Caution on Ice - SR Grey

by Grey, S. R.

  I laugh. “Are you kidding? More than you could ever imagine.”

  “Good, ’cause all I want to do right now is kiss the heck out of you.”

  “Go for it, Dylan.”

  Closing the gap between us, his lips crash into mine with urgency but with tenderness too.

  Soon I want more.

  “Dylan,” I breathe out.

  “Yes, sweetheart,” he murmurs as he trails kisses down my neck.

  “Take me to bed.”

  “Shit.” He looks up. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  He carries me up to his bedroom, where he undoes the tie on the front of my dress. Lacy material gapes open, then is quickly whisked away.

  I’m on the bed with Dylan above me before I know it. I raise my knee and arch way up. One hand finds purchase at the small of my back while the other frees my breasts from the confines of my bra.

  I’m touched and squeezed and plied in all the right ways, and soon I am calling out Dylan’s name, begging him for more.

  Make me feel good. Take my pain away.

  I’m desperate. I need him.

  I fumble with the buttons on his shirt until I lose patience and just rip the damn thing open.

  We laugh as buttons go flying.

  “I never really liked that shirt anyway,” he tells me.

  I run a hand over his rock-hard bicep and say, “But it looked so good on you.”

  Chuckling, he asks, “Should I put it back on?”

  Soaking in his broad shoulders, smooth chest, and the sexy V leading to where I can’t wait to go, I reply, “No fucking way.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  I expect things to continue frenzied, but they don’t. For the longest time we just make out, our bodies pressed together, our hearts beating as one. Eventually though, clothes are discarded and just when I think I’ll die if he doesn’t do something more soon, he reaches down and touches me where I’m slick and wet.

  Finding me like that, he groans, “Fuck, Chloe.”

  “See how much I want you?” I purr.

  “I want you just as much, trust me.”

  I smile up at him. “Let’s just see about that.”

  Reaching down between our bodies, I take him in my hand.

  “Oh, wow.” He definitely does want me. But what I’m wow-ing about is how long and thick he is.

  “I can’t wait to feel this inside me,” I say, squeezing.

  That works him up even further, and he rasps, “You better not say things like that or I’m going to take you right now.”

  Like that would be a bad thing?

  But Dylan has other plans. He shimmies down my body till his head’s between my legs. Then he opens me up with his fingers while he flicks his tongue over my clit.

  “Er my God.”

  “Good, baby?” he asks as he takes a breath.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Chuckling, he gets back to pleasing me. And please me he does.

  At some point, we re-adjust our bodies so I can please him with my mouth like he’s doing to me.

  “God, Chloe, what you’re doing feels so good.”

  I fall apart within minutes, but Dylan somehow holds out. While I languor in orgasmic bliss, he lays his body back atop mine. But he doesn’t enter me. He teases instead, sliding his length along my folds and working my clit with the head of his dick.

  I soon shatter once more, this orgasm more prolonged than the first. It’s like that one never really ended.

  Dylan has me so worked up that he could do anything he wanted to me right now. I am putty in his hands.

  But he doesn’t take; he only gives, using his body to please me, all without penetrating. It’s only when I beg and plead that he finally grabs a condom.

  “You sure?” he asks as he rips it open with his teeth.

  “I’ve never been surer of anything in my life,” I tell him.

  He takes me then, and it’s better than amazing.

  Afterward, I’m spent and snuggle into Dylan’s arms. “I can’t believe you have to leave early tomorrow morning for your upcoming road games.”

  He sighs. “I know. It sucks.”

  “Ugh, we’re going to have to get up so early.”

  “Not you,” he replies. He kisses the top of my head. “Go ahead and sleep in. I’ll leave a key for you down on the counter. Just lock up when you leave. But again, stay as long as you like.”

  “Wow,” I murmur. “I guess we really are official.”

  “We are, sweetheart.”

  This man is amazing, so sweet, so strong, so good. I truly feel like with him by my side, nothing will ever go wrong again.

