Beauty and the Beefcake_A Hockey/Roommate/Opposites Attract Romantic Comedy

by Pippa Grant

  “January.” I choke on the word, but she holds me captive with her gaze, doesn’t let me fall.

  Doesn’t let me break.

  “Ares—”

  “Last team let me play.”

  Her brows are like fairy wings. Light. Delicate. Art. They wrinkle. “Chicago let you play on a bad ankle?”

  “Not bad.”

  “But it wasn’t good.”

  “Mind over matter.”

  Her eyes tighten.

  She’s mad.

  At me. For me. I don’t care.

  She cares.

  Her fingers are stroking up my arm. Lighting my skin on fire. Giving me ideas.

  She wants me.

  Not the big dumb ape who can’t talk.

  The fast, strong, capable hockey god.

  I’m not broken here.

  Not in her eyes.

  “I can help you, but you have to do exactly what I tell you to.”

  I nod, still watching those eyes.

  So pretty.

  Like spring. Early spring. Soft. Fresh.

  Full of promise.

  “It’s going to take some time,” she whispers.

  I start to rise, but she grips my hand and forearm, and a shower of firecrackers erupts on my flesh. “Look at me, Ares. Look. Listen. Don’t think about tomorrow. Think about now. Right now. Just this moment. You’re okay. You’re okay here right now.”

  She’s here.

  I’m here.

  I don’t hurt.

  My junk hurts—wants her—but she’s right.

  I’m okay. Right now.

  Better than okay.

  She’s nodding. She’s here.

  She shifts her hips, scoots closer. “Still okay?”

  My heart’s trying to beat out of my chest.

  I want to kiss her.

  I want to savor her lips. Lose myself in her touch. Exist in her world. Only in her world.

  “Good.” Her voice is going breathy.

  She feels it.

  She wants to lose herself too.

  She wants me.

  There are reasons. Reasons pushing against my brain. Shouldn’t do this.

  But I don’t care.

  I want to be whole.

  Want to be right.

  Want to be able.

  She brushes a hand over my forehead. Tickles my hair. Makes my skin itch.

  The good itch.

  An eager itch.

  I grip her thigh. Delicate. But strong.

  Like all of her.

  She’s searching my eyes. Looking. Probing.

  Not much to see.

  I’m a simple guy.

  Hockey.

  Family.

  Food.

  Sleep.

  Her.

  I want her.

  “You’re a mystery, Ares Berger,” she whispers.

  I shake my head.

  She’s the mystery.

  Kind. Talented. Smart.

  Wants me too.

  Not like other women. They don’t see me. See the flesh. See the talent. See the big dick. But they don’t look any deeper.

  She sees me.

  She’s close.

  So close. Her chest rises against my arm. Her breath quivers. Her eyes ask questions.

  So many questions.

  Too much thinking.

  Her lips part. I put my fingers to her mouth.

  No more talking.

  Soft skin. Plump lips. Hot breath.

  I’m hard as iron. Aching. Heavy. Wanting.

  Mind over matter. Mind over matter.

  She sucks my fingertip into her mouth, holds my gaze, the green disappearing into big black desire, swirls her tongue around my finger, and fuck mind over matter.

  Simple.

  Easy.

  Right.

  I want her. She wants me.

  “Felicity,” I growl.

  “You said my name,” she whispers.

  And then she’s straddling me, her sweet center cradling my aching dick, her mouth devouring mine, her arms wrapped tight around my neck.

  Her tongue.

  Her breasts.

  Her legs.

  Mine.

  I grip her hips, trace the swell of her ass, the curve of her thighs.

  Strong. Sexy. Eager.

  She grinds against my cock.

  Whimpers.

  Slides her tongue against mine.

  Presses her soft chest to me.

  Strokes my neck, my shoulders, drags her fingers back up to my hair.

  Feelings.

  Everywhere.

  Hot. Pulsing. Want.

  Want to feel her. Touch her skin. Taste her breasts.

  Taste her pussy.

  Make her moan.

  Make her scream.

