Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“You feel so good, Dalton. Fuck me hard,” I plead, using his words against him. He was telling me precisely what he would do if he was here, and I want him to imagine that’s exactly what he’s doing. “Does my pussy feel good wrapped around your cock?”
“Fuuuuck, Joy,” he grits out. With a harsh, shuddering groan, jets of cum spurt out of his crown and up his abs.
I don’t stop what I’m doing. My own dirty talk and seeing him explode for me has gotten me to the edge again too. “I’m coming again,” I moan as I shatter, this time even harder, though I don’t know how that’s possible.
As we both pant to catch our breaths, grinning stupidly, I reach for the towel I did remember to bring with me from the bathroom. I use it to wipe my fingers and then lay Woody on it and meet Dalton’s dark eyes. He’s also cleaned up and looks relaxed and happy.
“You feeling good about tomorrow’s game?” I ask, getting comfortable against my pillows. “You should be after that.” I grin, pleased with myself.
“Feeling good about a lot more than that,” he murmurs. “We’ve got the Rockets Saturday and Sunday, but we’re off the first part of the week. You wanna come over late on Monday? After you get off from the station.”
He’s asking for a lot more than Netflix and chill, and we both know it.
“Yeah, I think I can do that,” I say, though I’m internally screaming both yes and no at the same time. On one hand, I know I’ll get exactly what Dalton just promised me, and I want that desperately. On the other hand, it won’t be a casual one-night fucking, and I’m not sure I’m ready for more. Even so, I don’t change my answer when he peers at me, silently asking if I’m sure. “Yes. Monday.”
“Good.” He looks . . . relieved?
He really thought I was going to say no, didn’t he? For some reason, that hurts. I don’t want him to doubt me, even though I’m all sorts of confused about what this might mean.
“Well, good luck tomorrow night. I’ll be watching,” I tell him.
“You’d better be.” He adds a wink, looking more like the cocky, arrogant bastard I’m used to. “Good night, Joy.”
“Good night, Dalton.”
But after he hangs up, I stare at the dark screen of my phone, seeing my own reflection there. I look . . . happy.
Sunday night, I go to my parents’ house to watch the game and eat dinner. But mostly to watch the game, even though we both have the subscription service that lets us watch all the games—national, regional, major, minor, college, and even some high school. What can I say? Our family’s thing is hockey.
“Honey, can you take this to Dad?” Mom asks, handing me a casserole dish covered in foil.
“Yep, on it.”
In the living room, Dad’s got the coffee table set up buffet-style with chips, dips, bowls, and more. But he quickly rearranges to make room for the dish I hold out. “From Mom.”
“Here,” he tells me, pointing to a newly cleared space and a trivet.
I set the dish down, then pull off my oven mitts. “What else?”
We both peer at the spread, not imagining a single thing we’re missing. At least not from the table. I still miss Hope at our watch parties, but she’ll be home in a couple of weeks for Christmas. I can’t wait to see her and fill her in on things here at home. Mostly with me and Dalton. I get the feeling she’s gonna brag about being right, but I can’t find any irritation about it when I’m too blissed out from orgasms and excited about our date tomorrow night.
“C’mon, Lorie! They’re already singing the national anthem,” Dad yells toward the kitchen.
Mom rushes in, placing her hand on her heart respectfully but still eyeing the table like Dad and I didn’t already check it over. As soon as the song’s over, we sit—Mom and Dad in their respective recliners and me on the couch—and start reaching for snacks, starting with chips and onion dip.
“How do you think tonight’s gonna go?” Dad asks me, shoving a loaded chip into his own mouth.
Our family has grown up supporting Shepherd’s hockey dreams, constantly replacing and repairing gear, going to tournaments, hiring private coaches, and scheduling our entire lives around his seasons. In a lot of families, the other kids would feel slighted or neglected. But not with Jim and Lorie Barlowe as your parents.
I can say without hesitation that they spent as much time, energy, and cheerleading power on Hope and me as they did Shep. I’m sure it helps that my first love is also hockey, just in a different way, but they made sure we never felt at the mercy of our brother’s passion. They went to my debate tournaments, watched my news reporting in college, and were my biggest and loudest supporters when I got the sports reporting position at the local station as a fresh graduate with a year’s internship under my belt helping Matt prep his reports. They literally held a watch party at our house for my first official five o’clock report, and they haven’t missed a single one since.