All the Way

by Ryan, Kendall

  “Are you good?” He gives my thigh a reassuring squeeze. “Still wanna watch this movie?”

  I bite my lower lip and nod, snuggling a little closer to him. He wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close against him, and I instantly feel safer. Not that my head has stopped spinning.

  It’s only eight p.m. Are there are more naked pictures to come? Maybe once I fall asleep, he’ll head out and meet up with the girl who sent that boob pic.

  After all, being exclusive was never part of our deal.

  • • •

  Fuck. Fuck. fuck.

  I slam on the space bar of my keyboard ten more times. Nope. Still no signs of life from my computer. Could technology operate on my side for one freaking minute instead of crashing on me in the midst of a project? A project that I said I’d have done by the end of the day?

  After a few more aggravated slams of the space bar, a low hum comes out of the back of my monitor. Is humming good or bad? And where in the world is our IT guy?

  “How’s it coming, Becca?” My boss, the owner of the Hawks, peers into my office. “Do you think you can still have all those speech edits done by the end of the day?”

  As if on cue, my computer lets out a loud whirring sound and the screen lights up with the message that it’s rebooting. Thank you, technology gods.

  “Sure thing,” I tell him in the cheeriest voice I can muster through my frustration.

  My edits to his commencement speech would have taken me only an hour if not for this roadblock. Now I’m probably going to have to start all over, because who the hell knows if it saved my work?

  While I wait for this cursed machine to get up and running again, I reach for my phone and shoot a text to Owen, recapping the shitty day I’ve been having, he and I haven’t talked in a couple of days, and it’s better to vent to him than to my boss.

  In typical Owen fashion, he responds right away, trying to fix the situation.

  What can I do to help?

  I chew on my lower lip, considering a response.

  Go find whoever invented computers and kick their ass.

  Owen responds with a dozen laughing emojis and his own version of a solution.

  How about I buy you pizza and you can sit on my face instead?

  I crack up laughing. What an Owen response.

  But hey, it’s enough motivation to power me through the rest of my day. Once my computer is functioning again, I zoom through editing my boss’s speech at record speed and email it to him way before the end of the day.

  Turns out, pizza and oral sex are the ultimate motivational tools. Who knew?

  • • •

  When I walk into my favorite pizza place and see Owen waiting with a large pepperoni and mushroom pie, all the frustration of the day falls away. One smile from him has the power to totally turn my day around. He’s like magic that way.

  Owen stands up as I approach the table, pulling me into a hug and a quick, gentle kiss. “One large pepperoni-mushroom pizza, extra cheese. Just the way you like it.”

  I don’t know what’s better—the fact that he knows my pizza order, or that he just kissed me in public. It honestly might be a tie.

  We waste no time dishing up slices and digging in, chatting about how much computers can suck and pizza heals all wounds.

  I smile at him, peeling a circle of pepperoni from the slice on my plate and stuff it in my mouth. I dare a glance up at him, and notice, not for the first time, how handsome he is. Tanned skin, square jaw, the most brilliant blue eyes framed in dark lashes. When he catches me staring, I look down again, focusing on my plate.

  It feels like any other normal pizza night we’ve shared over the years. Except for the nagging feeling in my stomach that there’s something between us that needs to be addressed.

  “So, I wanted to talk about something,” I say, wiping the grease from my fingers with a napkin. “About your, um . . . sexual interests?”

  Owen laughs. “Maybe not so loud, Becs. But of course, we can discuss that. What do you want to know?”

  My shoulders loosen. He doesn’t seem uncomfortable talking about it. Maybe this won’t be so weird after all.

  “I’m wondering how you got this way. No judgment at all. I’m just curious if this was something you picked up along the way, or if it’s always been what you’re into.”

  Owen nods as he swallows a bite of pizza, washing it down with a swig of water. “There’s a story, if you want to hear it. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone.”

  I scoot to the front of my chair, leaning in to offer us a bit of privacy in this crowded restaurant, and Owen does the same. “Go ahead. I’m all ears.”

