One of the other guys snorts. “Speak for yourself.”
And the other just raises his beer in a mock toast. “Use protection, kids. We don’t need mini-Tullys running around.”
My face burns, but Tully just flips them off over hisshoulder and steers me toward the stairs. “You guys are assholes,” he says.
Dax laughs. “We love you too, man. Have fun!”
We climb the steps quickly, their laughter fading behind us. My heart hammers—not just from the teasing, but from the way Tully’s thumb keeps brushing slow circles against my hip. The hallway upstairs is quieter, lined with closed doors and the faint hum of a furnace. He pushes open the second door on the left and flicks on the light.
The room is bigger than I expected—and extremely lived in, messy even. Dark bedding, a desk cluttered with protein shake mix and hockey tape, posters of old rinks, and one framed team photo. It smells like him: clean soap, cedar, and a hint of something else. He says the smell of the ice rink never quite washes off, so maybe it’s that, but I like the smell.
He closes the door, and it’s silent, just us.
He turns to me, and the teasing glint in his eyes is gone. Replaced by something raw, hungry, careful. He steps closer, slow, like he’s giving me time to change my mind.
I don’t. I want this. I want him.
I reach for him first. My fingers curl into his shirt, tugging him down. Our mouths meet, and it’s different from the kisses by the car—deeper, slower, like we can finally take our time.
His hands slide under my sweater, his warm palms against my skin, tracing my spine. I shiver and arch into him. He groans against my lips, low and rough, and it sends heat pooling low in my belly.
We stumble toward the bed. Clothes come off in pieces—his shirt first, then mine. My bra. His jeans. Mine. Every new inch of skin feels electric. I trace the lines of his chest, the faint scars from old hits, the way his abs tighten when I drag my nails lightly down them.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, looking at my body with reverence.
I slide my panties down my legs and smile when I hear his gasp.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “So beautiful.”
His tongue lines one of my tattoos, and I feel it everywhere.
I tug his briefs down, and my mouth waters when his cock bobs out, slapping against his stomach. Long and thick and so ready for me. I bite my bottom lip, wanting to taste him, but he moves toward me, backing me up until my knees hit the back of his bed. Then he lifts me and lays me on top of his comforter. He hovers over me, his eyes intense.
“You sure?” he rasps.
“Yes.” I pull him down. “Please.”
He kisses me again—slow, drugging—while his hand slips between us. I gasp, hips lifting when he touches me the first time. His lips lift as he watches me intently. His fingers tease, circle, press. He’s patient, his eyes moving from my face to my core like he’s memorizing every reaction. When I whimper his name, he leans in and smiles against my throat.
Then he shifts, reaching for the nightstand drawer. The crinkle of the foil packet is loud in the quiet room. He rolls a condom on, his eyes never leaving mine. When he settles between my thighs, the blunt pressure of him at my entrance makes me tense for a second—nerves, anticipation, and desire all crashing together.
“Look at me,” he whispers.
I do.
He pushes in slowly. It’s a stretch, a burn that melts into something else entirely—overwhelming and divine. My nails dig into his shoulders. He stills when he’s all the way in, breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine.
“You okay?” His voice is strained.
I nod and rock my hips. Pleasure sparks up my spine. “Move.”
He does. At first, long, deliberate strokes that make me see stars, and then faster, deeper. The bed creaks under us. Our breaths mingle, ragged. His hand finds mine, fingers lacing tight. The other slips between us again, his thumb circling exactly where I need it.
“Oh, Trouble. Trouble, Trouble, Trouble. I want to do this all night. You feel so good,” he says.
“You too, Captain. Let’s do this forever.”
It’s too much and exactly enough. Heat builds, coils tight. I arch and gasp his name like a prayer. He buries his face in my neck, his thrusts turning erratic.