  Dick Measuring Contest is Really No Contest at All

  I’m right where I want to be with Chloe. We’re finally a couple. And last night? Damn, it was nothing short of incredible.

  But now’s not the time to be thinking about mind-blowing sex. I’m in the middle of a game, for fuck’s sake.

  I’m reminded of that fact when someone calls out, “Hey, Culderway, heads up.”

  That’s Brent Oliver. And when he’s trying to get your attention, it usually means something good’s about to happen. He’s the captain of our team for that reason.

  Sure enough, here comes the puck.

  Brent lobs it onto my stick, and thankfully my reflexes are on-point. I have always had the ability to assess the situation on the ice within milliseconds.

  I do that now.

  We’re down in the opponent’s zone, but there’s no clear shot to the net due to way too much traffic out in front.

  But wait!

  Benny Perry is behind the net and no one is on him. I pass him the puck, and he takes advantage of the goalie being focused on the players out in front of the net by executing a beautiful wraparound shot.

  Goal!

  The guys and I celebrate right in front of the goaltender Benny just burned—ha ha—and then we skate over to the bench.

  The game was scoreless, but now it’s 1-0 in our favor.

  Coach Townsend congratulates us once we’re all seated.

  “Nice teamwork out there, boys. Keep it up. Five more minutes of play in this period, and then we’re on to the third. Stay sharp. We’re up by only one goal, and the momentum can change in an instant.”

  He’s right. But it all turns out okay.

  We go on to score two more goals in the third period, shutting out our opponents. Our team sure has turned it around from the struggles we faced around the holidays.

  There was no cause for celebration then, but there sure is now.

  And celebrate we do. The mood is raucous and lively in the locker room. Music is blaring and we’re all in high spirits.

  Jaxon Holland’s sitting next to me, taking off his sweaty gear.

  I’m doing the same when he twists to me and says, “Hey, I haven’t had the chance to ask, but how are things with you and that girl you were teaching how to skate?” He gives me one of his patented smartass smirks, and adds, “You two engaged yet?”

  “Ha ha,” I retort.

  Looking remorseful, he says, “Shit, I shouldn’t have said that. Seriously, Dylan, how are things going with you two? Her name’s Chloe, right?”

  Wow, he remembers her name. I think he genuinely wants to know. Still, this is Jaxon, and I can’t resist teasing him a little.

  “Do you seriously expect me to believe the biggest player on our team is interested in someone’s relationship status?”

  He shrugs. “Eh, what can I say? Maybe I’m going soft in my old age.”

  “You’re like twenty-three, Holland.”

  “Hey, in some cultures twenty-three is considered ancient.”

  I roll my eyes. “Not any in the modern era, you ass.”

  Benny Perry catches that part of our conversation and leans in and says, “I think Holland’s referring to the Stone Age.”

  I make like I’m pondering. “Huh, that would make sense, seeing as Jaxon’s pretty much a Neanderthal
when it comes to women.”

  Benny and I bump fists, and Jaxon mutters, “You two are such huge dicks.”

  “You mean we have huge dicks, right?” Benny counters with a laugh.

  “Not as huge as mine,” Holland volleys back.

  Those two, they have nothing on me.

  Grabbing my junk, I say, “Hash it out amongst yourselves, boys. ’Cause you already know mine is the biggest of all.”

  I’m met with jeers and shit being thrown at me.

  “You wish, Culderway.”

  “Bite me.”

  Ah, I love locker room banter.

  The road trip continues with the rest of the games. We win two and lose one.

  At this point, there are about two months left in the regular season. We’re poised to make a run for the playoffs, and I couldn’t be happier.

  Not only is my professional life going well, but my personal life is amazing. The worries that weighed me down back in December are long gone.

  I have nothing to do but look forward to the future.

  Finally!

  So it Begins

  I miss Dylan so much.