  “Well, I was seventeen, which I realize now is too young for this kind of thing. But I was playing as the starting goalie on this new team, and it was a ton of pressure. I was good at it, but fuck, being the one thing standing in the way of the other team scoring? It’s a lot of weight on your shoulders. I had only been playing that position consistently for a few years by that point, and most people who are put in the spot are doing it from the time they’re this tall.”

  He holds up his hand, indicating a kid size of around three feet high, and I nod.

  “Anyway, I was at hockey camp that summer, and after a grueling day where I let way too many shots in, I was pissed at myself. I was so fired up that I stormed off the ice after the game and punched a locker.”

  My eyes widen. “Were you okay?”

  “I was fine.” He shrugs. “But that shit hurt, so I yelled, and one of the skating coaches came in. A girl. She was twenty-one. She came in and found me all fired up like that and . . . well, let’s just say she helped me work off some of that angst.”

  I knit my brows together as I fill in the gaps he’s intentionally excluding. “You got it on with a counselor in the locker room? At seventeen? With a twenty-one-year-old?”

  He nods and grabs another slice of pizza, taking a big bite.

  “Owen,” I whisper, “you know that’s basically sexual abuse, right?”

  He nearly chokes on his food. “It wasn’t,” he says between coughs, looking around to make sure he’s not attracting any unwanted attention. “Trust me. It was totally consensual.”

  “Haven’t you seen the news?” I hiss. “Teachers are arrested all the time for messing around with students. If she was twenty-one and you were under the age of consent . . .” I swallow the nervous lump that has built up in my throat and try to speak as calmly as I can. “You were a child. That wasn’t okay.”

  Owen sighs, worrying a hand through his hair. “I never thought of it like that. And, honestly, I wanted everything she was offering. She helped me work through my frustration, let’s just say.”

  My eyes widen. This is so not the story I was expecting. But how can I be surprised? Owen’s handsome, and I’m sure even at seventeen, he was probably over six feet tall.

  “Owen…” I feel almost breathless. Dizzy.

  He shakes his head. “I was almost eighteen, Becs. I promise you I had no issue with our age difference.”

  I lick my lips, and nod for him to continue.

  “Whatever it was,” he says, “it flipped a switch in my head. And from then on, it was like I associated that stuff with improved performance on the ice. I don’t know. All the stress from the game, I just worked it out in the bedroom.” He looks up at me with stormy gray eyes, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “I know. I’m weird, right?”

  “No.” I shake my head, wrapping my fingers around his and giving them a gentle squeeze. “Not weird.”

  I think of all the pressure he faces every week at his job, and it’s a lot more than the stress of a slow computer. I never once considered that the sport he plays might in part be responsible for his interests being a little dominating in the bedroom. He wants to be in control—in ways he’s not on the ice. I guess it makes sense.

  “You’re just human,” I say, echoing his sentiment from the last time we talked about our pasts.
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  He meets my eyes and gives me a small, reassuring smile. I secretly love that he opened up to me like that, even if I’m not quite sure what to think of his story.

  After dinner, Owen lets me take all the boxed-up leftovers, like a true gentleman, and walks me out to my car. “Any plans for the rest of the night?”

  I tap my chin with one finger, doing my best deep in thought pose. “Oh, I don’t know. I was sort of hoping to bring a cute guy home. Maybe try out some things we haven’t tried in the bedroom. Any interest?”

  Pulling me into him, Owen captures my mouth in a deep, longing kiss.

  I’ll take that as a yes.

  17

  * * *

  Fighting Our Demons

  Owen

  As we kiss by her front door, Becca’s fingers are twisted into the front of my shirt, holding me close.

  I’m not going anywhere, angel.

  I’ve found that over the past two weeks, I could have filled an entire novel with brand-new spank-bank material featuring Becca. It’s not that I never noticed how pretty she is with her casual nice-girl vibes, her shiny ponytail, and bright eyes. Of course I did. I just locked that shit down faster than a parole officer does with an inmate. I wouldn’t let myself go there. Couldn’t risk it.

