Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 25267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 126(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
Then he kisses me, hard, swallowing my moan like he’s been dying of thirst and I’m the last drop of water on earth.
He rocks his hips forward, burying himself so deep. I cling to his shoulders, nails biting into his skin. Can’t get close enough.
He groans, the sound vibrating against my mouth. “You feel so good, baby. So fucking tight.” He presses his face in my neck, sucking and biting. “You were made for me.”
My legs lock around his waist, heels digging into him. “Harder,” I beg, because my dignity is dead and buried at this point. “Please. Don’t be gentle. I want all of you.”
He pulls out almost all the way, then thrusts back in, hard and deep and so good I actually see stars. There is nothing in the universe but this man, this moment, this pounding, relentless need.
He pins my wrists above my head with one huge hand, body caging me in. He stares down, eyes black, pupils blown, looking like he wants to devour me. I squeeze my eyes closed as pleasure pulses through me.
“Look at me,” he growls. “Want to see your face when you come on my cock.”
My eyes snap open as I groan his name. His hand slides down, thumb zeroing in on my clit, rubbing in tight, expert circles. Heat rips through me and I scream his name as an orgasm blasts through me.
He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, just grinds deeper and rougher, chasing his own release. “That’s it. Milk my cock. Take it all.”
I can barely breathe as the climax goes on and on. Then he slams into me one last time and shudders as he comes inside me, filling me even more and making my toes curl.
He collapses on top of me, trembling, but he’s still careful to keep most of his weight braced. His heart pounds against my chest, the sound wild and frantic, “I love you, Mrs. McLinden.” He breathes. “Forever.”
And just like that, everything falls into place and life is perfect.
EPILOGUE: MICK
EIGHT YEARS LATER
I walk out of the building and check my watch. Three forty-five. If I beat the afternoon rush across the bridge, I can be back at the penthouse in time to take my wife for a walk before dinner.
Eight years ago, we came home from our wedding in Vegas and settled into married life. The first major decision we made together was to wait for kids. Between Mia’s busy job and my traveling schedule, we knew it would be impossible to add a child into the mix. So we agreed to wait until I retired from hockey to add to our family.
A year ago, I hung up my skates at the end of the season and took a job as the hockey coach at Seattle Hills High School. In the NHL, my life was about chasing wins. Now it's about building the next generation. Making sure every kid who walks through that door feels like they matter, even if they can't skate fast enough for varsity. It's quieter. Better.
Because no matter what happens at the rink, Mia is waiting for me at home. I pull into the building garage, the engine of the truck cutting out with a low rumble that echoes against the concrete. I’m up the elevator in seconds, my thumb hovering over the scanner of our front door.
The apartment is quiet, but not the cold, sterile quiet it used to have before Mia moved in. It smells like the expensive candles she likes and there’s a pair of her sneakers tossed carelessly near the hallway table. I drop my backpack, planning to find her in the kitchen or maybe curled up on the sofa with one of those romance novels she devours. Instead, I hear a soft thud coming from the room at the end of the hall.
I push open the door to the nursery, and my heart doesn't just skip a beat, it slams into a dead halt in the middle of my chest when I find my wife balanced on the second-to-last step of a metal stepladder. She’s reaching upward, a framed print of a watercolor forest clutched in one hand and a level in the other. Her back is to me, her dark, wild hair pulled into a messy knot, and her maternity leggings stretched over a belly that is unmistakably eight months along.
"Mia McLinden!" The name leaves my throat like a command, the same voice I use when the bench is losing its cool in the third period. I’m across the room in three strides, my hands moving before I can even process the panic. I don't wait for her to climb down. I reach up, hooking my arms under her thighs and lifting her bodily off the metal frame. I tuck her against my chest as I bring her back to the safety of the hardwood floor.