  While he’s away, I get a good dose of him by watching the Wolves’s games on TV. When we’re down to just one before Dylan’s set to return to Vegas—and to me!—I invite Graham over for a viewing party.

  We haven’t hung out for a while, and I’ve been feeling like a crappy sister. Graham likes hockey a lot so I know he’ll be up for it.

  I catch him via cell, and he lets me know he’ll be at my place by seven, a half hour before the puck’s set to drop.

  “Perfect,” I reply. “But I do have one condition.”

  “Uh-oh, what’s that?”

  “Nothing bad,” I assure him since he sounds worried. “In fact, I think you’ll like this one.”

  “Go on…”

  “I’m up to step six in that X Your Ex program, and this next one is “Live a Little and Eat Stuff that’s Bad for You for a Day.”

  He starts laughing. “Hell, this is right up your alley.”

  “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

  Laughing, he says, “It just means I know you love peppermint patties more than life.”

  “Au contraire, big bro. peppermint patties are life.”

  “I’m guessing that means we’re going on a junk food junket tonight?”

  “You bet your ass we are.”

  He informs me he’ll supply the candy for my fix. And I, in turn, promise him, “I’ll make a bunch of butter-smothered popcorn for you. I know that’s your fave fall-off-the-diet-wagon food.”

  Graham’s all about staying at his old playing weight since he hopes to play again. But this night, all bets are off. Candy and popcorn will reign.

  We agree it’s a plan, and a few short hours later, as we’re watching the pregame before the Wolves take on the Vancouver Canucks, Graham and I fully immersed in our bad-for-you pig-out.

  “Hey, Chlo, pass me another candy bar.”

  In addition to my beloved peppermint patties, Graham brought along an assortment of chocolate bar selections.

  I hold up a shiny gold and red-wrapped bar and say, “Twix okay?”

  “Yep.”

  Graham and I are lounging on the sofa, and I toss him the Twix.

  “I feel like a kid again,” he remarks as he rips open the candy wrapper.

  “I know, right?” I’m in the middle of stuffing a handful of freshly popped popcorn into my mouth when I add, “Here, haf thome.”

  My brother makes a face. “Chloe, you are so gross. Dylan might have a whole new opinion of you if he saw you like this—mouth stuffed full, popcorn falling out. It looks like you’re waterboarding the stuff.”

  I laugh, but keep it to myself that Dylan has seen me with my mouth stuffed with something far more, uh, interesting than a handful of popcorn.

  “Why are you laughing?” Graham wants to know.

  Like I’m going to answer that!

  “No reason,” I reply, and then I quickly change subjects. “Hey, do you remember how we used to sneak into the Cineplex down the street from where we lived when we were kids?”

  He laughs. “Yeah, but there wasn’t any ‘sneaking’ involved. As I recall, that really pretty girl from my high school used to let us in for free all the time.”

  “I remember her. She was really pretty. And”—I nudge him in the arm—“she had a huge crush on you.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “Yes, she did,” I insist. “That’s why she never charged us. And for the record, we did still have to sneak…past the ushers.”

  “Okay, okay,” Graham concedes. “But you’re wrong about one thing—that girl never had a crush on me. She was just being nice.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re so clueless sometimes. Like most guys.”

  “Huh,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “You really think she liked me?”

  “I know she did.”

  The game starts then, and since the Wolves come out flying, we drop any further teenage-crush talk.

  “Those boys must’ve downed some Red Bull before the game,” I remark.

  “Yeah, or they inhaled an overload of smelling salts.”

  I laugh.

  It’s true, though, that the Wolves are hitting hard and skating fast. Dylan, as always, looks great on defense. My man is blocking shots and keeping the other team from scoring. He and his defense partner, Noel, seem really in sync tonight.

  Graham must notice me smiling ’cause he asks, “How are things going with you and Dylan?”

  “Great,” I reply. “He’s a terrific guy, and I really like him a lot.”

  “I’m glad, Chloe. You deserve someone nice.”

  We get back to watching the game, which ends in a Wolves victory. Yay!