  Now, though? There’s no holding me back. Imagining her flirting back, biting that full lower lip, pressing her tits together with her arms as she tries to tease me. And the most dangerous fantasy yet? Picturing her in my bed wearing nothing but the hazy smile I’ve just put on her face.

  I never bring hookups to my bed. But then again, Becca’s not a hookup, so I don’t mind breaking a few rules. But tonight we’re at her place, and I have zero problems with that scenario either.

  “Bedroom,” I pant.

  Becca obeys, scrambling toward her room with me hot on her trail.

  “Strip,” I tell her.

  Becca swallows but does exactly as I’ve instructed, pulling her shirt off over her head and unbuttoning her pants.

  Unceremoniously, I quickly tug them down her legs until she’s wearing nothing but a cotton bra and panties. She looks up at me as I’m still standing beside the bed, and her gaze is filled with such adoration that it’s almost hard to breathe.

  God. This girl…

  I’ve opened up to her in ways that I’ve never done with anyone before, and while I don’t exactly regret it, something has shifted between us. And I’m not quite sure how I feel about that.

  Pushing those thoughts aside, I unbutton the top few buttons on my shirt and tug the thing off, unbuttoning my jeans next before I join her on the bed.

  As soon as I’m settled in next to her, we’re kissing, and her hand dips into the front of my pants, stroking and teasing until my breath grows shaky.

  I tug down her bra, freeing her beautiful breasts, and then my fingers are in her panties, coaxing, teasing, just like she’s doing to me. Becca squirms and lets out a shaky exhale.

  Our foreplay tonight isn’t long and drawn out like it usually is. It’s an appetizer to our main course, because I’m starving for her.

  Rising from the bed, I grab a condom and shove off my jeans. Then I help myself to the drawer by her bed where she keeps her pink sparkly friend, and grab that too.

  Becca’s eyes widen as she watches me move closer. Positioning myself between her legs, I slowly remove her panties, and then sheath myself in latex.

  Pressing forward, I tease her first with soft touches and gentle strokes. But then I can’t hold back anymore, because she’s the tightest, hottest thing I’ve ever felt. I turn on the toy and hold it directly over her while I pump into her in long, lazy strokes.

  Becca cries out, overcome by the sensations, by the pleasure snapping through her.

  It takes no time at all before she’s contracting around me, squeezing me, and I have to bite my lip to keep myself from following her over the edge. She clings to me, her hands on my shoulders, her fingernails biting in my skin.

  “Fuck,” she mutters, biting her bottom lip.

  After orgasm number four, I lose track and ditch the toy beside the bed. Becca is practically trembling all over, and I have to gather her close for a moment, tugging her up from the bed and holding her against my chest.

  “You’re doing incredible,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

  She meets my eyes, her chest heaving.

  “Can you handle more?” I ask.

  She nods, still watching me.

  I lower her back to the bed. “Arms up.”

  She places her arms over her head, and I gather her wrists in one hand, holding them securely while I resume moving inside her.

  A rush of responsibility surges through me, and it’s better than any hit of adrenaline I’ve ever felt on the ice. It’s me she chose to share this with. Me.

  When she begs me, “More,” what little self-restraint I had left snaps. There’s no holding myself back anymore.

  My hips pump in long, greedy thrusts, and I feel every inch of her. It’s not just that the sex is good; I can see that now. There’s chemistry. And familiarity. And shared memories and trust, so much trust that my heart gives a painful kick in my chest.

  Needing to regain some of the control I’ve clearly lost, I pull back and release her wrists.

  “Turn over, angel,” I say, helping Becca up and onto her knees.

  She looks unsure at first, but then she obeys, positioning herself on her hands and knees facing the headboard.

  Palming her round ass, I slide home, groaning as she accepts me.