  “Ares,” she gasps into my mouth. “More.”

  Fuck.

  She breaks the kiss, straightens, and sends her shirt flying. Somewhere. Gone.

  All that’s left is smooth Felicity skin.

  Soft freckles dot her chest. Black lace covers her nipples. My cock surges against her pussy. I stroke her sides, trace her ribs.

  Kiss the hollow between her breasts.

  Breathe in the music of her gasp.

  Lick her.

  Taste the sweet salty temptation of her skin.

  Squeeze her breast, the lace rough, the plump heaviness beneath a perfect pillow.

  Rub her nipple.

  She jerks against my steel rod.

  Pants too tight.

  Too much fabric.

  Want to feel her.

  Not this moment though.

  This moment, I lick a path along her collarbone.

  Pull on the band in her hair until her ponytail comes loose.

  Caress her breast. Tease that hard point.

  Her gasps, her body, her touch are my world.

  Nothing else exists.

  Just Felicity.

  Hot skin.

  Firm curves.

  Delicious neck.

  Fuck.

  I want inside her.

  To taste her. Stroke her. Claim her.

  I want to be hers.

  25

  Felicity

  I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.

  Ares’s touch is lighting my skin on fire. His kiss—he fits.

  I tug at his shirt while he strokes my nipple through my bra. My breasts are so tight and heavy and turned on, I keep imagining them blossoming into roses, which is ridiculous, because breasts can’t blossom, but if mine did, I have no doubt Ares would take his time licking and caressing every petal, dipping his tongue into every crease and crevice, and I’m fairly certain I’m losing my mind.

  But the sensation—the lust—the hard length of his cock between my thighs—I’m definitely losing my mind.

  And I don’t care.

  He scrapes his teeth over my shoulder, his thumb rubbing the lace of my bra against my tight nipple, his other hand stroking my back and dipping into my jeans, and I need to touch him.

  He nibbles on my jaw, finds that spot under my ear, and I moan while I scrape my fingers over his sides.

  His skin—so hot, over muscle so hard it should be reclassified as rock and declared a national monument. Ridges. Valleys. His nipples are hard peaks too.

  I roll them between my fingers, he growls, his cock pulses through our jeans, and we’re both in way too much clothing.

  Gammy’s ghost is going to be so pissed, but I don’t care.

  Ares needs me.

  I—oh, holy ghosts, he’s sucking my earlobe, and the sensation sends a lightning bolt straight to my clit. I jerk against him.

  I’m so wet. So hot. So desperate.

  I reach between us. I don’t know whose jeans I want to go for first. He’s so big, I want to feel him. I want to stroke his cock, lick it, drive him insane.

  But if he doesn’t touch me, I’m going to die. Explode in a mass of over-stimulated nerves and ruptured blue balls.

 
; Blue pussy? Blue clit?

  I want him to touch my pussy. To tease me and stroke me and fondle me like he’s teasing and stroking and fondling my breast.

  My hand finds a button, and I unhook it.

  Mine.

  Not his.

  We make eye contact.

  His brilliant blue eyes are swirling under his rigid brow. Now? More? You’re sure? I want to lick you until there’s nothing left to lick and then bury my fingers so deep inside you that you forget your name, and after you’ve come until you can come no more, I’ll spread your legs so wide and give you everything I have with my monster cock, opening you wider than you’ve ever been, taking you deeper than any man has gone before or will ever go again, and when your pussy comes around my cock, you’ll scream my name and you will be MINE.

  My pussy clenches. My clit throbs. I gasp.

  Ares tilts his head, claims my mouth, licks my lip, glides his thick tongue over mine, and drags my zipper down.

  I whimper.

  I thrust against him. Tilt my pelvis to give him more room.

  His fingers brush the skin just over my panties, and the scent of my arousal fills the room.

  He hums in my mouth, growls, possessive, primitive, and dips a finger between us along my seam.

  I’m so wet.

  So wet I should be embarrassed, but his finger slides so easily to tease my channel, feels so fucking good, I can’t work up anything more than a moan of pleasure.

