Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Micah isn’t reasonable. Okay, he is reasonable. He’s sensible and logical and all of that crap too. Most of the time. But he won’t be about this. He never is about me.
I’ve spent most of my life telling him that I’d never date a hockey player. That I didn’t want the chaos that came with this kind of life after living it for so long growing up. And he was always so relieved to hear it because he thinks this sport nearly killed me once.
Maybe I should resent how much of my childhood we spent focused on his passion. From the time I was born, hockey was his whole life. It became mine out of necessity. I never minded, though.
I always loved watching him on the ice. I loved curling up in the stands with a blanket and my jersey and cheering him on. I even loved being cramped in the van with all his equipment while we drove all over the place for games. Some of my happiest memories are in our old van, with our mom singing along to the radio.
And then he drafted when I was ten. Everything changed. I rarely saw him anymore because he was so busy. Our parents were arguing. We never traveled for games anymore. My classmates hated me, and I had no friends. I decided I was going to learn to play. I thought if I got into hockey like he was, it’d make everything go back to normal. Micah would come home to teach me. Our parents would stop fighting. I’d become just as good as him and we’d go back to how things had always been. My life would be perfect again. Magical thinking makes sense when you’re a scared, lonely ten-year-old.
It didn’t work out like that, though. Instead, I fell through the ice. I was clinically dead for a few minutes. When I woke up in the hospital, Micah was there. Furious. Devastated. He blamed himself, made me swear not to make hockey my life. And I promised because I hated that look on his face. I hated the tears on his cheeks. I hated the guilt in his eyes.
It's never gone away entirely. He still feels guilty, like I wouldn’t have been out there that day if hockey weren’t his entire life.
Finding out that I married his captain last night will send him over the edge. Especially if he ever finds out that I was wasted, and Archer wasn’t. He’ll never forgive a betrayal like that.
“Micah is going to kill you,” I finally mutter weakly, sinking back against my seat. I don’t know what else to say when Archer’s looking at me like he doesn’t regret it at all and part of me loves that a little too much.
“What’d I tell you this morning, baby?” He arches a brow at me. “You let me worry about Micah.”
I snort, closing my eyes as if that’ll change reality. It doesn’t. Instead, I feel his hand on my thigh.
My eyes flutter open.
“What are you doing?”
“You look cold, little bird. You should cover up.”
“I’m not cold, Archer.”
His hand creeps higher, his gaze tangling with mine. Intent glitters like cerulean sin in his eyes. “Trust me, Wren. You’re cold. Get your blanket.”
“Don’t you dare,” I hiss, glancing over at Micah. He’s still snoring…and I don’t really mean no at all. Archer knows I don’t, damn him.
His lips curve upward as his hand journeys higher.
I glare at him. He smirks at me. We’re locked in a silent battle of wills, neither willing to bend, and neither willing to break. Until he reaches the apex of my thigh and shoves his hand between my legs.
I break, grabbing the blanket and flinging it over myself like I’m on fire and the damn blanket is salvation. It might be because he’s already shoving his hand into my pants, tugging my panties aside. And greedy, greedy little me doesn’t stop him. I spread my legs, making it easier. Giving him room.
He keeps his eyes locked on my face as his thumb grinds against my clit in torturously slow passes.
“I like watching you unravel for me,” he says, voice pitched low. Gritty. “I like how you whimper and squirm while I wreck you.”
“I hate you so much.”
He sinks a finger into me up to the knuckle. “Yeah? You sure about that, little bird? Because it feels a whole lot like you’re fucking dying for this just as much as I am.”
“Am…not…” I gasp. I lie. And God help me, I whimper and squirm, too. We’re surrounded by his teammates with my brother right beside him. And I shamelessly rock against his hand anyway, letting him fuck me with his fingers.
What is he doing to me?
“You’re so fucking beautiful when you need to come,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting across my face like he’s trying to commit the sight of me like this to memory. “Does it feel as good as it looks, baby?”