  When my palm connects with her ass, it’s not a conscious decision, it’s instinct, and for a second, I’m stunned. I just hit Becca. But when she moans, I immediately relax, letting my instincts take over.

  I grip her ass in my hands, pulling her back onto me, spanking her a few more times while whispering to her how good she feels. And when Becca starts to come again, I finally let go, joining her as blood pounds through my veins and pleasure overtakes me.

  Once our breathing has slowed and the condom has been dealt with, I place a tender kiss to her lips.

  “You were incredible,” I murmur.

  She doesn’t reply with words; she just touches my cheek as if to say I see you.

  I should feel self-conscious about the way I opened up to her about my past, but the thing is, I don’t. Becca would never judge me, and somehow it feels good to know I shared that story with her—a story I’ve never told anyone before. Not even my parents or the other guys. Becca’s concern surprised me at first—maybe because I’ve always told myself I was fine with what happened—but now that I’m older, I can see that she has a point. But right now, it’s not something I want to dwell on.

  Back in the bed, I tug the sheet down this time so we can climb beneath it.

  With one arm tucked beneath Becca’s head, we lie together in her bed, both sleepy and sated. She curls toward me, happy to use my bicep as a pillow.

  As we drift off to sleep, my last thought is that I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I ever hurt her. And I’m scared that one day I will.

  • • •

  Are you free today?

  I click SEND on the text and stuff the last bite of eggs in my mouth. We have a rare day off today, no workout, no practice, no team skate. While my roommate, Justin, is spending it in bed with my sister—a thought I don’t care to dwell on—I plan to spend it getting sweaty with Becca. I haven’t seen her in three days, not since we spent that wild night in her bed.

  My phone chirps, and I look down at her response.

  I sure am. What did you have in mind?

  I text her an address across town, along with the message:

  Meet there in an hour?

  When she replies with a thumbs-up emoji, I hop up from my spot on the couch, needing to grab a quick shower before I leave. I place my plate into the dishwasher and head into my bathroom. While I wait for the water to heat, it occurs to me that I should probably warn Becca
about today’s activities, or at least give her a heads-up on the dress code.

  I send one more quick text, then strip and step under the hot spray of water.

  • • •

  Fifty minutes later, I arrive at the martial arts gym before Becca does, which is perfect. At the check-in desk, I pay both of our entrance fees into the self-defense lesson, and then wait for her by the glass front doors.

  I spot her on the sidewalk approaching, her long hair tied up in a ponytail that bounces as she walks. She’s wearing a pair of skintight black leggings, white Converse sneakers, and a white T-shirt that’s been knotted at the waist. Her curves fill out every square inch of that stretchy fabric, and my heart thuds faster as I watch her move.

  Pulling the front door open for her, I stand beside it, and her face lights up when she sees me.

  “What is this place?” she asks, curiosity brimming in her blue eyes.

  “We’re going to take a self-defense lesson today,” I say, leaning down to touch my lips to hers in the briefest of kisses.

  While I hadn’t exactly planned on kissing her in such a public place, it’s hard not to touch her after all we’ve shared. I think that’s when it hits me how difficult it’s going to be, going back to being just friends. Friends don’t kiss, or fuck, or do any of the amazing things Becca and I have been doing.

  By the time I lead her into the gym, there’s already half a dozen others already stationed on the mats, waiting for the instructor. Becca and I settle onto a mat in the back of the room, and she immediately begins stretching.

  I shoot her a curious look. “Do you really think that’s necessary?”

  “I’m going to kick your ass, Parrish.”

  She grins, and I can’t help but laugh.

  The instructor appears at the front of the room, and silence falls around us. He’s a middle-aged guy with short hair, dark on top and gray at the temples. He looks like he’s in damn good shape, wiry but strong.

  “Welcome to Self-Defense 101. Today we’re going to work on real-world situations and fighting techniques that will allow you to confidently confront and overcome an attacker. We will focus on both defense and counterattack strategies.” He claps his hands together once. “It should be a fun hour. Are you ready to get started?”