  He touches my clit with his thumb, a light flick, a hint, and I pump against his fingers. He takes his tongue deeper into my mouth, I imagine myself sucking on his cock, he flicks my clit again, circles my entrance with his fingers, draws out the pleasure almost to the point of pain.

  And I can’t get enough.

  I’m sitting right on the edge of release, so ready, so heavy, so swollen, so slick. I whimper into his kiss, and he changes the angle, pulls back to suckle on my lower lip, exploring my pussy, teasing me, stroking me, dipping two fingers inside, almost touching me where that hot, tight coil is building, but pulling back before he gets there.

  Not because he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

  Not because his fingers aren’t long enough.

  Because he’s drawing out the pleasure.

  Making every stroke of his long, thick fingers intentional.

  I gasp, I whimper, I moan, and he pulls back.

  He knows.

  He’s reading me.

  Learning me.

  Studying me.

  Don’t tell me Ares Berger isn’t smart.

  He’s a fucking evil genius.

  And I do mean fucking as in fucking. A sexual master.

  “Please,” I whimper. “Please, Ares.”

  He flicks my clit. I spiral higher, spread my legs wider, thrust hard against his fingers. He buries them deep inside me, as deep as he can go, and when his fingertips reach that magic spot, he curls them into me, and I shatter.

  I cry his name, my back arches, my toes clench, and I shatter. Collapsing from the inside out. Writhing and squeezing and exploding. My vision narrows to a clear blue sea, fireworks light the sky, dolphins dance, volcanoes erupt in a shower of glitter and confetti, and I come, and I come, and I come.

  Riding a dolphin of pleasure down the waterfall of orgasm island.

  Paradise.

  Sweet, weightless, boneless paradise.

  Just me.

  Ares.

  And the magic orgasm dolphin.

  I’m having a hallucigasm.

  Catching my breath against the hot, soft cotton of his Minners do it in the Worning T-shirt.

  My lids drift shut over my glazed eyes. I belatedly remember I need to breathe.

  And Ares is still rock hard beneath me.

  I need to do something about that.

  Soon.

  Now.

  My arms are limp noodles.

  “Oh my god,” I whisper.

  Two strong arms wrap tight around me. He rests his cheek on my head. “You fix me,” he says.

  I don’t know if it’s a request or a statement.

  But as I drift happily in that magical land between orgasm and consciousness, it occurs to me that maybe it’s both.

  26

  Felicity

  Car doors slamming jolt me awake. There’s a puddle of drool right above the frog on Ares’s shirt, and I recognize my brother’s voice outside the window.

  I leap off Ares’s lap, trip on the arm of the couch—don’t ask, I don’t know, but I’m dangling over the side of the couch, my head on the ground, shirtless, my ass in the air, and I have approximately two seconds before Nick walks in and catches me here in just a bra.

  My shirt floats to the ground above my head. I duck, roll, snag, and I’m thrusting my arms into the armholes when Gammy’s door opens.

  “Fuck, Ares, answer your phone,” Nick says. “Half the team’s looking for you.”

  I peer around the corner of the couch.

  Nick’s glaring at Ares.

  Behind him, Duncan Lavoie and Manning Frey—yes, Prince Manning—are watching me.

  Shit.

  “Felicity? What the fuck are you doing?”

  “She’s vacuuming the carpet with her ass, idiot, what do you think?” I vent as Lucy.

  Nick doesn’t always bring out Lucy’s best side.

  Duncan and Manning share a look.

  I’ll kill them both if they breathe a word.

  Nick’s brow wrinkles.

  I roll my eyes. “Have you ever lived with a monkey?” I ask.

  “Messy little chaps,” Manning offers in his smooth European-Viking accent. “Has he taken to throwing your toothbrush yet?”

  “Why do you think I’m digging under the couch?”

  His light blue eyes smirk at me.

  Duncan looks like he can’t decide if he wants to scowl or high-five Ares.

  Who’s not looking at me.

  Or his teammates.

