still coming. It’s arcing through me, making me shudder and shake on his mouth. I think my eyes are closed, or maybe they’re open and I’m just so overtaken by this orgasm barreling through me that I don’t know the difference. His brow is creased, eyes closed, and I hit another peak, crying out while he squeezes my hand.
The waves subside and my mind clears, and I blink about a hundred times. I usually don’t come during hookups.
“Fuck,” he says desperately against my clit, breathing hard. “Hazel.”
He says my name like a curse, like he’s mad, but he stands and backs me against the door, both of us breathing hard. His eyes are glazed, half-lidded and dark, and his cock juts out, tenting the front of his pants. He brings his fingers to his lips, holding my eyes while he sucks my arousal from them.
A shudder rolls through me.
“Tell me it was good,” he rasps, inches from my mouth.
“I didn’t know it could be like that.” I should say something smart and sharp, but I can’t think anything. Goosebumps scatter across my skin.
A lazy, smug smile hitches on his gorgeous lips and he kisses me, stroking deep into my mouth. I never thought tasting myself on a guy would make my pussy flutter like this, but I never thought Rory Miller would kneel at my feet and draw two orgasms out of me, either.
While he kisses me, I reach for his cock, dragging my palm over the hard length. If this is my only hookup with him, I want to hear what it sounds like when he comes for real.
He catches my wrist before he smiles and shakes his head. His cheekbones have a pink wash across them, like right after a game. “Next time.”
The words there won’t be a next time hover on the tip of my tongue. I picture breaking my rule, letting Rory bend me over and fuck me like he said he wanted to after the Assassin game, and my skin prickles.
I’ve never even had the smallest desire to break my rule, but I can’t get that image out of my head.
That’s concerning.
“Let’s go to bed,” Rory murmurs, walking me to the bed with his lips on my neck, pressing soft, intimate kisses there.
This whole thing was intimate. I have the urge to make a joke like I suppose you’ll want to stay over now or would it be rude to ask you to leave? but nothing sounds funny, it just sounds mean and callous, and I don’t want to be that brittle version of myself right now.
And I want him to stay. I don’t know why, and I don’t want to think about it too hard.
“I’m just going to brush my teeth.” I step out of his touch and reach for a sleeping t-shirt, feeling Rory’s eyes on my body as I pull it over my head and walk on wobbly legs to the bathroom. In the doorway, I pause, heart hammering. “I have an extra one. A toothbrush.” I clear my throat, and his mouth tips up in amusement. “For you. If you want it. The dentist gives me a new one every time I go for a cleaning, but I like a different type, so I have a bunch of spares.”
God, get a grip, Hazel.
Without a word, like he can tell I’m seconds from freaking out, Rory follows me to the bathroom. I can feel his attention as we brush our teeth, and when he leans forward to rinse his mouth, his hand comes to my lower back like it’s an instinct.
I lean against his hand.
Don’t you dare get used to this, I warn myself.
When we head back to bed, Rory moves to his side, watching me with that smug little smile.
“Told you I could make you come.” He pulls me against him, spooning me, and I’ve never done this part before, either—the cuddling after part.
He should leave. I should make him leave. Instead, I reach over and turn out the bedside lamp.
“Don’t gloat, Rory.”
His low, pleased laugh rings out in the dark as I wonder what the fuck just happened.
CHAPTER 33
RORY
Sunlight streams into Hazel’s tiny apartment. When she’s awake, Hartley is sharp, confident, and guarded, but asleep, all her rough edges are smoothed over. She’s on her side, knee bent forward, hand tucked under her face.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a girl as pretty as Hazel Hartley.
I didn’t know it could be like that, she said last night, and the hairs on the back of my neck rose. There’s something about Hazel telling me I’m doing a good job that sticks in my brain.
On the bedside table, my phone starts buzzing, and when I see who’s calling, my gut clenches.
“Hi.” My voice is quiet so I don’t wake Hazel.
“Rory.” It’s my dad’s usual no-nonsense, sharp tone. “Let’s talk about the game.”
For a split second, I think he’s going to tell me he’s proud of me. When I do well, he gives me a firm nod. That’s it. But it’s something, an acknowledgement that I’m not a waste of time and energy for him.
“I don’t know what the fuck you were doing out there,” he says, and my stomach hardens, “but you need to get your head in the game. They didn’t sign you to pass the puck.”
Why did I think he’d be pleased?
“Stars score goals,” he adds.
And yet, last night, hockey felt like fun. Flipping the puck to the guys and watching them sink it in the net felt like play, and I could enjoy the roar of the crowd instead of resenting it.