  I feel so good in every way, except for maybe my stomach.

  “Ow,” I lament. “I feel gross.”

  Graham deadpans, “Gee, I wonder why.”

  After consuming too much buttered popcorn and candy, I’m paying the price. Still, I declare, “It was worth it. I had so much fun tonight.”

  “Yeah, I did too,” Graham replies. He looks at his watch then. “But I’m afraid the fun will have to end. I need to hit the road. I’m opening the gym extra early tomorrow so a couple of the guys can workout before dawn.”

  “Ugh, that would never be me,” I say.

  “No, it wouldn’t, sleepyhead.”

  Ah, my brother knows me so well—I am not, nor ever will be an early riser.

  After Graham leaves, I text Dylan to congratulate him on a great game, then I head off to bed.

  As I begin to doze off, I begin to think about how my life sure has turned around. Just a few short months ago I was in the process of divorcing Sten. Now that feels like a lifetime ago.

  Despite being upbeat about, well, everything, I end up sleeping fitfully throughout the night. That bothers me because I’m intuitive like that. All too often my bad dreams and restlessness are harbingers of a crappy day.

  Sure enough, in the morning when I head outside to my car, I discover I have a freaking flat tire.

  “Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

  I change the tire, a skill taught to me by Graham a long time ago, and then debate if I should still run my errands as planned or head over to the tire store to buy a real tire.

  I choose the latter since I hate driving around on those little donut thingies, which is what was in the trunk.

  Only problem is payday isn’t till tomorrow, and I’m running a little short on funds.

  “Hmm, I can always charge it,” I muse.

  Ugh, like my cards aren’t already maxed-out.

  Suddenly, I have an idea—maybe the flat tire can be patched. If so, it’d save me a ton of money.

  At the tire store, the young guy working at the counter is friendly and understanding of my plight.

  “Well,” he begins, “if the nail is in the tread area, it can probably be plugged. Though
I have to warn you, nails in the sidewalls are a whole different story.”

  “I couldn’t really tell where the air was leaking from,” I reply. “Not that I looked over the tire all that thoroughly.”

  “No problem,” he says. “Just give me the tire and I’ll take it out to the guys in the back. They’ll check it over for you.”

  “Thank you,” I say as I hand over the flat tire.

  I take a seat in the small customer waiting area and pick up a magazine. I figure I’ll be here for a while, but to my surprise, the man returns within minutes.

  “Uh-oh, what’s wrong?” I ask, standing.

  He’s holding the flat and looks kind of worried. “Miss,” he says, walking over to me, “I’d like to show you something.”

  “Can the tire not be repaired?”

  “I’m afraid not.” He lifts the tire and turns it to the side so I can see the damage. Pointing to the sidewall, he says, “Do you see that gash there?”

  I look more closely and then I see it.

  “Oh my God, how did I miss that?”

  There’s an absolutely wicked tear about an inch long in the sidewall.

  “You probably had the tire turned the other way,” he replies. “I didn’t see it myself till I got out in the sunlight.”

  “How could something like that have happened, though?” I inquire worriedly. “I don’t recall hitting any curbs or doing anything that would result in that sort of damage.”

  “This isn’t from hitting a curb, miss.”

  Drawing my attention to the tear, he says somberly, “I hate to say it, but it looks like someone purposely slashed your tire.”

  A chill runs through me. This was not an accident. Someone intentionally did this.

  The magazine I’m holding drops to the floor. “Who would do this?” I ask, bewildered. “And…why?”

  My small neighborhood is home to mainly senior citizens. I rarely even see them. Not to mention, they sure as hell don’t strike me as vandalizing types.

  I explain all this to the employee and say, “I just can’t imagine granny out there slashing tires with a knife.”

  “I don’t know about that either, miss, but someone did this.”

  Yes, someone did. Was I the target, or was it random? If it was random, then I guess I have bad luck.

  But if it wasn’t, what does that mean?