  “Are we having a party?” I vent as Lucy. “I love parties! Felicity makes these amazing tofu cakes with bean dressing.”

  Nick recoils. Manning grins.

  “Black bean or garbanzo?” Duncan wants to know.

  “Navy,” Tim answers for me. “There’s a color balance.”

  Ares turns that intense blue gaze on me, and I suppress a shiver.

  Because he’s not just asking what the fuck’s wrong with me that I’d talk about tofu cake with bean dressing. He’s asking if I’m going to flip the hell out because Nick almost caught us snuggling. If this was a mistake. If I can still fix him.

  “I’ll order pizza,” Nick says.

  “Gracie’s not in town yet?” I ask Manning.

  Surely I can get rid of at least one of them.

  His grin goes sappy, and all three of the other men grunt, groan, or roll their eyes. “Tomorrow. You’re coming to the game? She’s not made many friends here yet.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be a problem for long.”

  He grins wider. “You’re undoubtedly correct, but I happen to know she’s taken a liking to at least one of your personalities.”

  “Come with,” Ares says, cutting a look at me again.

  Going to the game with Ares and Gracie—who will undoubtedly be trailed by at least one of Manning’s guards—most likely means seats in the team’s box.

  Maren, Kami, and Alina would kill for seats in the team’s box.

  “No,” Nick says before I can open my mouth.

  Like I’m going to ask his permission.

  “I have some friends Gracie should meet,” I tell Manning.

  “No,” Nick says stronger.

  “He objects merely because all three refuse to sleep with him,” I vent as Tim the Goat.

  Duncan and Manning both crack up.

  Ares gives me another look.

  I’ll sleep with you.

  I somehow doubt sleeping would be involved.

  And while my very satisfied pussy would be on board
with this plan, my brain is running through a list of all the reasons I need to get my ass off the floor, grab an ice pack and painkillers, make Ares a well-balanced dinner, and then lock myself in Gammy’s room for the rest of the night.

  But I can’t abandon Ares.

  Anguished isn’t a strong enough word for the expression he’d had on his face when he banged into the house calling my name.

  He’s always so quiet. When he moves. When he talks.

  Even when he’s growling or glowering, he’s quiet.

  Being off the ice is killing him.

  And for some reason, he thinks I’m the one who can fix it.

  I cannot make him heal any faster.

  But if I can make any part of coping with the injury easier for him, I will.

  “You don’t have to bring Felicity with you,” Nick’s telling Ares. “She’s obnoxious when she watches the games. Won’t shut up.”

  “Asshole,” Ares says.

  Nick’s lips part in a partial curl, his head tilted.

  I crack up.

  Duncan and Manning are grinning too.

  “Some people appreciate my commentary,” I inform my brother.

  Not that I think Ares heard any of it during either game this week. He’s so focused, he probably wouldn’t have noticed if the house burned down.

  No, Gammy’s ghost, that’s not me making a plan.

  “Your sister’s fucking hilarious,” Duncan says.

  “You wouldn’t think so if she used Lucy to tell your entire freshman high school class that you still wet the bed,” I let Tim say for me.

  “Nobody believed me,” I reply to myself as Lucy.

  “Everyone believed you, you mangy cat,” I inform her as Harold.

  Nick sighs.

  “If he won’t get you in the team’s box, I will,” Duncan offers. “And I want video.”

  “With me,” Ares says.

  “Bring your friends,” Manning adds. “I rather suspect Gracie will like all eighteen of you.”

  “Just three friends,” I tell him.

  “Three, plus Ares and you and all your personalities make eighteen,” he finishes.

  Nick chortles. “Ha! Got you there, you pain in the ass.”

  “Sleep with your eyes open, jackass,” I reply in my Ares voice.

  Everyone looks at Ares.

  Then back at me.

  “She’s a fucking nightmare,” Nick mutters.

  The house groans. He looks at the ceiling. “I don’t know how you live with her.” A spoon bounces off his head and clatters to the ground. He spins.

  Loki grins from the steps.